Archive of Our Own

I brought you a special present.

What is it?

Open it up.

…A book?

That’s right. When I was your age, we didn’t have any of those superhero comics. This is a special book. It was the book my father used to read to me when I was sick, and what his father read to him before that. And today, I’m gonna read it to you.

Has it got any action in it?

Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting, torture? Revenge, giants, monsters? Chases, escapes, true love? 

…Doesn’t sound too bad. I’ll try and stay awake.

Oh, well, thank you very much. That’s very nice of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming. Here we are, let’s see. “Daredevil, by S. Lee.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Franklin Nelson was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin. His father was a butcher, and his father’s father before that. He had a round face, blonde curls on his head, and a hatred for the family business which he was bound to inherit. He spent his days reading books and riding his horse around Florin’s familiar, homely countryside - but perhaps his favourite pastime was tormenting the boy that worked on his little farm.

His name was Matthew, but Franklin never called him that.

To Franklin, Matthew’s name was only ‘farmboy’, and nothing gave him as much pleasure as ordering the farmboy around. 

Each day, Franklin would wake to the fog retreating back over the green-blue hills, and find the farmboy at work. He was an orphan, and he slept in the stables and ate the leftover food from the Nelson’s plates in return for his work. 

Matthew was also completely blind, Franklin’s mother told him, but he was good with animals and so they took pity on the boy and allowed him to stay. Franklin’s mother said that they were being charitable by allowing Matthew a place to stay, and that he had nowhere else to go.

Each day, Franklin would pretend to read his books or visit his horse, and he would pester the farmboy endlessly with menial tasks.

“Farmboy, polish my saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.” He’d order primly, perfectly aware that there were pigs to be fed and stables to clear. Instead of a denial or hesitation, however, Franklin received one response:

“As you wish.”

And the next day, “Farmboy, give these buckets of water to my horse,” Franklin said - the first words he had spoken to the farmboy all morning. The boy merely looked up - no, tilted his chin upwards in Franklin’s direction, and his deep brown eyes were so soulful that Franklin caved a little, bit his lip, and added, “Please.”

But the response was the same. “As you wish.”

Always that response, no matter the task! It frustrated Franklin to no end, to receive those same three words, for the truth was that Franklin had fallen in love with the farmboy. His nights were punctuated with dreams of brown-red hair and strong, slender fingers. He hoped each day to find a way to talk to the boy, even if it meant ordering him around with the most senseless requests, and yet it seemed the boy was teasing him. All he had ever heard Matthew say was those three words, in that order. As You Wish.

That day, however, as Franklin turned to leave, he allowed himself to look back. The farmboy hadn’t moved, and Franklin studied Matthew’s face openly. His eyes could hardly tear away from the farmboy’s expressive eyebrows, flushed cheeks, and small lips. Franklin was amazed, then, to find that he understood without a doubt what Matthew had been telling him the whole time. “As you wish” was no simple reply. The farmboy had been saying just what Franklin himself had been trying to convey with each request. The words I Love You were etched into the very sentences they spoke to one another.

He contemplated this turn of events for a week afterwards - a week in which he did not speak a single word to the farmboy, not even to request his saddle cleaned, or his water buckets filled. He contemplated this until, all of a sudden, he could bear it no longer. Matthew entered the humble kitchen with strong arms full of firewood, and set them down next to the stove. Just as he went to leave, however, Franklin called out to him.

“Farmboy,” Franklin turned. Matthew stood still, waiting for his order. Franklin had not thought this far ahead, and he gulped. “Fetch me… that pitcher?” He took Matthew’s hand in his own, and navigated it up to where the jug was sitting on the shelf.

Matthew did not hesitate. Movements slow and graceful, he took the pitcher from the counter and approached Franklin. He pressed the pitcher into Franklin’s hands and then kept moving forwards, until their faces were closer than they ever had been before.

“As you wish.” Matthew murmured.

Franklin smiled.

Though Franklin hated the butcher’s business, he imagined it could be bearable if he could spend each day of it with Matthew - Matt, he now called him - by his side. That summer they spent long afternoons eating picnics in the grassy fields, Franklin watching the sun stretch shadows over the hill until one day, in the final dregs of honey-thick light, their lips met.

Hold it, hold it.

What, do you not like the kissing? I can skip the kissing-

No, no, it’s just… in all the comics I read, whenever a story starts out good, it means it’s gonna go badly. I don’t want it to go badly.

…Ah.

You’re not saying it’s not gonna go badly!

Sometimes, things need to go badly so that they can get even better. How can you have adventure and action if everything is good all the time?

…Fine. Will you promise me that no one will die, then?

Well that’d just be spoiling the story.

Dad!

Can I keep reading?

Yeah…

Franklin would read Matt books in their free time, and they delighted each other with games of pretend. They’d act as if they were defending their favourite characters under law, and present to each other arguments which could easily entertain them for hours.

Franklin introduced Matt to his one other friend, Brett Mahoney, from the farmstead down the road, and then never allowed the two to meet again when he realised that their personalities conflicted in all of the wrong ways.

Franklin, too, received a nickname. On one of their nights in the fields, where they sat in the dip between the hills where the stream ran by and the oxeye daisies bloomed, they stayed outside late enough that the sun disappeared completely from the horizon and fog began to rise from the ground. It enveloped them in its thick embrace, and they lay there, trying to understand its magic. Though Matt couldn’t see the sun dip underneath the hills, or the way the clouds looked like an artist’s brush strokes on a dusky blue canvas, he told Franklin that he could feel the warm air cool down as night approached, and he enjoyed it as much as Franklin enjoyed the sunset.

“You remind me a lot of this fog.” Matt said dreamily. One of his hands was intertwined with Franklin’s, the other was lazily twisting around through the cloud-like substance. It curled around his long, delicate fingers as if attempting to latch on.

Franklin laughed softly. “How’s that?”

Matt considered for a second, formulating words. Franklin had often seen him described as the ‘stupid farmboy’, but when Matt had a point to make, he could combine words masterfully. Franklin saw it often in their pretend debates, but he saw it the most when Matt was expressing his love.

“You’re magical, but it’s so subtle that only those who look for it can find it. You have a way of making yourself at home in my mind - like this fog, you reach out and cover everything. Everything reminds me of you.”

From that moment on, Matt called Franklin affectionately by the name ‘Foggy’. Only Brett knew the true meaning behind the name - most others assumed it was a playful dig at Franklin’s poor memory.

They talked often of their futures, and it soon became apparent that Matt wanted to stay on the farm perhaps even less than Foggy did, but he had no choice upon where he stayed. Three summers after they first kissed, however, the decision was made for him. Foggy’s parents had clearly run out of ‘charity’ for the boy, and they deemed him old enough to find his own way in the world. Matt sought his fortune across the sea in the land of Guilder, where he hoped to find someone willing to apprentice a blind man. 

Franklin begged and pleaded with his parents, but he could not reveal the nature of his relationship with Matt. Nor did they allow him to leave with the boy - they insisted on the strictest terms that Foggy would finish learning to be a butcher, and if he still wished to leave at eighteen then he could go. Matt told Foggy often that he was made for bigger things, and that he’d promised his father before he died that he wouldn’t waste his life. And what could Foggy say to counter that?

“I can navigate my way around the farm fine,” Matt reassured him.

Foggy shook his head. “Only because you’ve lived here your whole life. What will you do if you get attacked? How can you hope to defend yourself?”

Matt had no answer to that, but he also could not stay.

On the day Matt was set to leave, Foggy followed him to the last gate of the farm on which they’d both grown up. Matt had a cane and the red glasses that Foggy had made him as a parting gift. His possessions were reduced to a small bag of clothes and a few meagre coins for travel. Underneath the light of the rising sun, with the light breeze curving through the hills, they kissed for a final time. 

Tears pricked at Foggy’s eyes as he ran a hand through Matt’s auburn hair, trying to memorise the features of his face. “I fear I’ll never see you again.” He admitted, voice wavering like the birdsong around him.

Matt took one of Foggy’s hands in two of his own and stroked the knuckles carefully. His voice was now a low, rough timbre, having deepened from boyhood. Foggy felt clutched by terror at the mere chance he may never hear that voice again. “Of course you will,” Matt murmured, “Hear this now. I will always come for you.”

Foggy felt his cheeks grow wet, his light eyelashes darken. “You can’t be sure of that, Mattie.”

Matt cupped Foggy’s face, and brushed one thumb over his cheek gently to rid it of tears. “This is true love,” He said, and Foggy’s breath hitched. “You think this happens every day?”

They had never called it love before, though it was obvious that was what if was. It was As you wish , requests and then replies, nicknames with hidden meaning that only the two of them shared. Calling it love almost felt too obvious, too plain, too simple.

Calling it love felt too much like a goodbye. 

Each day that Matt was gone, Foggy fantasised that as soon as he turned eighteen he’d take the first ship at the earliest hour and arrive in Guilder where Matt’s open arms would be awaiting him. There was no need for the hopeful preparations, however, because Matthew Murdock never reached his destination. His ship was attacked by the dreaded Pirate Captain known as the Daredevil of the seas, who never left captives alive. 

When Franklin received the news that Matt was dead, for days he neither slept nor ate. Then, all of a sudden, he told his parents that he was moving to Florin City. They tried to object, but he was so hollow that he could not stay where everything in his midst reminded him of Matt. His parting sentence to them explained everything, along with the yellowed envelope that he pressed into their hands, holding the news of Matt’s death.

“I will never love again.” He said.

Foggy knew that, with Matt gone, he could no longer allow himself to wait for something to save him from his destiny of living as a butcher, lonely and forgotten. In Florin city, at least, he could pursue some other career that could provide him with fulfilment, a small comfort to cushion the aching cavern in his chest that was left in the wake of Matt’s death.

Five years later, the main square of Florin city was filled as never before with farmers, butchers, smiths, wealthy merchants, children flitting to and fro, and bountiful flowers bursting from each corner. A sea of greens, browns, pinks and reds awaited the announcement of the great Princess Marci’s husband-to-be. 

Marci stepped out onto the balcony of her castle, overlooked her subjects with the smug expression of someone who believes they have achieved their success through their efforts in life, and not the increased chances they were born into, and spoke to them. 

“My people,” She announced, waving her arms at the gathering, “A month from now, our country will have its five hundredth anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a man who was once a commoner like yourselves. But perhaps you will not find him common now. Would you like to meet him?” 

Immediately, as good subjects understand a queue from their ruler, cheers rang out around the courtyard.

On top of the balcony, Marci smiled. “My people, the Prince Franklin!”

Beyond her, at the entrance to the courtyard, Foggy Nelson stepped into the crowd. The sea bowed down to him like retreating waves as he passed by, but he paid no notice to it. His face was a mask just barely concealing his despair, his blonde hair done up handsomely and a fine suit fitted well to distract from the thinly veiled misery about his form. Foggy’s emptiness consumed him. Although the law of the land gave Princess Marci the right to choose her husband, he did not love her. How could he, when Matt’s charming smile still twinkled at the corner of his vision, just out of reach? How could Foggy love Marci when any time he saw auburn hair he was brought back to the moment he first saw the farm boy - awkward and long-limbed, like a sweet and gentle colt, hair glistening in the sunlight?

Despite Marci’s reassurances that he would grow to love her, Foggy’s only solace was in his daily horse ride. He brought his horse anywhere and everywhere, from woodlands to grasslands to riversides. The place never mattered, not when Matt was not there with him.

It was on one of these rides that he came upon three peculiar figures standing in a forest, as if they had been expecting him. Each silhouette was startlingly unique; there was one rather short, one quite tall and slender, and one exceedingly large, both vertically and horizontally. 

As he approached, Foggy noted that the larger one was a man, with a perpetually irritated look on his face. The other two were women. The tall one was very light blonde, unlike Foggy’s muddier hair colour, with fair skin and a wicked sword strapped to her hip. The shorter one had dark hair done up in a bun, tan skin, and a bored expression on her face. 

Foggy pulled up his horse next to the three peculiar people.

“A word, good sir?” asked the largest one. Then, without waiting for a reply, “We are but poor, lost circus performers. Is there a village nearby?”

Foggy eyed the man. He looked less like a circus performer and more like a bald baby’s head on top of a wrestler’s body. “There’s nothing nearby. Not for miles .”

The large man smiled sinisterly. Foggy felt, for the first time since Matt left him, strong emotion - but it was in the form of fear crawling up his spine like tiny, numerous spiders. “Then there will be no one to hear you scream.”

Before Foggy could register the words, the smallest of the three darted up to his horse and stuck something sharp into his leg. Paralysed with fear, Foggy could only look down and gasp a strangled half-scream. The last he saw was a syringe filled with strange liquid, before his vision quickly faded to black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Karen watched the face of the man they had kidnapped as she loosened the ropes that kept their sailboat docked. He looked peaceful, unconscious as he was. Ultimately, despite her current line of work, Karen could never quite shake the guilt of hurting innocent people.

She turned her attention to where Fisk, her employer, was ripping a piece of fabric and attaching it to the brown horse that belonged to the Princess’ husband-to-be.

“What’s that you’re ripping?” Karen asked him. Though he had only hired her for the physical work (starting a war did run the risk of being attacked), Karen had strong investigative instincts. She always liked to know what was happening, even if it got her into trouble - or merely irritated her employers, who preferred the silent assassin type.

It wasn’t her fault that she was the best swordswoman out there.

“It’s fabric from the uniform of an army officer in Guilder.” Fisk told her, grinning evilly. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes - these self made villain types were always very dramatic.

Across the boat from Karen, Claire, their third companion, was tinkering with her medical kit. The two women met eyes, and Claire smirked. They’d become close friends in their time working with Wilson Fisk, and their current favourite way to pass the time was to see how much they could wind their employer up, by appearing stupid.

“Who’s Guilder?” Claire asked.

Fisk sighed. “The country across the sea? The sworn enemy of Florin?”

Claire continued staring at him blankly. Fisk shook his head. Then he slapped the horse on the hind once, and it ran off in the direction of Florin city. 

“Once the horse reaches the castle, the fabric will make the Princess suspect that the Guilderians have kidnapped her love. When she finds his body dead on the Guilder frontier, her suspicions will be totally confirmed.”
Claire gasped and placed a hand to her chest, mock horrified. “You never said anything about killing anyone!”

Karen turned away to hide her snort of laughter. Claire’s bag of deadly poisons was still open in front of her - the concoctions which had made her one of the most infamous killers this side of the Guilder channel.

Fisk looked exasperated. “I’ve hired you to start a war!” He cried. “It’s a prestigious line of work. A long, and glorious tradition.”

Claire bit her lip, laying it on thick, and Karen giggled into her tunic. “I just don’t think it’s right, killing an innocent man.”

Perhaps that was the last straw, however, because Fisk stood with his brow furrowed. “Am I going mad , or did the word ‘think’ escape your lips? You were not hired for your brains, you oxygen wasting sea cucumber!”

Over Fisk’s shoulder, Karen raised her eyebrows at Claire. The angrier Fisk became, the more creative his insults were. The man liked to think himself intelligent, but the truth was that he just knew a lot of words. Even when he didn’t use them correctly, they were enough to fool most people into believing that he knew what he was talking about.

Karen and Claire were not most people.

“I agree with Claire.” Karen piped up, because she really did think that killing this man was overdramatic.

Fisk’s fists clenched. “What happens to him is none of your concern. I will kill him. And remember this- Never forget this! When I found you, you were about to be arrested for manslaughter! And you .” He whirled around (Or, turned as fast as he could with the small size of the boat and the large size of his person) and pointed at Claire. “Friendless. Brainless. Helpless. Hopeless and unemployed! Do you want me to send you back to where you were? Your poisons are the only thing you’re good for. No man of sane mind would allow a woman into medicine, you were a fool for ever trying!” Claire backed away slightly, stunned. This was the downside to getting Fisk angry - he tended to say cruel things with little care.

Karen stood up and made her way over to Claire. “That’s seven-five to you.” She said, keeping her voice low. She was referring to their game of getting Fisk angry, it had gone on long enough that they had a tally to keep track.

Claire shook herself out of her shocked state and grinned. They took the wheel of the ship together and steered it out of the little harbour. Beyond, the sea was turning golden with the sunset. In the distance, unseen by the three for the time being, a little boat set off in their direction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Foggy awoke, confused and disoriented, on a little boat in the middle of the sea.

Surprisingly, he felt less panicked and more numb to his surroundings. His life was, no doubt, in danger, but he couldn’t bring himself to freak out.

“Hello!” one of his kidnappers, the tall blonde one, waved to him from the other side of the boat. “I’m Karen! The one with all the medicine is Claire, and the cranky one is Fisk.”

Foggy looked at her, and nodded. “...I’m Foggy?”

He wasn’t sure why he told her the nickname that Matt gave to him, but he didn’t feel at all intimidated by Karen, despite the fact that she was clearly capable of hurting people.

“There’s no point in telling him our names, he’ll be dead before he has the chance to use them. We’ll reach the cliffs by dawn!” The largest of the three people who captured him - Fisk, apparently - crowed victoriously. 

Karen, however, seemed unconvinced. She kept looking over her shoulder nervously, biting her lip in places that were already dry and red.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Fisk asked impatiently. Her head flicked to him, from where she was staring out at sea.

“I’m checking that nobody is following us.” She replied. It was a smart move, Foggy supposed.

Fisk, however, scoffed. “That would be inconceivable. ”

Foggy couldn’t help but disagree. He’d done everything to dissuade Marci’s attempts to wed him, and yet she’d still prevailed. She’d already have noticed him gone and was no doubt searching all of Florin for him. The thought made his skin crawl, feeling more like a possession than a person. “Despite what you all seem to think, you’re gonna get caught,” He told them. He tried to channel a little of his persuasive ‘debate voice’ - as Matt called it - from when they were playing pretend. “And when you do,” He laughed. “Marci Stahl is no joke. She’ll see to it that you’re all hanged.”

Fisk levelled him with a glare. “Of all the necks on this boat, your highness, you should be worrying about your own.”

They fell into silence and Foggy gulped. He didn’t have Matt’s athletic ability, and whilst he was good with facts from books he was hopeless at the sorts of practical quick thinking that could get him out of a situation like this. All he had was his skill at debating, and even that was just from his fun scenarios he and Matt made up. His kidnappers didn’t seem the sort to debate the ethics of Vigilantism as a recreational activity.

The blonde woman looked out to sea again. It didn’t help that it was a still night, and her clothes shifted noisily each time she turned to look.

“Stop doing that!” Fisk snapped. “We can all relax. Our job is almost over.”

Karen bit her lip again. “You’re sure no one’s following us?”

“Yes, I told you. It would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways, inconceivable! No one in Guilder knows what we’ve done, and no one in Florin could’ve gotten here so fast!” With an air of finality, he closed his eyes and set his head (which, Foggy noticed, was weirdly tiny compared to his large body) back against the wood of the boat. Then, betraying his nervousness, he opened one eye. Then the other. “...Out of curiosity, why do you ask?” He questioned in a smaller voice than before.

Karen scrunched her nose at him. “Oh, I just happened to look behind us and see someone there.”

“What?!” Fisk roared, shooting up and hurrying to the other side of the boat so quickly that it tipped precariously. 

The third kidnapper - Claire, who had thus far been silent, muttered, “Seven-six. Touché.”

Foggy craned his neck to see over the bow of the boat, but it was no use. He was right next to the wooden walls of the frame and could barely see the water, let alone another boat. He wasn’t tied to anything, however. If he could just sneak out without them noticing, and swim to the other boat…

Fisk, however, clearly saw what Karen had mentioned. “P-probably some local fisherman! Out for- for a pleasure cruise, at night! Through eel infested waters!” His defence was so poor that Claire finally got up from her bag of medicines (and fast acting anaesthetics, apparently, because she had definitely drugged Foggy earlier) to look at the other boat.

Finally, no one was paying attention to Foggy. Quickly, he clambered over the lip of the boat and leapt into the water, as far as he could.

The immediate shock was far worse than he was expecting. Foggy had gone swimming in the lakes nearby his farm when he was young, with Matt, but that had been in the warm summer days, when they were young, happy, and in love. 

The sting of the cold salt water, coupled with the unexpected memories of Matt, sent him into near paralysis for a few seconds. Then he got his mind together and started kicking and splashing as much as he could, to make distance from the boat.

From behind him, the kidnappers had heard the splashing and were immediately panicking. 

“Gah! Get after him!” The man shouted at the two women.

“I can’t swim.” Karen said matter-of-factly.

Foggy must have been imagining the gleeful smirk in the Claire’s voice when she replied, “I can only doggy paddle.”

He definitely imagined Karen happily chirping, “Eight-six to you.” As their employer shouted expletives at them.

The man shouted more instructions to his subordinates, but Foggy could no longer hear over the sound of the splashing he made. He felt he’d already come a decent way from the boat, but he couldn’t see the other vessel that his kidnappers had been mentioning. The cold was already seeping into his bones. His fine clothes were wet and the layers dragged him downwards, but he didn’t want to waste time by shedding them.

Finally, however, noises began erupting from the water around him. Foggy froze, treading water only lightly. These howling shrieks were the signature cry of one of Florin’s main sea predators, and Foggy knew they were nothing to trifle with.

He could hear Fisk laughing back on the boat. “Ya know what that sound is?” He asked, and Foggy’s heart sank right to the ocean floor. “Those are the shrieking eels. If you don’t believe me, just you wait! They always grow louder when they’re about to feed on human flesh!”

Foggy’s breath hitched. He knew this was no bluff, and he could hear the eels growing ever louder as he trod water like a sitting duck. It was either die a gruesome death, ripped to shreds by eels in freezing water, or live to die in a few hours.

His decision was made as soon as a spine revealed itself above the water, wicked sharp and cutting through the surface like butter. Something else slid against his shin, and he yelped.

Now, Foggy doesn’t get eaten by the Eels.

What?

I’m explaining, ‘cause you were looking nervous.

Dad, I know that! In superhero comics, people only ever die when they have something they wanna live for, or if they’ve sacrificed themself for something. Foggy’s death would be really boring if he died right now.

…Man, what are you kids reading nowadays?

Cursing everything, Foggy swam back to the boat and allowed the two women to hoist him on board. Shivering and sopping wet, he curled up right against the frame of the boat. 

Claire sighed. “I’m getting you some dry clothes. You’ll catch hypothermia if you stay in those.”

Foggy must’ve looked at her oddly, because she glared at him. “What?”

He raised an eyebrow, though his chattering teeth numbed the effect. “You’re killing me in a couple hours.”

She shook her head, and chucked a dry coat at him. “Before my life went to shit, I wanted to be a doctor. I can’t help it.”

Foggy opened his mouth to reply, but Karen nervously checked over her shoulder again. “He’s getting closer.”

This time, Foggy could see the boat. It was a small, one man vessel, with a tiny figure at the helm. It was, however, gaining on them quickly. He allowed a small flame of hope to spark in his chest and warm his frozen insides.

“He’s no concern of ours.” Fisk growled. “Sail on!” Then, he turned on Foggy. “I suppose you think you’re brave, don’t you?” He asked.

Foggy no longer felt disappointed at his failed escape attempt, because it had allowed the other boat to catch up to them somewhat. “Only compared to some.” He replied, and looked Fisk up and down before turning away dismissively.

Karen whistled from the other end of the boat, and whispered to Claire, “Eight-six-one.”

At some point in the night, Foggy must have fallen into a fitful sleep, because he woke aching and cold to a beautiful sunrise across the sea and the famed Cliffs of Guilder looming before them. Foggy looked back at where they had come from - back to his home country. It was nothing more than a smudge on the hazy pink horizon now. What sent a thrill of joy down his spine, however, was how close the other boat had become overnight. 

“He’s nearly on top of us!” Karen remarked, surprisingly unbothered. “I wonder if he’s using the same wind we’re using?”

Fisk snarled. “Whoever he is, he’s too late. See?” He pointed to the pebbled shore at the foot of the sheer, craggy cliff. It was white chalk and appeared ready for portions of it to collapse at any time. Foggy felt queasy as he realised they’d be climbing it.

Foggy tuned Fisk out as he sent increasingly irritating orders to Karen and Claire. It was clear by now that he knew nothing about how to sail a boat, but liked to order people about regardless.

Soon they arrived upon the shore, and Foggy found joy in being a very unhelpful captee, making Fisk carry him all the way to the cliff after a refusal to move.

Nevertheless, it seemed more and more likely that Foggy’s would-be-saviour would have to turn back. “Only I’m strong enough to carry us up. He’ll have to sail around for hours, looking for a harbour.” Fisk grinned. He was close enough for his hot breath to steam up on Foggy’s cheek and make him gag. 

Fisk fitted himself with a strange leather belt, with slots for the other three of them. Karen did up the belt around Foggy’s waist, and then did her own. Claire had already strapped herself in. Then, with gargantuan strength, Fisk began to pull them up a singular rope, attached to the top of the cliff.

All of Foggy’s fearlessness from the night had faded, and he clutched onto Fisk for dear life. The drop downwards was dizzying, as was looking up at how far they still had to climb. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for the first time in his life - words he only knew from Matt’s religion. 

Around halfway up the cliff, Karen let out a startled gasp. “He’s climbing the rope!”

Foggy, unfortunately, opened his eyes instinctively and looked down. Sure enough, the man from the boat was bravely following them up the sheer cliff face. Foggy squeaked and shut his eyes again. “And he’s gaining on us.” Karen finished, disbelieving.

“Inconceivable!” Fisk ground out through puffs of breath. 

“Can’t you go faster?” Claire asked, and Foggy opened his eyes again to look at her face. It was out of Fisk’s view, and she was most definitely grinning. Foggy blinked. The two women were purposefully riling him up… it seemed they weren’t as loyal as he originally thought.

“I’m carrying three people, he’s got one!” Fisk growled, oblivious to Claire’s teasing.

Taking a gamble, Foggy murmured, “Nine-six-one.” Claire looked at him in surprise, then smiled. She regarded Foggy carefully, as if mentally recalculating her opinions of him.

Finally, Fisk pulled the four of them over the grassy edge of the cliff. Foggy baulked when he saw the rock their rope had been attached to - it was not nearly secure enough, they could be sued for safety issues, and Foggy didn’t even know what suing was-!

To his dismay, however, Fisk immediately began cutting the rope they had just climbed up. His dagger was small, but the rope was not overly strong and it soon snapped. Foggy watched it slide over the edge of the cliff - and with it, his last chance of freedom. 

Karen carefully peered over the edge of the cliff. Foggy fought back the urge to tell her to get back from the edge, because it was dangerous. She was silent for too long. Claire followed in her footsteps, slowly craned her head over the lip, and hummed contemplatively. “He must have good arms.”

Foggy’s heart jumped. Fisk followed the other two, and cursed loudly. “He didn’t fall?! Incon ceivable! ”

Karen turned to him and patted him on the shoulder. “You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Fisk brushed her off angrily. “Whoever he is, he has seen us with the prince and must therefore die. Claire and I will meet you at the Guilder frontier. If he falls, fine. If not? The sword .”

Foggy raised his eyebrows. It seemed he was living a little longer, and that Karen’s swordfighting was a skill that couldn’t be brought into question. He was almost sad that he was missing a duel - assuming their follower made it to the top.

Karen grinned. Her blonde hair flew around her head in the wind, and the sun shone on it so that it almost looked like a halo. “I’m going to duel him left-handed!” She said.

Fisk huffed. “You know what a hurry we’re in!”

“And that’s why I can’t duel him with my right! If I do, it’ll be over too quickly.”

“Have it your way.” Fisk conceded, and picked Foggy up unceremoniously. 

Claire took the time to squeeze Karen’s shoulder, and then swiftly - when Fisk wasn’t looking - pecked her on the cheek. “You be careful,” She told Karen fondly. Suddenly everything about the two odd women made sense to Foggy. “You can’t trust men in masks.”

Karen smiled, and brushed Claire’s hair out of her eyes. “I’ll always come back to you.”

Her words were painfully familiar, reminiscent of a more innocent time, when his true love was leaving to sail across the seas. Tears pricked at Foggy’s eyes, and he turned his head away until the two women were finished.

“I’m waiting! ” Fisk tapped his foot impatiently. Claire glanced one last time back at Karen, and then turned with a flick of her hair to follow Fisk.

Foggy watched behind him as Karen disappeared out of view. He felt an odd twist in his stomach, as he hoped the man who was following them beat her - but he also hoped she would not die.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Karen threw her sword from hand to hand, balancing its weight, as she waited for the man in black to reach the top. She practised the footsteps crucial for every sword fight, and tested the texture of the ground. It was sandy, grey-brown, and bone dry. A good texture for a fight, not too slippery. The terrain, too, seemed almost made for a fun match: warped black rocks forming arches, stacks and stumps, all manner of levels to use against the opponent.

Soon, though, she got tired of scoping out her playground, and once again peered down the dizzying drop, where the man in black was climbing the bare rock with nothing to stop him if he fell.

She winced. At least he had gloves.

Finally, bored, she called out to the man. If Fisk ever found out, she could at least say that she was distracting him from his climb. “Hello there!”

The man tilted his chin upwards, and then cocked his head to the right to show he was listening. 

His attire was exceedingly plain. He wore black boots, practical black trousers, a black leather jacket and a mask that completely covered the top half of his face. Karen squinted, but she couldn’t see any eye holes. 

How was that possible?

“My name is Karen Page.” She told him. Once upon a time, she hated to tell people her name, because they immediately thought less of her as a female sword fighter. Now, however, she used it proudly. She was one of the best sword fighters, and she wanted everyone to know who exactly had defeated them in combat.

The man coughed awkwardly. “I’d tell you mine, but that defeats the point of a mask.”

Karen hummed. The man lifted a hand to the next rock hold and pulled himself up further.

“Slow going?” She asked cheekily.

He sighed. She’d gotten better at irritating people since spending time with Fisk.

“Look, I don’t wanna be rude, but this isn’t as easy as it looks. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t distract me.” For someone who followed them across the Guilder channel and up most of a cliff, the man in black’s voice was surprisingly mellow and polite. Karen heeded his request for a moment.

“Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

She turned and swung her sword in a few simple motions. Then she got bored.

“I don’t suppose you could speed things up?”

The man laughed breathlessly. He almost lost footing, and his laugh turned into a yelp. “If you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope down for me?” 

Karen nodded. “I could do that. There’s some rope over here. But… I don’t think you’d accept my help. Since I’m only waiting around so I can kill you.”

He laughed again. She was pleased he appreciated her comedy. “That does put a damper on our relationship.”

Karen cocked her head. She liked this mysterious man in black. “I promise I won’t kill you until you reach the top.”

“That’s very comforting,” The man reassured, “But I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.”

Karen sighed. She hated waiting. “Is there any way you’ll trust me?”

“Nothing comes to mind!”

She thought for a moment, then grew sombre. She leaned over the cliff and said seriously, “I swear on the soul of my mentor, Ben Urich. You will reach the top alive.”

Something about her tone of voice made the man tilt his chin up in surprise. He sighed. “Throw me the rope.”

She unravelled some of the cut rope from the stone it was wrapped around, and threw it down the cliff. The man grabbed hold of it with his black gloves and together, they hoisted his body up the remainder of the cliff.

He got up quickly, gasping for air slightly. Underneath the mask that covered his head and the top half of his face, small wisps of reddish hair poked out. As Karen had suspected, the mask had no eye holes at all.

She stared. The man muttered a thank you and began to draw his sword.

“Wait, wait! Catch your breath first.” She gestured to the rocks.

He nodded again, too tired to protest, and sat down, still breathing heavily. Karen leaned against the wall opposite him, observing the man in black. The fabric didn’t look see-through, but perhaps that was how it was designed?

The man began to take his boots off and rid them of small pebbles that must have fallen in as he climbed. Karen was surprised the boots didn’t fall off entirely - they didn’t seem too tight.

Finally, remembering that the man was indeed a swordsman, Karen cleared her throat.

“I don’t mean to pry,” The man cocked his head to the side, “But you don’t happen to have six fingers on your right hand?”

He smirked. “Do you always begin a conversation like this?”

She stared him down, deathly serious. “My mentor was slaughtered by a six-fingered man.”

The man in black immediately displayed both hands up and out in front of him for extra measure. They were both utterly normal. Karen sighed. She waved for him to put his hands down.

“He was a great swordsmith, Ben Urich. He taught me to go where no others went, to be inquisitive beyond what others said was acceptable. He didn’t care that I was a girl, for instance.” She glanced up, but the man just nodded along. Karen was becoming increasingly annoyed that she had to kill this man. “Then the six-fingered man appeared. He said that Ben could either make swords for him and his nefarious purposes, or die. He chose death.” Karen had long since lost all emotion she used to feel when telling this story. She had, after all, told it to every man she ever fought. “The six-fingered man slashed him through the heart as I watched. I loved Ben like a father, so naturally I challenged his murderer to a duel.” She gestured with empty hands, “I failed. The six-fingered man left me alive. But he gave me these.” She drew a line along each of her cheeks, down the ridged white scars that she knew still stood out on her skin after all these years. She was no longer ashamed of them. When she had told Claire, the other woman had kissed along the scars and told her she was brave and beautiful. Karen no longer feared what other people would think when they saw her marred cheeks.

“How old were you?” The man in black asked. His voice was low, understanding.

“I was eleven years old.” She told him, just as softly. 

He nodded, lips a thin line. “I lost my father at a young age, too. I understand how hard it is.”

She stood up, and began pacing. “When I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of fencing. So the next time we meet, I will not fail.” She chuckled, the man grinned in support. Karen stared at a spot in the sky, imagining the face of the man who killed her father figure. “I will go up to the six-fingered man, look him in the eyes, and say: ‘Hello. My name is Karen Page. You killed my mentor. Prepare to die.’”

She turned to him, and the man in black seemed impressed. “You’ve done nothing but study swordplay?”

She made a hand-wavey gesture. “More pursue it than study it, lately. You see,” She sat down next to the man, “I can’t find him. It’s been twenty years, and I’m starting to lose confidence. In all my study of swordplay, too, I must have angered somebody, because I was framed for murdering a man. Fisk saved me from prison, and now I work for him in his debt.”

The man cocked his head to the side again. It seemed as if he was listening for something. Whatever it was, he was pleased with the outcome, because he smiled and stood. “Well then. I hope you find him someday.”

Karen grinned. “Are you ready, then?”

“Whether I am or not, you’ve been more than fair.”

 Karen pulled out her sword with her right hand. Then, smiling to herself, she swapped it to her left.

“You seem like a decent man,” She told him sincerely. “I hate to kill you.” 

“You seem decent as well,” The man in black responded. He copied her form fluidly - an experienced fighter, then. She smirked. “I hate to die.”

As the final words left his lips, they were off in a flurry of motion. Karen was not one for testing her opponent, preferring to throw herself directly into battle and give them as little time as possible to adjust. To her joy, he blocked her first few hits with ease and sent her back slightly across the sand, returning with a few slices and then a jab of his own. The familiar echoing clang of steel filled the clifftop as they exchanged hits, faster and then even faster. Karen spun and swung her sword in an arc over his head, he responded with a duck as if he’d heard the metal singing through the air before he’d seen it, protecting his body from her getting too close with a series of familiar movements.

Karen grinned. “You’re using Bonetti’s defence against me, yes?”

The man in black grinned back. There was something harsher in this grin than from his smile before - this was animalistic. This was the smile of a swordsman, eager to draw first blood. Karen knew this grin, because she knew it was reflected in her own face. “I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain.” He replied, not letting up on his easy defence of her swift attacks.

“Naturally,” She breathed as the man retreated up a large rock. She was now lower down on the ground, but the man did not allow her to get quick jabs in at his legs, no matter how hard she pushed. “You must expect me to respond with Capa Ferro?”

“Naturally,” He swung an arc and she blocked without a moment to spare, “But I find that Thybalt normally cancels out Capa Ferro. Don’t you?”

And there was the cockiness coming into play, as he teased with his words he teased with his sword, feinting one way and then the other. Her right hand could keep up easily, but her left was still slightly slow. He almost nicked her.

Almost.

She blocked his feints and replied with her own, pretending to go for a small hit and then ending with a huge sweep that sent him jumping back off of the edge of the rock and down back to the sand below her.

She only managed a short huff of breath in agreement with his statement. “Unless your enemy has studied Agrippa.” She leapt over the edge of the rock and twisted her body into a flip, landing perfectly in front of the man in black. “Which I have!” She grinned, and the fight began anew.

They hopped backwards and forwards across the sand like birds with razor sharp beaks. She backed away several steps to gather her bearings and he followed without hesitation. “You’re wonderful.” She grinned. 

“Thank you.” He told her between the sharp clash of blades. “I’ve worked hard to become so.”

“I admit it, you’re better than I am.” She said flippantly.

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I know something that you don’t.”

He cocked his head to the side again. She copied his head movement, imagining it was perhaps a tactic, but it made it more difficult to see. “And what is that?” He asked.

She laughed. “I’m not left handed.”

Fluidly, Karen threw her sword into the air and caught it with her right hand. It felt right at home in her palm, and with more muscle memory than decision she caught his next jab. Immediately, she gained ground, forcing him up a line of ancient stone steps as he desperately parried her swift cuts. At the top of the stairs, there was only a turret and a few lumps of ancient wall before the cliff edge.

“You’re amazing!” He parroted her earlier statement, even as Karen forced him up against the crumbling wall and pinned him on the rocks.

“I ought to be after twenty years.” She allowed.

He grunted as she pushed further. The rock began to give way under him - she could imagine it falling into the sea with an explosion of rubble and water. “There’s- something I ought to tell you.” He forced out.

“Tell me.” She grinned through her teeth.

Suddenly, quiet. Then, he cocked his head and smiled. “I’m not left handed either.” With a push, he forced her off him and took his sword in his right hand. Karen’s shock could not be blamed for what happened next - she had trained her body to respond to the opponent even when her mind couldn’t. No, it was purely the man’s skill that left him jabbing at her with speed and precision until her sword was caught and thrown backwards into the sand below. He grabbed her with his free left hand, tripped her underneath an outstretched foot, and spun her so that she was now the one pinned against the wall. She could hear rubble come loose underneath her, and now she imagined her body taking the place of that rubble and sinking into the water below.

The man in black’s blade cut into her neck. “W-who are you?” she managed.

He smirked. It was eerie being unable to see his eyes beneath the fabric, and in that moment when Karen felt delirious with fear, she wondered if he was human at all or something more sinister. “No one of consequence.” He told her. He pressed harder, her flesh cut and she felt blood drip down her neck.

“I must know.” She tried.

“Get used to disappointment.” He hissed.

She realised that this was the end. She had been planning on killing him, it was only fair that he killed her in return.

However, he did not kill her. Instead, he did something strange.

He tilted his head again intently.

“Tell me,” He began, “And trust me, I will know if you are lying. Did you ever actively wish to kill Franklin? Are you truly in the business of starting a war? Or are you in too deep of a debt to Fisk? Tell me now.”

Karen gulped, and thought carefully. She was honest to the core - lying had never occurred to her, she just hoped she could phrase her answer in a way that would save her skin.

“I would never wish to kill anyone of my own volition. I love swordplay for the thrill, not for hurting others. And- Foggy, he seems like a good person. I especially regret ever becoming involved in his capture.”

The man in black flinched. Karen yelped as the knife pressed harder still to her throat. 

“How do you know that name?! Answer me!”

“I don’t- it’s what he told me!” Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. The man’s head cocked and this time he stayed still for a very long time. Then, finally, he relaxed. The knife was slowly placed back in its sheath and the man breathed out deeply.

“He… goes by that name, after all this time?”

Karen nodded, confused. He didn’t look up at her, but he seemed to register her assent. The man laughed, once. It was a sad, hoarse laugh, but it was also filled with relief.

Eventually, he stood up, and pulled himself tall. Standing even taller than before, he held out a hand. “Well, Karen page. I will not kill you. You are honest, and a good soul at heart, and you are a fantastic swordfighter. Will you join me in rescuing Foggy Nelson, or will you leave to seek your fortune elsewhere? I leave the choice to you.”

Something about the man’s attitude indefinitely changed. He was taller, more upright, and the air of sadness that had settled on his shoulders was lifted.

Karen Page grinned. “Well, Mr. Masked Man. I am always up for an adventure.”

Ookay, and that’s where I think we should stop for tonight.

WHAT?! No! It was just getting good, I mean that whole action sequence- you can’t stop now!

All this excitement, I mean… you’re a recovering kid, it can’t be good for your health. You’re supposed to be resting, but you’re basically jumping out of bed.

No, no, I can calm down, I swear. I just really like fight scenes, that’s all!

Alright, if you’re sure you’re fine…

Who’s the masked man, dad?

What?

Who’s the masked man? And why’s he keep doing that thing with his head? I mean, we’re gonna find out eventually, it might as well be now, right?

Ha!

Dad, you’re mean.

Kiddo, I promise you’ll enjoy the plot twists more if you don’t know them beforehand.

…Fine.

Can I start reading again?
No one’s gonna die though, right?

…

Okay, you can start reading again.

Karen walked with the man in black along the ridge of the cliffs, and then down into the rocky hillside terrain of Guilder. The scenery was sparse - rocks and shrubby trees - and the company was worse. Karen was at a loss. The man was maybe the most interesting person she’d come across in all of her journeys, and now he wouldn’t speak to her.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Alright.”
“Your mask. There are no eye holes. How do you see?”

He tilted his head. “The fabric is see-through. Pressed up against my eyes, it’s like it’s not there at all.”

Karen nodded, but the answer was a little disappointing.

“Ah- can I request something now?”

The man in black nodded. He was very amicable. 

“When we come upon the others, please stay your hand from killing the woman, Claire. She is… a good friend of mine.” Karen was wary of his response. She could not allow Claire to be harmed, but she could not beat this man in a fight, either.

“I won’t hurt her. You have my word.” Karen sighed. “However-” she tensed again, “I am curious about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Just now, when you said she was your good friend. You lied.”

Karen stopped walking. The gravel underfoot stopped crunching, and the silence was sudden. “How do you know that? You said you’d know if I lied before, too. How?”
He smiled. “I can just tell. Do you want to answer the question?”

She weighed her options, then acquiesced. “Fine. We may be beyond just ‘good friends’. I love her, and she loves me. It’s yet another reason to be on the run from the law - there are already so many things about ourselves that we have to hide to fit with society.”

Once again, as if she had simply remarked upon the weather, the man in black nodded comfortingly. “It’s good that you found each other.”

Karen nodded. The path took a turn through large boulders, a welcome change in the monotonous landscape, when suddenly the masked man’s breath hitched. He spun on a heel and threw his hand out just as a familiar shape sprang from behind a boulder. His hand intercepted the figure’s weapon- a long, sharp syringe, but they fell and grabbed it off of the ground. 

“Claire!” Karen shouted. “It’s alright. He won’t hurt us!”

The masked man held his sword out, and Claire eyed him warily. She held her syringe high menacingly. “What do you mean, Karen? I thought you were going to fight him?”

“I did,” Karen raised her hands placatingly, “And he won.” She ignored the twinge to her pride, and Claire’s disbelieving inhale. “He just wants Foggy to be safe. If we help him, he won’t hurt us. You don’t want Foggy to die either, correct?”

Claire’s eyes flickered between the two for a second longer, then she sagged and dropped the syringe. “No, I don’t.”

The masked man sheathed his sword. “Thank you.” He told her awkwardly.

Claire sat back on a boulder. “I still don’t trust you,” She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I need reasons. Why’d you go to such lengths to save one guy?”

The masked man looked away. He fidgeted with his heavy leather gloves. “His death would start a war.” He murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

Karen laughed. “You might be able to tell when someone’s lying, but you’re terrible at doing it yourself.”

He scowled at her.

Claire crossed her arms stubbornly, and Karen suddenly wanted to kiss her.
“Fine.” The masked man muttered. “You love Karen,” He started.

Claire smacked Karen. “You told him that?!”

Karen cringed. “It sort of came out.”

Then, Claire kissed her on the scalp lightly. “I love you too. I’m happy you said it so openly.” Karen blushed. The masked man looked very awkward.

“Yeah, well. Fogs- Foggy and I loved each other like that, once. Then I- I made a mistake, and I couldn’t go back to him. I left him, and now he’s engaged to another person. But he’s in danger, so I can no longer live on the sidelines. I have to help him, and- and take him back. If he’ll have me.” Suddenly, to Karen, the man in the mask looked less like a dangerous swordsman and more like a kicked puppy.

“Well that’s the saddest thing I’ve heard in a while.” Claire said bluntly. She raised an eyebrow. “Is there any way I can help?”

He looked shocked for a second, and then he smiled warmly. “Well… You wouldn’t happen to have any Iocane powder in that bag of yours, would you?”

Claire grinned wickedly. Karen felt surer than ever that she’d made the right choice in woman.

So it was that Karen Page and Claire Temple hid behind a bush and watched as the masked man approached Fisk, who was sitting at a stone slab table with Foggy Nelson bound and gagged like a prize for the taking.

Foggy, oblivious of their presence, watched the man in black approach with apprehension. He had a lean, muscular build, and was taller than Foggy himself but of just above average height for a man. He did not look intimidating, but he also seemed to be purposefully making a show of slowly walking over to the two men, and lazily seating himself at the other end of Fisk.

“So,” Fisk started, once the man had seated himself. He made a great show of holding a knife to Foggy’s throat, but he was clearly not planning on killing him just yet. “It is down to you, and it is down to me.” Fisk gestured to each of them as if he were a host at a fine banquet.

There were already wine glasses on the table. Foggy hoped that he wasn’t meant to be the food. The masked man was looking at him intently - or rather, it was difficult to see where he was looking with the head covering, but his chin was tilted towards Foggy’s direction, rather than Fisk’s.

“Let me explain,” The man started. His voice , though it held the slight roughness of a sailor, there was also the Florin accent underneath it, and the careful and kind tone further beneath that made Foggy’s heart stutter. It felt painfully familiar, and he could not understand why.

“There’s nothing to explain.” Fisk shook his head. “You are trying to kidnap what I've rightfully stolen.”

Foggy rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure no… arrangement can be reached?” The masked man asked. For someone who should by all means be a brute - because he defeated both Karen and Claire, Foggy realised with a painful twist - his voice was gentle.

“None.”

“Well, if we can’t make an arrangement, then we are at an impasse.”

“I’m afraid so!” Fisk laughed. “I can’t compete with you physically, and you’re no match for my brains!”

“You’re that smart?” The man asked, an underlying tone of mocking which, of course, Fisk did not pick up on. Foggy hoped that Karen and Claire had quick deaths. He would not have wanted them to suffer at all.

“Let me put it this way. Have you ever heard of Plato? Aristotle? Socrates? Thurgood Marshall?”

“Yes,”

“Morons.”

“I see. In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits.” Foggy narrowed his eyes at the masked man. 

“For the princess?” Fisk asked.

The man nodded. Whoever he was, the likelihoods of Foggy being in his hands increased the more Fisk allowed his ego to be stroked. Now Foggy had to ascertain whether or not this man, too, wanted him dead.

“To the death?” Fisk asked, growing more excited.

The man nodded once more, smiling pleasantly. His chin was faintly stubbled, and he had a slight scar on his upper lip. This was all Foggy had to try and find out his identity.

“I accept.” Fisk said.

“Good! Then pour the wine.” The man smiled. Fisk eagerly poured the cheap red wine into the two cups. Foggy kept his eyes firmly on the man.

Once the wine was poured, the man in black pulled a peculiar looking packet from the pocket of his jacket. “Inhale this, but do not touch.”

Fisk did so - Foggy truly wondered how anyone believed this man could be smart - and his mouth twisted. “I smell nothing.”

The masked man smirked. “What you do not smell is called Iocane powder. It is odourless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid, and is among the more deadly poisons known to man.”

“Hm.” Fisk uttered. He was smiling, as if he knew something that the masked man didn’t. Foggy knew that Fisk had just fooled himself into believing that he was ten steps ahead at all times.

The masked man took both cups of wine, and hid them under the stone table. He made a show of bringing the iocane powder under the table with the cups, and then brought both out once again. He raised an eyebrow at Fisk and moved the glasses back and forth momentarily, before placing one carefully in front of Fisk, and one in front of himself.

Foggy gulped. He felt like meat being sold at the market - one way or another, he’d be leaving with one of these two men.

“Alright,” The masked man smiled finally, flourishing his hands, “Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right, and who is dead.” Fisk was already too deep into ‘thought’ to notice, but the man tilted his chin clearly towards Foggy. He felt as if he were having a staring contest without being able to see the other man’s eyes, but he glared at the blank black expanse of fabric anyways. Eventually, the man let his chin drop and shook his head, smiling.

Eventually, Fisk laughed gleefully. “But it’s so simple!” He cried. “All I have to do is divine from what I know of you; are you the sort of man who would put the poison into his own goblet, or his enemy’s? Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet, because he would know that only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I am not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you!” This is the moment in Fisk’s ramblings that Foggy became lost. He let the words wash over him, long since resigned to the fact that he’d been somehow captured by an utter idiot. Fisk was picking up pace, still grinning goofily. “But you must have known I was not a great fool - you would have counted on it - so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me!”

Even the man in the mask was getting tired of Fisk’s mask of intellect. “You’ve made your decision, then?” He asked. 

“Well not remotely!” Fisk chuckled. His small head sunk into his torso - his neck was nearly nonexistent - when he laughed. “Because Iocane comes from Australia! As everyone knows! And Australia is entirely peopled with criminals. And criminals are used to having people not trust them as you are not trusted by me so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.”

The masked man was stroking his chin, playing along. “Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.” He said. Foggy hid a snort with a cough.

“Wait til I get going!” Fisk cried. Then, “Where was I?”

“Australia.” Foggy supplied. The masked man frowned. Foggy smiled innocently.

“Yes!” Fisk said. “Australia! And you must have suspected I’d have known the powder’s origin, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

The man in black smiled wanly. “You’re just stalling now.”

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you!” Fisk jabbed a hand in his face. “You’ve beaten my swordswoman, which means you’re exceptionally strong, so you could’ve put the poison in your own goblet, trusting on your strength to save you, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you! But you’ve also bested my poisons expert, which means you must have studied, and in studying you must have learned that man is mortal, so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me!”

“You’re trying to trick me into giving something away. It won’t work.” The masked man tilted his chin upwards.

“It has worked. You’ve given everything away! I know where the poison is!”

“Then make your choice.” The man urged.

“I will! And I choose-” Fisk gasped so dramatically that he nearly knocked Foggy off of the rock he was sitting on. “What on earth is that?”

The man turned ever so slowly, and asked with the most monotone voice, “What? Where? I don’t see anything.” For some reason, though Fisk was so busy he did not notice, the masked man’s lips twitched at his own words.

He gave Fisk all the time he needed to complete his antics - which, Foggy saw, was switching the two glasses. Foggy sighed. 

“Oh, well, I- I could’ve sworn I saw something! No matter.” Fisk waved a hand, but he was chuckling to himself.

“What’s so funny?” The masked man asked. His tone of voice was so drained that Foggy nearly felt bad for him.

“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Fisk said. “First, let’s drink! Me from my glass, you from yours.”

The masked man smiled, and raised his cup. They both drank. Fisk laughed into his cup, making bubbles as he did so.

“You guessed wrong.” The masked man smiled.

“You only think I guessed wrong, that’s what’s so funny!” Fisk laughed. “I switched glasses when your back was turned! You fool, you fell victim to one of the classic blunders!” With that, he burst into full peals of laughter, so loud and hard that the masked man winced and covered his ears. Fisk kept laughing on and on until Foggy realised that the sounds were no longer laughter but an awful gurgling, bubbling sound. Then Fisk leaned over and dropped to the ground.

Without further ado, the masked man took Foggy’s hands and unbound his wrists over the table. Foggy stared at him uncertainly, and tried to keep his eyes off of the dead body on the floor. He felt faintly queasy.

“So, you poisoned your own glass, after all.” Foggy murmured, using the close proximity to try and glean anything more about the man. He smelled of sea salt, fresh grass and dust.

“Hm? Oh, they were both poisoned. I’ve spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder.” The man told him.

“...Oh.” Foggy said. It had all been a trick, after all. He swallowed a lump down his throat, and opened his mouth carefully, “If you release me, you know that whatever you want for ransom, you’ll get it.”

The masked man laughed. He sounded happy. It made Foggy want to slap him. “I want no ransom.”

“Then you will not live for long as a free man. Wherever you take me, Princess Marci will find you. She’s a great hunter, and once she is set on her prize she will track it down no matter what.” Foggy tried to keep the bitter notes out of his voice.

“You think your dearest love will save you?” The man’s tone was amused, but the joy bled out of his face.

“I never said she was my dearest love.” Foggy snarled. “And yes, she will save me. I know that much.”

The man tilted his head, lips quirked. “You admit that you don’t love the princess?”

“She knows I do not love her.” Foggy replied. The man in black rounded the table and approached him, but he kept his head held high.

Once the man reached him, Foggy stood to meet where his eyes would be, if the fabric did not cover them.

“I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream .”

The man in black flinched. Foggy felt no remorse. “I know who you are.”

“And who am I?” The man asked. His voice was barely the remnant of a whisper.

“You are the captain of the most feared pirate crew in all of the world. You’re Captain Daredevil. Admit it!”

The man smiled. He withdrew from Foggy, dropped at the waist, and bowed with a flourish of gloved hands, “With pride.” Then he brought both hands to his hips in one movement. “What can I do for you?”

Foggy trembled with rage. He was brought back, suddenly, to his home in Florin, clutching that yellowed piece of paper that told him of his love’s death at the hand of this cruel man. “You can die slowly, and painfully. Cut into a thousand pieces.”

Daredevil shook his head. “Why loose your venom on me, your highness? Did I not save you from certain death?”

Foggy strode over and jabbed a finger into Daredevil’s chest. “You killed my love.” He snarled. 

Daredevil acquiesced with a slight tilt of the head. “It’s possible.” He said. “I’ve killed a lot of people. Who was this love of yours? Another princess, like this one? Or a wealthy woman, perhaps?”

“No.” Foggy said. “He was a farmboy. Poor, and perfect. With eyes like rich tilled earth on a summer’s day.” He felt the weight of the grief pull down on him once again, so he kept speaking before he was engulfed by it. “On the high seas your ship attacked, and the Daredevil never takes prisoners.”

Daredevil spread his arms wide. “Well, I can’t afford to make exceptions. Once word leaks out that a pirate has gone soft, well then it’s nothing but work, work, work all the time!” He grinned, and Foggy’s anger grew stronger still.

“You mock my pain!”

“Life is pain, Foggy. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

Foggy turned away. He rubbed at his eyes as they stung, not wanting the asshole next to him to see him cry.

Daredevil, however, walked to him casually. “I remember this farmboy of yours, I think. This would be what- five years ago?”

Foggy was silent.

“Does it bother you, to hear?”

“Nothing you can say will upset me.” He spit out. Internally, however, Daredevil’s words cut deep into Foggy’s very core. He had never properly processed Matt’s death - how could he? They were soulmates. Instead, he had buried the sorrow deep inside of him, and now Daredevil’s voice was acting like a steel shovel, digging away at all the earth that covered up the wound until it was fresh and weeping once again.

“He died well, you’ll be glad to hear. No bribe attempts or blubbering. He simply said, ‘Please. Please, I need to live.’” Daredevil was silent for a moment. Foggy could almost imagine that he sounded sad. “It was the ‘please’ that caught my memory,” He began again, “I asked him what was so important for him here. ‘True love’, he replied. And then he spoke of a boy of a magical sort of beauty, of kindness, and I can only assume he meant you. You should thank me for killing him, really. Your life is in better hands, now.”

Foggy stood up and faced him. “I would never thank you for that.” He spat.

“Well, why not? You have a princess to yourself now, you-”

“I died that day .” Foggy shouted in Daredevil’s face. The man, blessfully, was silent. But Foggy had had enough. The man showed no remorse for what he did, so neither would Foggy. “And you can too, for all I care.” With all of the strength of the emotions he’d bottled up ever since Matt’s death, Foggy shoved Daredevil down the hill that they were on. The man yelled in surprise, and then tumbled down, down, and as he fell he was still yelling, but he was shouting words, and the words were these:

“As You Wish!”

The words struck to the very core of Foggy’s heart, and he could only gasp wetly. “...Matt?” He asked the air, and then he threw himself down the mountain after Daredevil. As he tumbled, he barely felt the pain of the rocks he hit. Once he reached the bottom, he scrambled to where the pirate was lying and tugged off his mask. 

There he was. His Matt - five years older, with more stubble on his chin, longer hair, and a new scar on his top lip. But it was undoubtedly him - vacant eyes and all.

“Oh, Mattie.” Foggy sighed, and he embraced him in the grass. After a moment of hesitation, Matt hugged him back, and they were holding each other for the first time in five years.

“I thought you were dead!” Foggy whispered into Matt’s ear as they lay.

“I thought so too, for a while.” Matt replied.

Foggy, ever so reluctantly, released Matt. “What the hell happened. I need to know everything.”

Matt tensed. His head was facing the grass, his face wearing that kicked puppy expression that Matt was a master of.

"You can't be angry at me."

Foggy made a questioning noise. "Why would I be mad at you?"

Just then, two familiar women came running down the hill noisily, headed straight for the men.

“Karen? Claire?” Foggy turned to Matt. “You didn’t hurt them!”

Matt smiled. “They’re like us, Fogs. And they’re good people at heart.”

Foggy nodded. “I know.”

The women approached carefully. They were holding hands. “Sorry for kidnapping you.” Karen said awkwardly. Claire nodded along earnestly.

“It’s alright,” Foggy waved her off. “I think Matt wins your game, though. How many points do you get for killing Fisk?”

“Oh, ten at least.” Karen nodded seriously.

Claire sighed. “I guess I can make do with second place.”

“So, what happened?” Foggy asked. “How’d you convince them to help?”

“Loverboy beat me in a fight.” Karen sighed. “Then he looked sad and I felt guilty so I came along to help.”

Foggy gaped at her.

Then he turned to Matt.

“You… beat her. In a fight.”

Mat winced, and nodded.

“With swords.”

Matt nodded once again.

Claire waved a hand between the two. “Why’s that such a surprise?”

Matt shrunk in on himself further, and sighed deeply. “Because I’m blind.”

Wait wait wait. This is stupid.

What? Why?

How can he be blind and beat Karen? That’s impossible!

Well, if you waited a little longer, the book might explain.

Wait. Dad, is this a superpowers book? Are you reading me a superpowers book?

Of a sort.

This is my favourite book ever.

I thought you’d like it.

“What?!” Karen burst out. Matt waved a hand in front of his eyes clumsily. They stayed fixed on a spot just above her left ear.

“No light perception. Complete darkness. Since I was a child.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Karen said numbly, repeating his movements and waving her hand back and forth around his face. He twitched in annoyance. “But… your fighting. It’s incredible.”

“What, I can’t be blind and good at fighting?”

“Good enough to beat one of the best fighters there is? You’re capable, Mattie, but there’s no way you could navigate that rocky terrain without help.” Foggy reassured. He was still reeling from the new information that his long lost love was alive, and apparently a master at sword fighting.

Matt slumped. “Let me explain.

When I left to seek work in Guilder, I boarded a ship to cross the channel. That ship was attacked by the former Captain Daredevil - the most dreaded pirate captain in the world. He lined each of us up and began to slaughter those who had been on my boat. See, what I told you before about saying ‘please’ was true. When he got to me, I told him that I had a true love waiting back at home. He was intrigued, but even more so when he caught onto the fact that I’m blind. It turned out that he was, too, as were all the other Captain Daredevils.”

“All the others?” Foggy asked, utterly confused.

Matt nodded. “You see, the title of Captain Daredevil has been passed down many times. My mentor was a man by the name of Stick, and even he inherited the job from the man before him. Stick told me that he was old, and looking to retire. You see, despite Hell’s Kitchen - that’s the name of the pirate ship I’ve called home the past five years - being the most famous of all pirate vessels, Stick had been waging a war for years against an opposing pirate crew named the Hand. He wanted me to take over the title and continue fighting the Hand for him. He didn’t give me much of an option; it was join him, or die.” Matt rubbed a hand across his face, and manoeuvred the other to squeeze Foggy’s softly. “He taught me things I never knew were possible. He showed me magic - a miracle worker, who gave me some awful treatment. It nearly killed me, but when I awoke, all of my other senses had improved tenfold. I can hear your heartbeat, now, and that bird on the willow branch over there.” He nodded to an opposite hill. Foggy squinted, and in the distance he could just barely see the silhouette of a small bird between the branches. His mouth gaped wide. “I can smell the hemlock and wolfsbane and bittersweet nightshade and all other manner of poisons in your bag,” Matt gestured to Claire’s bag of poisons, “And I can feel the grooves of your fingerprints pressing into my palm.” He squeezed Foggy’s hand once more. “Stick was cruel. He told me each day, when I went to bed, ‘I’ll kill you tomorrow’. And each morning, I’d await my death, and it wouldn’t come.” Matt sighed, and Foggy’s heart broke at how tired he sounded. “When Stick finished teaching me, he gave me a new crew, made me the new Captain Daredevil, and left to retire somewhere in the mountains. I came to Florin immediately, where I found-”

Matt choked, and Foggy frowned. “Found what?”

“Well, I found out that you were going to be married to the Princess. I realised that of course you would have moved on. It’s been five years, after all. I was taking a boat to sail back to Hell’s Kitchen when I happened upon you being kidnapped.”

Foggy felt crestfallen. In a strange way, his kidnapping had saved him. Without it, he would have never reunited with Matt, and would’ve lived a life of misery with Marci. “Oh, Mattie. I never stopped loving you. She took my hand by force, otherwise I’d have never married again.”

Matt swallowed. “Oh. You’re telling the truth.”

“‘Course I am,” Foggy smiled, then, “Wait- how do you know that for sure?”

“Your heartbeat. It’s completely steady.” Then, Matt took Foggy’s hand and placed it on his own heart. Thump, Thump, Thump went Matt’s heartbeat. Foggy nearly cried of joy. It was something he never thought he’d feel again. 

“I never stopped loving you either.” Matt whispered. Thump, Thump, Thump. Went his heart.

They embraced there and then on the hill.

Are you alright?

Y-yeah, why’d you ask?

You’re looking even more nervous than when Foggy was swimming in eel-infested waters. This is happy, you should be enjoying it!

Yeah, I am! It’s just…

Come on, are you not liking the book?

No, it’s great! But I told you before. In all the comics I read, whenever the main characters are happy, it goes wrong really quickly.

These comics you’re reading, are you sure they’re age appropriate?

What? Of course they are!

Well, they’re giving you a really sad outlook on life, that’s all.

C’mon, I’m not wrong though, am I?

…Let’s wait and see.

I’m totally right.

Unfortunately, the joy of the couple’s reuniting did not last long. Claire yelped and pointed to the top of a hill in the distance, which was now becoming hazy in the evening light. On top of it, tall and regal and incredibly dangerous, stood the Princess Marci of Florin.

Ha! I told you so!

Yeah yeah, alright.

Matt pulled Foggy flat against the hill in panic.

“Did they see us?” He hissed.

“No,” Karen whispered back, “But Princess Marci is the best tracker in the world. She’ll be upon us in mere moments.”

Matt swore, and despite the situation, Foggy nearly laughed. His love had most definitely learned more than fighting from the sailors. “I have a plan, but it’s dangerous.”

“If we’re caught by the Princess, we’ll all be hanged. What’s more dangerous than that?” Claire said bluntly.

Matt’s mouth was a grim line. “We’re going to cross through the fire swamp.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite wandering blindly (literally, for one of his companions) through the fire swamp, Foggy felt safe and secure, glued to Matt’s side. His partner could smell the sulphur bubbling up through the soil before it burst through the top in scorching flames, and swiftly pull Foggy away from danger by the hips. Each time this happened, Foggy flushed and his heart beat faster, making Matt smile knowingly. 

They hacked their way through tangled dangling vines and darted around pools of quicksand. The four moved in one swift group, Karen and Matt at the front and Foggy and Claire at the rear. Despite their dangerous surroundings they made continuous light hearted conversation. Matt and Karen quipped back and forth, Claire input her dry commentary - which was sometimes even more humorous than any other joke - and Foggy kept up his trademark enthusiastic sarcasm.

The two women were invaluable to the group. Foggy nearly walked into a pit of quicksand, and would’ve suffocated if it weren’t for Claire spotting it at the last second. Later on, Matt brushed off Foggy’s concern about ROUSses (Rodents Of Unusual Size, for the uninitiated), only to apologise bashfully when Karen skewered one whose jaw had been unhinged and headed straight for his shoulder.

Together, the group made it through the fire swamp before nightfall. Foggy’s hand hadn’t left Matt’s the whole while. 

“We did it.” Foggy breathed, once the last warped, vine-consumed tree had given way to a vivid autumnal beech forest. It was just like the one Foggy had ridden through just before he got kidnapped - just before the series of events that led to his reunion with his love.

“Was that really so bad?” Matt asked cheekily. Foggy raised an eyebrow, but the amused scepticism on his countenance warmed into something softer, like ice melting in the delicate warmth of a spring morning. He leaned in to kiss Matt, and then-

The sound of horses galloping through the beech mast. Karen, from where she was emerging out of the fire swamp, swiftly pulled Claire behind a tree. Foggy and Matt, however, were in the open. They were hopeless, and could only stand as they were surrounded by Marci’s knights.

Foggy’s heart fell from his chest as he spotted men with crossbows behind every tree facing the fire swamp.

Marci drew her horse up in front of them, backed by her knights and her royal esquire. She was like a hawk - cold, calculating, wickedly intelligent and witty like Matt but with a sharp edge where he was all soft smiles and awkward laughs.

She said one word, and Foggy felt hopeless. “Surrender.”

Matt, in his typical fashion, only smiled disarmingly. “You mean you wish to surrender to me? Very well, I accept.”

Marci sneered. “I give you full marks for bravery - don’t make yourself a fool.”

Minutely, Matt’s smile faltered. It was such a small movement that the ordinary eye would never notice it, other than Foggy, who was so well versed in his love’s movements that he’d notice the slightest tense muscle in his neck. Or other than Marci, who was the best tracker in the land, and could spot a whale on the high seas from a mile away. 

“How will you capture us? We know the secrets of the fire swamp. We can live there quite happily for some time.” Matt lied. “Whenever you feel like dying, feel free to visit.”

Marci took the insult with a smirk. She seemed almost pleased to have met her match. “I tell you again: Surrender.” She said simply. 

Princess Marci Stahl was as beautiful as she was cold. She had fair hair and delicate features, which were beautiful when they were not pulled into a sneer, and wore fine but practical clothes sewn with golden thread, and simple but expensive jewellery. She was not one for lying to herself, or falling in with fantasies of true love. She chose Foggy for practical reasons, he knew - he was handsome in the way her people could relate to, unlike the refined beauty of nobles. He had a ‘common’ background, as she liked to repeat to her people, and tended to be easily likeable. His father was a butcher and provided for the community, and very little was known about his life before coming to Florin City, so that people could create their own perfect backstories for him. She was not a loyal person, so she was perfectly content knowing that Foggy was not loyal to her.

“It will never happen.” Matt hissed. Matt, contrary to Marci, was the most loyal person Foggy knew. Did he not return to Florin, even though he knew Foggy was betrothed to the princess?

There was a snapping noise: a crossbow, loaded and ready to fire. With his heightened senses, Matt most definitely heard it, but now he was angry and reckless and determined to protect Foggy.

“For the last time, surrender!” Marci barked, as the rest of her men loaded their crossbows. The knights beside her dismounted their horses and drew their swords threateningly.

With a terrible jolt, Foggy realised that Matt’s loyalty would be his downfall. He would die before giving up, and in fact;

“Death first!” Matt growled in return.

Foggy could take it no longer. Visions of a crossbow bolt in his lover’s chest were already flooding his mind.

“Will you promise not to hurt him?” He asked hoarsely.

There was silence. Marci turned to him, almost disbelievingly. Foggy felt angry that she thought him that much of a coward. “What was that?”

Matt whirled towards him, twisted lips immediately going small and confused. “What?”

Foggy’s mouth spoke for him. “If we surrender, freely and without struggle - will you promise not to hurt this man?”

Marci’s eyes narrowed, but she raised her right hand and smiled condescendingly. “May I live a thousand years and never hunt again.”

Foggy looked at Matt sadly, then turned back to Marci. “He is a sailor on the pirate ship, ‘Hell’s Kitchen.’ Will you promise to return him to his ship?”

Matt tried to protest, but Foggy squeezed his hand tight and shook his head softly. Matt must have picked up the movement, because he fell silent, blank gaze heavy with sorrow.

Marci spread her arms. I swear it will be done. Then she spoke to her esquire. His name was James Wesley, loyal to the death like Matt but in the way a coward is loyal to someone more powerful than him. In his time in the castle, Wesley had always given Foggy the feel of someone so apathetic they would do the cruellest things they were capable of just to feel something. 

Marci spoke to Wesley too quietly for Foggy to hear. Matt, however, grew even tenser.

Despite there being no other choice, Foggy suddenly felt like he’d made a terrible mistake. If only they could fight, but there were too many men, too many crossbows-

Foggy held Matt desperately. “I thought you were dead once, and it almost destroyed me,” He tried to explain. His voice broke. “I couldn’t have you die again. Not when I could save you.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “Matt-”

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, and he was being hoisted up onto Marci’s horse, and then they were riding away, away from Matt, his true love, away from Karen and Claire, who had been strong and kind despite their initial relationship, away from where Foggy was suddenly sure that something awful was happening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though Karen was the one who pulled Claire behind the tree, it was Claire who had to keep her there. Karen brimmed with anger, her fingers itched towards her sword, and it was only her partner’s hand on her arm that kept her from bursting out of the bushes and stabbing the princess of her homeland.

Like a petulant child, Karen wanted to shout at her, ‘It’s not fair!’. She wanted to stamp her foot and insist upon a redo of the days’ events. The four companions - friends, she hoped - had made their way through the fire swamp, which was something no other person had done and come out alive. They had done this with minimal injury, and still they were ambushed at the end. Even Karen and Matt’s skills with steel combined could not defeat ten men with loaded crossbows. For this to be the end, for them to go down without even fighting, it felt unacceptable. Karen’s chest roared with righteous anger.

Foggy was hoisted onto the princess’ stallion and ferried off in the direction of the castle. Karen watched as Matt turned to the Royal Esquire.

“Well, this has been a turn of events. The famed Captain Daredevil, completely blind.” The esquire smirked. His voice was monotone, but he seemed to enjoy the way Matt flinched at his words.

Uncharacteristically, Matt had nothing witty nor charming to say. He glared - his eyes were not towards the esquire, but the effect was the same - and his face was a pure storm.

“Come, sir. We must get you to your ship.” The esquire said. Karen was already rethinking the plan in her head - she and Claire would follow Matt to his ship, and then together they’d rescue Foggy - when what Matt replied made her freeze.

“We are men of action,” He said with a sad smile, “Lies do not become us.”

Beside Karen, Claire gasped. Her grip tightened until it was almost painful. Karen welcomed the grounding feeling.

“Well spoken.” The esquire replied. He then moved to apprehend Matt, his hands brushing against the other man as he took his sword. Matt froze. “What is it?” The esquire asked, sounding annoyed.

Matt cleared his throat. He spoke loudly, enunciated, as if for ears further away.

“You have six fingers on your right hand,” He smirked. “Someone was looking for you.”

All of the colour fled from Karen’s face as the man grew bored of Matt and knocked him out.

The six-fingered man tutted, bored, and cantered away towards the castle with her friend’s body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, the thieves’ forest, Karen and Claire’s home before Vizzini found them, was pillaged and ruined.

The forest was situated in the ancient oak woodland beside the castle. It was one of the last remnants of Florin’s days before human civilisation, and the trees had survived felling because of the royalty who enjoyed hunting in them. It was made a punishable offence to cut them down, and they grew taller and greener with each year. Below the canopy, the forest was verdant and lush with life. The atmosphere roused the spirit, and perhaps this is why it drew the convicts, thieves, killers and crooks of Florin to create their own sort of cobbled together community.

The thieves’ forest was, despite its name, a place to start anew. Murderers and cat burglars alike learned new crafts and built houses, grew produce and kept livestock.

These same houses were now burning down, the livestock slaughtered and the crops trampled, in the name of Princess Marci. She had caught on to the fact that Matt had not worked alone, and now she was rounding up anyone suspicious in order to ‘protect her love’.

The two women had returned to the forest at a loss. Now they fled it and were hiding in the nearby town, with no idea what to do next.

“We have to rescue Matt. With his planning, we can make it into the castle, find Foggy, kill James Wesley, and escape together.” Said Karen, for the tenth time.

Claire sighed and ran a hand through her brown hair, which was shining golden in the sun. Despite their terrible situation, Karen felt warmth in her cheeks. “Foggy is getting married tomorrow , and we don’t know if Matt’s even-”

“He’s alive.” Karen interrupted, with slightly more force than necessary.

Claire looked at her, then looked away. “Alright.” She sighed. “We don’t know where he is, though. With the thieves’ forest gone, we have no backup, and even if it wasn’t we don’t have the money to hire any. They say that Princess Marci is posting sixty guards at the gate tomorrow night.”

Karen bit her lip and ignored the stinging of tears in her eyes. She felt terrible for Foggy and Matt, but more than that, she felt selfish, because she was mostly angry that James Wesley had slipped from her fingertips. 

One of the first thing she’d done was gather research on the six-fingered Esquire who had apprehended Matt. Little was known about James Wesley, because he rarely left people alive. When he did, they quickly ended up wishing he had given them the mercy of death. He followed the princess wherever she went, and also- curiously, he had strong ties with Vizzini.

“Karen.” Claire said, snapping her out of her spiralling thoughts. “We’ll do it. Somehow.”
Karen nodded, but she felt hopeless.

Just then, two male voices, speaking in the Guilderian accent, came floating on by. The women scrambled behind a tree and watched as a duo of men crunched through the fallen leaves. They were similar of face, possibly brothers, and dressed in the colours of the palace workers.

That was all Karen needed. She darted out of her hiding place like a bird of prey on a mouse, and soon she had one brother in her grasp, with her steel at his throat.

The man yelped. She gripped him tighter.
“No one needs to get hurt here.” Karen grit out over his struggling. “Tell me. If there was a prisoner of high importance to Princess Marci, where would he be kept?”

The man that she did not have at swordpoint froze for a second, and then started laughing. It was an ugly, gurgling sound, as if his accent affected his laugh as well. “Little girl,” He rasped, “You think we will tell you anything? You cannot hurt us.”

He reached for his sword, but then Claire bolted from the tree and had her dagger around his throat in a moment. Unlike Karen, she dug the tip in so a stream of blood began pooling in his stubbled collar.

“You’re right,” Claire hissed into his ear menacingly. “My girlfriend tends not to kill her opponents. I, however, have no such inclinations.”

The man in Karen’s grip gulped, making her sword bob up and down slightly.

“Vladimir-” He started.

“Do not, Anatoly!” The other man interrupted.

Claire dug her dagger further. The man hissed in pain. “Oh don’t worry. I won’t kill you with this. See, my true calling is medicine - that bag over there is filled with all types of deadly poisons, some my own discoveries. I’ve been dying to test out a new one. Slow acting, excruciating, a terrible way to go, really.” She drawled. Karen’s stomach swooped with a mixture of thrill and attraction.

The blood on ‘Vladimir’s’ neck began to splatter at his feet. Finally, Karen felt her man cave.

“We are employed by Marci to torture her prisoners. The entrance is the third knot on that tree over there.” He whimpered. His brother glared at him, though his eyes were too filled with pain to hold any real malice.

Karen brought him to the tree and tapped the knotted trunk. Sure enough, a section of the tree fell inwards, revealing a staircase of warped roots.

She turned to Claire and Vladimir. 

“Thank you for your assistance.” She smiled sweetly, and then in synchronisation, she and Claire knocked the brothers out with the hilts of their weapons.

They stood at the top of the stairs for a moment.

“This is the plan, then?” Karen asked.

Claire slipped her warm, soft hand into Karen’s, and intertwined their fingers. “As long as we stay together, it will end up alright.”

Hand in hand, the two descended into the dark dungeon.

They found Matt lying half dead in a cell. His shirt was torn beyond recognition, his shoulder-length hair matted with blood. His torso was so cut up and bloody that Karen couldn’t tell where the wounds ended and the skin began.

But he was not dead.

Claire got to work immediately, like seeing his immobile body had flipped a switch in her head. Karen knew a little of her past - her aspirations to be a doctor, the constant rejections because she was a woman, the turn to poisons as an alternative. Outcasts tended not to judge other outcasts, and women could find a place where they were treated as equals in the thieves’ forest. Claire’s true calling was always helping the injured, however, and her poisons were only intended for the cruel.

Watching Claire work was like magic. Karen helped where she could, but this mostly involved holding things still or cleaning blood from a wound, so she had plenty of time to watch as Claire healed Matt. Karen secretly thought to herself that Claire may be a miracle worker.

Night passed slowly and the two women kept watch in turns, to make sure Matt remained stable. The man was made of more bandage than skin, but his injuries would heal with time (and with many, many scars).

The morning arrived with Matt’s consciousness. He awoke with a groan, a yawn, and then bolted upright.

Wincing through his pain, Matt scrambled backwards off of his makeshift bed and wedged himself against the dungeon wall.

“What- what happened? Who’s there?!” He asked, hand darting to his side to grasp the ghost of his sword. His voice sounded quiet, and vulnerable. Karen was once again hit with the realisation that Matt was well and truly blind and that came with difficulties in moments like this, despite how hard he worked to hide them.

“It’s us,” Claire told him calmly. “You’re safe.”

Matt relaxed slightly, but he was still poised to fight like a cat backed into a corner. “Claire.” He sighed. “I couldn’t- I couldn’t tell you were there. It smells too strongly of blood in here and my hearing- it’s weird.” He tipped his head at the chin once, twice, thrice- as if to dislodge something from his ears.

“You have a concussion. Your hearing will probably be strange for a while.” Claire told him with the same monotone, calming tone.

Matt nodded. “Courtesy of the Ranskahov brothers.” Then his eyes grew sorrowful. “Foggy?”

“In the castle.” Karen told him. “He’s-” She winced, and tried to emulate Claire’s tone. “He’s meant to be getting married tonight. We need you to help save him.”

“And so that you can kill that Esquire. The six-fingered man.” Matt remembered.

Karen smiled. “That too. But Foggy is our main priority.”

Matt grimaced. “What are our liabilities?”

It was Karen’s turn to frown. “There are sixty men guarding the front gates.”

“And our assets?”

Karen’s frown deepened. “Your brains, Claire’s skill, and my steel.”

Matt dropped his head back against the wall with an audible thunk . “That’s impossible.” He said, anguished. “If only we had some fabric, that would be something.”

Karen sat up. “What for?”

“Half of the scare of Captain Daredevil is the mask and costume. The other half is the name. With it, we might be able to get into the castle. Without, we're just three normal people. It'll never work.” Matt told her. Karen thought this was a little harsh on himself, since he was really an excellent swordfighter, but she could already tell that Matt’s way of processing things was to beat himself up even more than the Ranskahov brothers had. She wondered if that was something Foggy helped to even out, in the same way that Claire balanced Karen.

Karen eyed Claire. "Do you think Melvin escaped the forest in time? He still owes you a favour for helping Betsy with her sprained wrist."

Claire nodded, biting her cheek in thought.

Matt tilted his head. "Who's Melvin?"

Karen stood with an air of finality, using her palms as leverage. "Someone who can make 'three normal people' into the dreaded Pirate Captain Daredevil and his two companions. Let's go."

Melvin Potter and his girlfriend Betsy were by far the most beloved people in the thieves' forest. Betsy was kind and generous, and Melvin was equally so and inherently pacifist. The pair were hopelessly in love with each other, and trusted easily despite the hardships the world had thrown at them. Karen had yet to experience a conversation with one where their other half was not mentioned. If all was right in the world, the two would be rich as royalty and without a want or need - but their kindness had been taken advantage of, and they had been misunderstood, so they lived in the forest with the rest of the outcasts.

Melvin was the best tailor that Karen had ever seen. He could put the gilded costumes of Princess Marci to shame, and fashion elegant ball gowns in a matter of hours. In fact, he had once made clothes for the princess, but she had fired him for his unique way of seeing the world. It was a matter of great shame for Melvin, how he had been humiliated by the princess - but the thieves loved him along with the way he thought, and he fit well with the other outcasts.

They knocked on the wooden door to the beautiful little cottage the couple had built together. It seemed they'd been saved from the pillaging of the forest, but the door was still bolted tight.

A small hatch slid open on the front door, and Melvin's droopy grey-green eyes appeared within. They widened, then crinkled in happiness, and with a jangling of locks the door opened.

"Karen, Claire!" Melvin gasped. "I'm so glad you're okay. Please, come in!"

Betsy appeared behind him. Her curly hair was more wild than usual, and her face transformed from a fearful, frightened look to pure relief. 

"It's you two." She sighed. "Who's your companion?"

Matt sidled up next to Karen carefully. He wore a large black knitted jumper (an item that Claire found in the dungeons, and probably belonged to one of the Ranskahov brothers) that was too large for him, and drooped off of one shoulder, displaying the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. He’d wanted to leave for Melvin’s straight away, but at the insistence of Karen, he’d washed the rest of the blood off of his body and hair. It hung in swoops over his forehead, just short of his eyes, and grew longer at the back so that it curled around the nape of his neck. He was actually very handsome, Karen thought, when he wasn’t covered in blood, grime, or moments from death - or all three.

“My name is Matthew Murdock,” He said. His voice was low but it lacked the rough gravel that he unconsciously added to it when he was acting as Daredevil. “I am the Captain of the pirate ship Hell’s Kitchen.”

Betsy gaped, and Melvin flinched. Everyone in the thieves’ forest knew that name, and most likely everyone in Florin too.

Claire stepped in, gently. “I’m sorry to ask this of you. We wouldn’t if it wasn’t of the utmost importance. Matt’s true love is Fog- Franklin Nelson, who will be made to marry the Princess against his will tonight. We have to prevent it from happening.”

Melvin bit his lip. “What do you need from me?”

“A suit, of a sort.” Matt explained. “Something to hide my identity, and strike fear into the hearts of the royal guards. Something that people will look at and know instantly, ‘ That’s Captain Daredevil. ’”

Betsy put her hand to her forehead. “You know that’s a death sentence if they ever find out we made it. What’s in it for us?”

“Bets-” Melvin cut in.

“No, she’s fair to question it.” Claire said. “It will be humiliating for the Princess, firstly. She’ll lose her standing with the people without a husband who they can relate to.”

“While we’re inside, I can steal something valuable for you as well!” Karen put in. Claire glared at her, but her eyes sparkled with something strong and soft.

“Plus,” Matt added, “I’d be forever indebted to you. The love I feel for Foggy- well, I suppose it’s similar to what you feel for each other. I know that I cannot live without him. Not again.”

“Intertwined souls,” Melvin murmured. He took Betsy’s hand and eyed Claire and Karen. “Soulmates.”

Matt smiled sadly. “Yes.”

Betsy pursed her lips. “Well then, you’ve better get started, Melvin.” They all looked at her, shocked, but she just smiled. “Would anyone like some tea?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Franklin Nelson, soon to be Franklin Stahl, sat on the plush four-poster bed meant to be shared between him and his fiancé as she tightened the cufflinks in his suit. He knew that he looked the picture of a prince. His curled hair was styled perfectly, his body scrubbed to perfection, even a rosy shade of blush applied to his cheeks, to make him seem excited for the event.

Marci finished positioning the cufflinks, and pinched his cheek like a grandmother would her petulant grandchild. “You don’t seem excited, Foggy-bear.”

Foggy scowled at the nickname. “Should I be?”

“Grooms often are, I’m told.” Marci teased. She herself looked gorgeous, but he couldn’t focus on any specific detail. Any time he tried to focus on her, she blurred into insignificance.

“I will not marry tonight,” Foggy told her, sounding far more confident than he felt. “Matt will save me.”

Marci sneered at the name, almost as if she’d already forgotten about that particular detail. Foggy loathed to think why she would have forgotten Matt - he could not bear to entertain the idea that it was because he was already taken care of. Matt would come for him tonight, because Marci had taken him to his ship, just like she’d been told to.

Right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Matthew Murdock hid behind a stone wall near to the entrance of Florin Castle. His hearing had returned to normal (normal for him that is- a constant rush of noise, a wall of heartbeats and conversations and audible feedback that sometimes left him reeling), and now he heard Karen and Claire discussing their plan as the sixty guards beyond them stood stationary at the castle gate.

From Melvin’s description of his costume, he was tentatively hopeful that his plan would work. It was a deep red, made of stretchy fabric in the joints and painted armour everywhere else. In place of his old black mask was Melvin’s pride: A crimson helmet with eye holes that seemed to glow cruelly, and two wickedly sharp horns that glinted in the light like knife blades. Melvin had leaned into the ‘devil’ symbolism - something that long ago, as a religious man, Matt would have minded. Now, he welcomed it. If fear of the devil was what saved his love, then he’d become the devil himself.

Karen and Claire had costumes, too. They were far simpler, for Melvin didn’t have the time, but they were meaningful in their simplicity. They both wore an iteration of Matt’s original costume: all black, form fitting, and masks over the eyes (theirs with eye holes). Karen had her sword strapped to her hip and several more daggers on her person, some in plain sight for the added effect, some in her boots and up her sleeves in case of capture. Claire had her medicine bag across her shoulder and vials of her homemade throwing poisons in her belt. Matt could smell the acrid stench of ingredients that would burn and scar whatever unfortunate soul that Claire came across.

The stained glass windows of the church reverberated with the sounds of the organ inside, a beautiful melody for someone who did not want to hear it. Matt imagined that they were beautiful in the golden evening light, the warmth of which he could feel on his back. He wondered how many unhappy weddings the stones of the church had seen, and how many joyous funerals. Royalty had always seemed convoluted in that way.

The women finished their conversation.

“Are you ready?” Karen asked. “The sun is nearly gone.”

Matt nodded, his lips set into a thin line. How many sunsets had he sat through with Foggy, in their youth when things were uncomplicated? Was Foggy now looking up at the sun disappearing from the stained glass windows of the church and thinking of the same long, easy nights they spent with one another?

“Matt.” Claire hissed. He snapped his attention back into place. “When you’re ready.”

Matt took a deep breath. He made sure that his sword was in place - he couldn’t fight very well with his injuries, but the knights didn’t need to know that - and flexed his fingers once, twice.

Then he counted down three, two, one on silent lips, and the three of them stepped out from behind the wall and walked towards the castle.

For a moment, all the knights could see were their three barely visible silhouettes walking towards them with confidence. Then, the world behind them lit up with fire. No silhouette flinched. They kept walking with poise, almost like graceful puppets, a rehearsed dance, detached from the world.

The men trembled, but held firm. The figures stopped in front of them, still leaving a trail of fire in their wake like vengeful demons.

“W-who are you?!” Someone in the crowd of quickly disintegrating courage asked.

Matt grinned. To the knights, all they could see was the light glinting off of the devil horns, the sword on his waist, the man’s sharp teeth as he smiled sinisterly.

“I am Daredevil, and I come for what is rightfully mine.” His voice rang out around the courtyard, only accentuated by the flames behind them.

The knights fell into chaos. They scrambled over one another, pulled and shoved, forgot any and all camaraderie that the evening’s festivities may have brought in a desperate dash to save their own souls. Only one man remained, the man who had spoken, who must be the one who would be punished by the princess should anything go wrong.

Matt almost felt guilty as he approached, hearing the man’s heart thud in his chest like a terrified rabbit. 

“Give us the keys to the gate.” Matt drawled.

“W-what keys?” The man tried. He had fallen on his behind and was desperately pressing himself against the wall behind him.

Matt tilted his head, then he brought his hand to the knight’s collar and slammed him upwards and against the wall. He listened for the sound of metal on metal, and slipped his hand into the hidden pocket in which the keys were hidden.

“Oh. Those keys.” The man murmured, strangely calm. Then he fainted.

Feeling like he’d gone a little over the top, Matt laid his body down by the gate to make it look like he’d been knocked out whilst fighting valiantly. He raised the keys to the door and felt for the lock. Then he inserted them and felt the satisfying click sound out as the door unlocked.

Matt tilted his head to the entrance, indicating for the two women to enter.

He followed behind them, and the door shut on the outside world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The church bells rang out, signalling the hour, as the organ began playing inside the church. Alone, the individual sounds were beautiful. The bells were clear and strong, marching forwards in their consistent time, never late and never wrong. The organ’s song was melodious and complicated but equally strong and easy to hear, almost mournful in its long, contemplative notes but beautiful nonetheless.

When the two played together, it was a hideous cacophony that made Foggy grit his teeth and wince, even as Marci was being led up the aisle by the king.

Foggy made no efforts to rearrange his expression into something more charming. The people of Florin could have their gossip about the Princess and her groom. Whatever they could come up with would never be worse than the truth, anyhow.

Sunlight streamed through the window panes and illuminated the floating dust in the chapel air. The stained glass glowed brightly, the people upon it with their arms spread wide, as if beckoning Foggy to join them.

It would be sunset outside. Foggy could imagine it - that orange-yellow-gold glow against the copper beech leaves, the stretching shadows like dark omens of the night to come. He remembered sharing a blanket with Matt in the valley, sitting in that dip where the stream came trickling by, feeling safe and warm in the arms of his love even as the sun disappeared.

He wondered if Matt could feel the sun, wherever he was. Whether he was back on the ship Hell’s Kitchen, sailing away from Florin and all of his past, or here tonight to rescue Foggy, he hoped that Matt could feel the sun.

The priest - Father Lantom, his name was, and he had done all of the royal weddings for what felt like a century - spread his arms out wide as Marci, in her beautiful white gown, joined Foggy in the front of the church. 

“Marriage,” He began.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain Daredevil and his two loyal companions ran through the halls of the stone castle. The walls echoed with their footsteps as they sought the entrance to the church, before it was too late, before the Princess married someone destined for another-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The priest paused as a commotion sounded outside the church. Foggy’s heart soared, because he could see it clearly now: behind those stained window panes, now dark as the sun had disappeared beyond the distant hills, his love was coming for him.

“Hear that?” He grinned at Marci. “Matt comes for me now.”

Marci grabbed his hands and gripped them so tightly that her nails dug into his gloved palms and drew blood that stained the white fabric. “Matthew Murdock is dead. I had my men do it. He died slowly from his wounds, bleeding out.” She hissed.

Foggy scrubbed the image from his mind as soon as she said it. 

He had doubted Matt once. He would never doubt that they would be reunited again.

“Then why is there fear behind your eyes?” He shot back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Karen Page followed Matt around another corner, and another, the sounds of the wedding getting louder and louder until-

A familiar man came towards her, flanked by four guards. His eyes showed no recognition, not even to the scars on her cheeks, but she recognised him.

She felt like a little girl again, holding the body of her mentor as his eyes dimmed, standing in a pool of his blood and demanding a duel against a man twice her age.

“Kill all three of them. They’re no use now.” The six-fingered man droned, monotone as ever. 

Karen’s eyes flared.

“Go on,” She nodded to Matt and Claire. Her heart was quiet now, her fingers steady. “I’ve got this.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“...Man and Wife.”

Foggy faltered. His heart - which had been beating so surely, so steadfast and strong - faltered with him. It felt as if it would never beat as determinedly again.

“He didn’t come.” Foggy breathed, disbelieving. 

Marci smirked as she took him by the elbow, like a farmer leading a cattle to slaughter. “Come, husband. Back to your chambers. I will join you shortly.”

Foggy followed along, numbly. He knew now what he must do. Matt had not come. He had not come , which meant only one thing. Marci had indeed thrown him in her dungeons and killed him, just like she’d said. Matt was dead and gone, for the last time, no surprise return or romantic rescue.

Matt was dead and gone, and so soon Foggy would be joining him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The chase began.
Karen slaughtered the three soldiers that the six-fingered man had sent after her. His eyes widened a fraction, and then he took off running down the corridor like a coward. She waited not for Matt’s signal, and gave chase.

Down they ran, through corridor after corridor, slamming into walls with their speed, through a kitchen and under hanging pots and pans. All the while, Karen felt her heart beat with her footsteps and she grinned wildly. This was what she’d been waiting for. Fifteen years of training, of winning against all odds, and she finally had the six-fingered man in her grasp.

She thundered down a spiral staircase after the man. For one blissful moment, as she reached the bottom, she felt elation. He had stopped at the other end of the room, clearly too tired to run further-

That was when she felt the dagger he had thrown sink into her gut.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Foggy arrived at his chamber and pushed open the door. It took great effort, as if his muscles had gone as weak as his heart. He wondered how Matt died, and if he thought of Foggy in his final moments, as Foggy was thinking of him. He felt blind but for the focus of his eyes on the box that sat at his desk.

One of the perks of being the princess’ groom was that no servant questioned him when he sent for a sharp dagger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She fell backwards with a final gasp of air. Stone wall greeted her back, and she felt the sickening scrape of the dagger that was sticking right through her centre, as it ground along the wall when she slumped.

Her hands fell to her middle, where the hilt was. Fire burned all throughout her veins, but she welcomed the pain.

She had been so close. Now, Ben Urich would never be avenged.

And her last moments would be taken not by peaceful death in bed with her one true love, but by this cruel man. It was not supposed to end like this. She had not even considered the possibility.

“I’m sorry, Claire.” She managed. Her eyesight was blurring. “I tried.”

The six-fingered man only smiled cruelly. He had not changed in appearance since she was a young girl. The only difference was that he no longer scared her. Even as he killed her, all she saw was a weak, pathetic excuse for a human being.

“You must be that little girl I taught a lesson to, all those years ago.” He grinned sharply in realisation. “Simply incredible. Have you been tracing me your whole life, only to fail now?”

He paused. “You know, I’d heard about your mission. As the only man with six fingers in all of Florin,” He sniffed - was he truly self conscious about it? “Word got to me about a woman fencer who wanted me dead. It was so easy to frame you for murder, and then tell Vizzini to rescue you so that you had to help with the Princess’ plot to kill her groom and blame it on Guilder.”

Realisation bloomed in Karen’s eyes, even as her sight faded.

The man barked a croaky laugh. “Yes, that’s right. The princess wanted to kill your little friend all along. A war with Guilder was exactly what she wanted, so that she could claim the land for herself and trick her people into believing it was righteous revenge for their precious prince Franklin. And you … I’ve been toying with your life since you were a little girl. Though, I suppose you still are. You never did learn to grow up and give up .”

“You don’t scare me.” Karen choked out.

He didn’t even seem to hear her, too caught up in his monologue. This was another thing that hadn’t changed since she was a child - he had an irritating flair for dramatics. “You were supposed to fade , Karen Page. Fade back into wherever women like you do. But you made a choice, a choice to continue chasing the illusion that you could somehow beat me, and that is what has brought you hear today.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Foggy drew a chair, and slipped into it a moment later. The box was beautiful in its simplicity, and the lid slowly opened from the bottom to reveal a lovely knife, glinting in the light of the chandelier above. Its hilt was mother-of-pearl, with gold metal intricately wound around like a rose’s vines. Indeed, where the blade met the hilt, a delicate metal rose bloomed.

Foggy lifted the knife like it was a drink he was sipping, and held it to the place where his throat met his chest. The metal was cool against his skin.

Matt. His heart screamed. Soon I will join you, wherever you are. Nothing will separate us again, with the final veil breached.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally finished with his monologue, the six-fingered man strolled towards Karen casually, and then grabbed the dagger that was still sitting in her stomach. With a sickening squelch , he dragged it from her gut. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her eyes watered as the inferno of pain grew tenfold. Blood splattered from her wound onto the ground.

“After I kill you, I suppose I’ll kill that girlfriend of yours.” He spat the word like one of Claire’s rancid medicines.

Karen froze. Suddenly, the pain from her wound was a thing of the distant past. As the six-fingered man raised his sword to strike a final blow, some strength within her bones that she didn’t know existed suddenly burst to life. Claire , her mind projected, and her arm moved. 

Metal slid against metal and chinked against the stone wall as she blocked his sword. His eyes widened a fraction. Suddenly, she could see clearly. She felt no pain.

He tried to hit her again. Again, she blocked, as easily as breathing.

She lifted herself from the floor, ever so slowly. Ben’s voice resounded in her ears. Anticipate their movements. He said, and she avoided a jab to her leg. Do not show weakness, he encouraged, and she did not flinch when she blocked a strike to the heart and it sunk into her shoulders instead.

She kept moving forwards towards the six-fingered man, like some silent ghost of his past.

“Stop it!” He yelped in panic, as she blocked blow after blow. They were suddenly a flurry of movement - unlike her fight with Matt, which was joyful and acrobatic, this was stiff but precise arm movements, strength and force and focus on the need to kill . 

The six-fingered man backed up against the table, and realised his mistake too late. Karen shoved her blade against his throat.

Then, he laughed. 

“You won’t kill me.” He gurgled. Karen could barely hear him over the fury roaring in her ears. Her nose scrunched in a snarl.

Quick, quicker than she’d ever been, quick like a dagger flying through the air, she slit one of his cheeks. 

“Offer me money.” She said simply.

His smile dropped. He recognised that she was serious this time.

“Of course.” He murmured.

“Power, too. Promise me that.”

“All that I have and more,” He hissed, clearly wondering where she was going. “Please.” He begged. She slit his other cheek. Now, she thought, looking at his bleeding face, she and him matched. But they were still not even.

“Offer me anything I ask for. ”

“Anything you want.” The man parroted, desperate now.

Karen looked down her nose at him. She realised that she was taller than the man now. Contrary to what he’d said, she had grown up. But she would never give up.

“I want my mentor back, you son of a bitch.” She told him. Then she ran her sword straight through his heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Foggy breathed in, fortifying his mind. He readied the dagger, preparing to press it into his chest-

“There is a shortage of perfect hearts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours.”

Foggy dropped the knife with a clatter and whirled around. There, laying on the bed like some apparition, Matt lay. He wore an odd costume, armoured and red like drying blood, and a helmet lay to his side on the plush cushions. He was, however, undoubtedly Matt, and undoubtedly alive.

“Matt?” Foggy gasped, and then ran to him. “Oh, Matt!” He peppered the man with kisses, desperately feeling the face he thought he would never again feel.

“How are you here? I thought you were dead!” He cried.

Matt grimaced. “Yes, I really need to stop doing that to you. Your fiancé tried to kill me, but Claire and Karen rescued me.”

Foggy paused. Then, his heart fell. “But you were too late, Matt. I’m already married.”

Matt’s brow drew together. “Did you say ‘I do’?”

“I- well, no.” When Foggy thought about it, the wedding had seemed rushed and unconventional. He had not said anything the whole time, other than his angered hissed exchange with the bride.

“Then it doesn’t count.” Matt gave him a sunny grin. “If you didn’t say ‘I do’, then you were not married,” Then, he tilted his chin towards the door. “Wouldn’t you agree, your highness?”

Once again, Foggy whirled around to the sight of Marci Stahl standing in the doorway.

“A technicality that will shortly be remedied.” She sneered. “But first things’ first,” She drew her sword. “To the death.”

Matt, however, stayed still. Foggy realised with a jolt of fear why he was lying on the bed - beneath that strong armour, his torso was wrapped with bloodied bandages. If he had nearly been killed by Marci’s men, that meant he was too weak to fight.

Like when they were young, and practised debating together: Matt would have to win this fight with words alone.

“No,” he started simply. “Because your plan will not work if you kill me.”
Marci raised an eyebrow. “What plan?”

“Your plan to kill your husband on your wedding night and blame it on the people of Guilder.” Matt smirked.

Marci and Foggy both stilled.

It made sense now. Why Marci had chosen him, in particular - someone relatable to the people, someone beloved, someone they could see themselves in. Foggy was someone that the people of Florin would go to war for.

When Marci stayed deathly silent, Matt continued. “I suppose you are wondering how I know of your plot. To that, I would tell you that when I killed Fisk, he had the papers with your commission on his person. They are absolutely unfakeable - royal seal and all. I have given them to a friend for safekeeping. If you kill Foggy and I, they will be released and all of Florin will know that their princess is a fraud and a coward.”

Marci started forward. “You-”

“Do not interrupt.” Matt smiled. To Foggy’s surprise, Marci went silent once more. “Now here is what I want you to do. You will let us go free, and then tomorrow morning you will tell the public that the wedding did not go through because Franklin Nelson loved another. You will never take another groom, and in return you will keep your reputation and your crown. You will rule alone and you will die alone. Do I make myself clear?”

Finally, the princess’ rigid composure shattered. She fell back into a chair and put her head in one hand. Foggy could see the cogs whirling in her brain - they were doing the same in his - but it was clear that there was no way out for her.

Finally, she drew herself up into some semblance of posture and said, “Yes.”

Matt nodded to Foggy. “Tie her up. We cannot have her going back on her word.”

Foggy took the rope from the curtains around the windows and used it to tie the princess to the chair tightly. 

Just then, Karen came running in. Foggy flinched at the intrusion, and then again at the sight of the woman. She had a deep wound in her stomach, but did not seem to be feeling it, and was dripping blood all over the floor.

“Is it done?” Matt asked.

She smiled at him. “I’m free.” Then she looked around the room, at the princess and the scene before her. “Where’s Claire?”

At her words, a voice came echoing through the window from down below. Foggy returned to the bed and helped Matt up carefully, and then all three went to the window.
There below stood Claire, and in her hands were the reins to four beautiful white horses.

She smiled up at them. “I had a feeling the princess wouldn’t mind us taking these.”

Foggy turned to Marci. She scowled at him. “...Go ahead.”

They dropped out of the window one by one, and mounted the white stallions. The horses seemed to glow in the moonlight, and the cold autumn air was fresh on Foggy’s face as they rode towards the gates to freedom. He and Matt held hands all the way.

As they reached the gates, however, a lone silhouette stood in their way.

“S-stop there.” He stuttered, but stood firm.

Foggy tilted his head. The man’s voice was familiar.

“Do you really think one soldier can fight Captain Daredevil and his men?” Matt asked cockily, his Daredevil growl coming back into place for intimidation.

“Matt, wait.” Foggy murmured. He squinted at the soldier’s face, and sure enough… “Brett?”

Brett froze. “Foggy?”

Beside him, Matt sighed. “Of course it’s you, you lawful idiot.”
Brett whirled to him. “Matt?!”

Foggy bit his lip. “Brett, let us through. Please? For old times’ sake?”

There was silence for a moment, then, Brett sighed loudly. “Get out of here. God, I always knew you’d do something like this.” 

Foggy smiled nostalgically at his old friends’ exasperation. “Thank you.” 

Then, they rode through the gates and towards the horizon, which was turning purple with the start of sunrise.

As dawn arose upon the hills of the Florin countryside, so too did it dawn upon Matt and Foggy that they were safe. A wave of love swept over them, and finally they reached for each other and their lips met. Beside them, Claire and Karen were embracing similarly. The danger was over, and for the first time their lives were free for them to choose the path they wanted. What they chose was one another.

The four adventurers knew that they were bonded for life, and they would stay together no matter what. Their horses drew forwards over the cliff, and below them Foggy could see the pirate ship named Hell’s Kitchen. What would happen next, he knew not - only that wherever they sailed, and whatever trouble awaited, he and Matt would never again be separated, not even by death.

The End.

Woah.

Now, I think you ought to go to bed.

Okay…

I’ll see you tomorrow.

…Dad?

Yes?

Do you think you could read it to me again? Tomorrow?

…Of course.

Thanks.

Good night, dad.

Good night, Matt.