[fic] Triskele - Part I

[binni]

Figuring out which movie to watch next was becoming something of a concern to Dean. In his hands were several titles, and all of them classics. Among them were The Princess Bride, all of the Star Trek movies, Dirty Dancing, and Tron (the original one, of course)-all important movies for Cas to watch to catch himself up on popular media. The question was just which one next? Sam, standing next to him, had given Dean a bit of a look at a couple of them, but shook his head and said nothing about it. That was a good enough approval, right? (Not that Dean was looking for Sam's approval; Dean knew good movies when he saw them, and these were, indeed, good movies.)

Imagine Dean's disappointment five minutes later when Sam refused to give up the TV in favor of the news. (The news.) This had been an argument long-enough in play to know he would always lose to any kind of informative media. Groaning, Dean set the DVDs next to the sink, and walked over to join Sam as the static voice of the news host started the report.

"Strange storm patterns continue to cover the northern UK, causing local havoc. We have Annie Tolson here, reporting from Glasgow, Scotland."

Despite Dean's clear-and-obvious gesturing, Sam didn't budge from the middle of the couch. "Scoot over."

"Shut up." It was a mutter, but Sam moved. (Finally.)

"Hi, Tom. What started almost a month ago continues on in ever-changing patterns. This morning it was golf-ball size hail followed by a sunny, summer day, and just five minutes ago it was a blizzard."

Dean almost shivered at the mention, helped along when he heard the air move and shift as Cas zapped in behind the couch."I brought you both pie," he announced. "It's safe."

"Yes!"

"Shut up!"

"Meteorological experts have no idea what could be causing the strange weather shifts, but people outside the major cities here in the UK are all crying one thing: Apocolypse."

"That is so three years ago."

"Dean, oh my god. Shut up."

"Scotland's got a rather mild climate-we're not equipped to deal with these kinds of shifts! It's affecting everything. Transportation, communication-farming, fishing. My neighbor's roof caved in a week ago!"

"How come they always gotta blame mundane stuff like that on something else? 'The weather did it!' Moron. The roof was probably all moldy and leaky anyway."

A loud and rather frustrated growl filled the open room as Sam turned the television off and slammed the remote down. "Do you have something against me watching the news?"

Chocolate pie now filling his cheeks, Dean stared at the ceiling to pretend to think of an answer. Swallowing, he shook his head and with a shrug said, "No, not really." He dug his fork back into the pie not a moment later -the whole thing, not just some measly slice - for another unattractive mouthful. It occurred to Dean that he'd probably end up having to buy Cas ten or so burgers in thanks for the random pie, because seriously: after being deprived of Anything Delicious for several weeks after the whole Sucrocorp business (you know, just to make sure), Dean was ready to gorge himself on the first morsel of anything with high fructose corn syrup.

"But," Dean continued, "I gotta school Cas on those movies. Scoot over some more, Sammy. Cas, grab the popcorn and those DVDs. Movie Marathon night."

Sam rolled his eyes and instead of scooting over, stood and allowed Dean to take  that most excellent opportunity to throw his legs up on the couch.  Dean had to admit he was actually pretty content-he had a comfortable spot on the couch, half of a chocolate pie left, a fridge full of beer, his brother, and the resident fallen angel. The world wasn't in any imminent danger, and the Kevin Tran was back to school and on-track towards the American presidency. The only thing that could have possibly made it better would have been a bunch of pretty cheerleader girls sitting around him during the movies to feed him his pie.

"I'm inclined to believe that what's happening in Scotland may require some looking into. I fear its beginnings may be less than innocently coincidental."

Dean glanced up to find Castiel walking around aimlessly with his face stuck in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. "Well that much is obvious," he said after another bite. He set the pie down in temporary favor of his beer. "But it's all the way out in Scotland. Scotland, man. I can't exactly drive there, and I refuse to do another forever-hour flight. I'm sure there are Kilted Highland Hunters who can take care of it, right?"

Like it had never happened, Cas ignored the question and instead focused on flowers. "I'd almost forgotten they can change color. That would be a nice change every few years, wouldn't it? Blue or pink hydrangeas." He had a small smile on his face. "Lilacs smell nice, but they only bloom for a short time. I want something that will look nice for more than two weeks."

Castiel's attitude shifts had been a topic of whispered discussion between Sam and Dean since after the showdown with Dick. Only a few days after everything was cleaned up and taken care of, the socially awkward soldier mentality that Castiel had recalled started to shift back to something more purposefully naïve. He behaved in a manner similar to his little stint as a mental patient, and his channeling Martha Stuart was a thing neither Dean nor Sam found very amusing. A more relaxed Cas was a good thing; a too-relaxed Cas whose main concern was whether hydrangeas or lilacs would look better around Rufus' cabin? Unanimously decided as not-that-great of a thing.

Cas brought him out of those thoughts - or confirmed them? - a moment later with, "Yes, I think I'll go with hydrangeas. I'll be back."

Dean sputtered into the bottle. "But movies-!"

The magazine fell, crinkling its way to the floor as Castiel disappeared off to some nursery-presumably. Sam's little huff of amusement interrupted Dean's scowling. "Makes a pretty good housekeeper."

Dean gave an absolutely-not-sarcastic chuckle as he set his beer down with a clink. "It's sad because it's true."

Wasting no time, Sam asked, "So what are we gonna do about the weather?" He showed no remorse in shoving Dean's feet off of the couch and sitting down with his laptop.

Dean glared weakly; so much for comfort. "Just like I said. There's not much we can do; it's out in Scotland. If it was in Maine, or something? Fine. Hell, even Canada, but it's not."

Sam hmmed and drummed on his bottle. As the laptop booted up, Dean picked up his pie, and it wasn't long before Sam's fingers started clacking away on the keys. Dean couldn't really see what Sam was reading, thanks to the LCD screen, but it was admittedly amusing to watch Sam's brow furrow and pull back as he studied the invisible information.

"Finished."

Dean's now-pie-filled fork hovered just outside his waiting mouth, pausing for just that moment to note Cas' return. His hands had a few traces of dirt on them, but he seemed proud enough of himself, despite going on about it being a little late in the season to be planting flowers like this. "I'm sure all will be well with a little help," he added on a moment later.

Dean managed to finish that bite of pie, and twirled the fork around a bit as he licked a bit of the chocolate from his lips. He stared at the tines, contemplating what to say, then grinned. "You wanna try your hand at Rachel Ray?"

Sam snorted something that soon, and awkwardly, became a cough while Cas leveled Dean with a confused stare. Sam returned to the computer.

"Who is Rachel Ray?" Castiel asked.

"Rachel Ray; she's a cook on the Food Networ-you know, never mind, the important thing is that you should learn how to make food."

"I have made you food before. Though you never did tell me if you liked it or not."

"It was great," Dean assured absently. "I wanna try something else, though. Not some all-organic ham sandwich. Can you pull off scampi?"

"I suppose with the proper instruction I may be able-"

"Great! We'll go shopping tomorrow and have it for dinner. Till then," Dean quirked an eyebrow at his pie in a suggestive manner, "it's you n' me, baby. Also, movies. Stat."

Dean almost - almost - had the fork to his mouth when Sam's hand flew out and accidentally knocked it out of Dean's. The pie on it was no exception, and it made no attempt to land where Dean intended it (re: his mouth). For a second, Dean just stared at the clattering fork, and the edible heaven splattering on the floor in chocolatey horror. "My pie," he mumbled. Never mind the fact that the fork could just as easily have ended up in an eye. "My pie, Sam! How long have I been without pie? How long, Sam!"

"Uh, right, sorry, whatever. Look."

Ignoring Dean's clearly greater plight, Sam turned the laptop in Dean's direction. On the screen was a news article, and Dean had in fact, yes, thought about blowing it off in favor of bemoaning the pie. But before he could do that, he caught mysterious disappearances in the second paragraph of the article, earning a groan of, "It's always 'mysterious disappearances', man! "

"Lewis and Harris, Scotland, of the Outer Hebrides," Sam informed, turning the laptop back to himself.

Meanwhile, Dean would pretend that he knew what Sam was talking about and contemplate getting another fork.

"Mostly Lewis. It's basically the eye of the storm. The clouds - whenever there are any - usually reach as far north as the Faroe Islands. The most they receive is rain, but meteorologists have recorded that every couple days, the storm reaches farther out."

"How far?" Dean asked, distantly. (He could actually go get a fork to finish the pie, but then there would be no more pie. He could save the rest of it for later, and have something to look forward to?)

"A mile or two."

Dean groaned again. The fork could wait, he supposed. Slowly, he asked, "And the disappearances?"

"Stornoway, Lewis. Looks like it's the only actual town in Lewis, besides a couple villages?" Sam clicked away, giving odd looks to his screen again. "Anyway. I found a couple blogs from hunters in Scotland, and they all talk about meeting up with some old woman."

Dean rubbed his temples. "Please tell me it's not a witch."

"I doubt it. They usually brutally murder their victims, right? I'm willing to bet that the reported disappearances are actually the hunters that ran into the old woman."

"So they're all gone because of her." Dean grabbed his regrettably empty beer bottle, giving it a pathetic shake just to make sure. "I suppose there's no getting out of this one, huh?"

Dean never received an actual answer, so he could only assume that it translated to, 'Yes, we're going.'

He sighed. "Well jinkies, gang, grab the Cas Snacks. We got a mystery to solve."

***

After some hesitant conversation regarding travel and expensive airplane tickets - because never mind that it wasn't actually their money - Cas stepped up to remind them that they were still able to fly Angel Airlines. (Free, quick, and safe. What else could a frequent flyer have asked for? First class and in-flight movies had nothing on efficiency.) It wasn't long after another discussion, this time one that presented zero ideas about what they might have been facing since 'nice witch' was and would forever remain a thing Dean refused to believe in, that Team Free Will found themselves in front of The Free Church of Scotland.

It was night, with maybe 3 or 4 people dotting the street, and a couple cars reflected what little street-light managed to reach them. A quick glance upwards showed a cloudy sky, and sure, the British Isles were cloudy even on a good day, but these clouds were the complete opposite of 'friendly looking'. Instead they looked like they were rolling in on themselves, and Dean just hoped they'd hold off whatever they had planned until they found some kind of shelter. He watched as Sam pulled out his cellphone, the light from it illuminating Sam's face in a … kind of really freaky way. Especially when his mouth stretched just a little.

"It's nearly 3:30 in the morning here," he said. "It's only 8:30, pm, in Montana. I don't think we're going to get much accomplished."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Told you we should have stayed out of this. Arrive when it's past three in the morning and can't get any work done."

"You know, I don't think you've stopped complaining since I was watching the news."

"And I don't think you've stopped being a bitch about it since I started complaining."

Ignoring Dean - rude - Sam stepped forward some to glance up and down the street a few times. He turned his phone's screen off and shoved it in his pocket. "Sure are religious here," he commented, walking ahead.

Dean grunted in agreement, finding just too many porcelain angel figures on display for his liking, and stopped himself from grimacing when he caught up to Sam. Cas followed behind, observing the area with a quaint, curious expression, but somehow still keeping his eyes on the skies.

"Maybe it's some kind of God Squad thing?" Dean asked. He looked quick to Castiel in question, but all Cas could do was shake his head. Almost forlornly.

"It remains as I said before. I am the last angel on Earth. Unless they are hidden by wards, I would have noticed by now if another had been stationed here." Castiel's shoulders slumped, and if he'd showcased any sadness, there was no trace of it left on him. Instead he straightened up, and his voice took on something a little more serious. "But there is something here, and it's no creature in the service of God." He clenched a fist once or twice with a disconcerted countenance, the corners of his eyes cinching almost worriedly. "I don't know what it is, but it is here, and it is active."

Dean was neither deaf nor stupid; he could hear the unwillingness in Cas' voice, but still he could hear that hint of assuredness and confidence. That thing that told Dean that even if Cas really, really wanted to remain passive, he'd still be there to help Dean when he needed it. And Cas had proven it; having wanted nothing more than to stay away from anything that screamed Leviathan, but still faithfully tagging along to save people and hunt things. Dean really had yet to thank him for that, and for two reasons: The first being lame in that he just never thought about it, and the second because on the rare occasions he did think about it, he found himself still teetering on the edge of forgiveness with Cas, which was a confusing enough Thing on its own.

Every once in a while, Sam would bring the topic up and had settled on calling Dean stubborn about it. More than once had Sam mentioned how Cas had paid back his mistake in full, if not more. (Because Sammy would know about 'mistakes'.) If it wasn't a monologue about the mental ward-"Come on, man. I think I kinda know what he was going through at the hospital, crazy aside. It's not fun; it's horrific, and terrifying, and honestly? I'd rather have to hunt down the Leviathans than go through that again."-it was about Cas' own guilt-"It's not like he's not sorry, Dean! Once he remembered who he was, he was automatically angry with himself. To remember doing things like that, no matter how good the intention-I went a year without my soul doing things I wouldn't do otherwise! That alone was hard enough, and you know it. If I had done what Cas had done? It would eat me up inside for forever, if I was him."-or putting Dean in Cas' place-"You're the one who said it! About how you put everything on yourself? You carry around guilt for the stupidest stuff, so imagine carrying around what Cas is."

Dean thought he was being pretty nice, personally, for not having forgiven the guy just yet. Yeah, he wanted to; he, "Never stopped wanting to fix it, either." But he couldn't; not yet, and he didn't know why he found it so difficult to get it over with, already. Cas had almost literally handed Dick Roman's throat to him; he'd been indispensable in that battle and though he could simply have flown off, he stayed to help fight.

Dean should have been able to forgive Cas, and he knew it. He wasn't sure what he was searching for; what sign he was waiting for to just do it. All he could say he knew, somehow, was that the time had not yet come, and he had no clue when it would. On one hand, he was okay with pretending he had the patience to wait. On the other? He just wanted things to actually be back to normal without having to trick himself into believing it.

"Western Isles Hospital."

Dean turned his attention to Sam, the voice jarring him back to The Now. Sam was busy, back to scrolling on his phone, his thumb stretching up and down.

"Hospitals are 24-7, right?" he asked. "If Cas says it's here, why not check it out?"

"How far away is it?"

Sam typed in some more information, and Dean gave an incredibly uncomfortable and creeped-out glimpse to yet another terrifying-looking ceramic angel in one of the shop's windows. He continuously pushed the idea of blinking out of his mind.

"Do you think we should buy any lawn ornaments to put among the hydrangeas?" Cas asked from behind him.

Dean jumped with a quick curse as Sam snickered. Sam wasn't even trying to hide it anymore, Dean was positive. The idea of Castiel trying to make some kind of home out of Rufus' cabin was just weird. Home still wasn't something Dean believed he could have, what with the whole once a hunter, always a hunter thing going on.

"No," he finally, and gruffly, answered. "No lawn ornaments. The flowers provide enough estrogen."

"Phytoestrogen, actually, but it is similar to the human hormone estrogen. Plants-"

"Don't care, Cas!" Dean sharply turned the corner Sam led them around. "No decorations outside the cabin."

The rest of the walk ("Just a mile north of here.") was in relative silence, and Dean proved to himself that keeping his stare on the ground helped the small trek pass more quickly. As fast or as slow as it may have truthfully been, it wasn't too long before he finally stood in front of the large, white letters of Western Isles Hospital, Ospadal Nan Eilean.

Castiel coughed, a distant rumble of thunder making it sound a little more ominous than it was. "What's the plan?"

"I guess just … say we're here to see a patient?" Sam offered. "They should have a board of patients' names up on the wall somewhere. Say we're cousins, or something."

The inside of the hospital was nice, and just as Sam said, there was a rather handy-dandy whiteboard of names and room-numbers. Quickly, and dodging old, coughing men and crying toddlers, Dean's eyes scanned for a safe-looking name, and MacDougal, Michael of room 240B seemed like an excellent choice. He trained his eyes upon one of the receptionists just ahead, a few nurses hovering nearby and reading charts or exchanging jokes. The receptionist was kind of pretty, Dean had to admit. Cutesy. Not usually his type, but hey. He could recognize beauty when he saw it. He plastered on his Win 'Em All grin and started forward, but Obstacle No. 1 sidelined him almost immediately.The nurse who had stolen the receptionist's attention looked every bit the stereotypical Scotswoman, from the deep red, curly hair to the freckles. Any gestures she made were seamless and practiced, and her eyebrows had a certain arch to them Dean couldn't quite put a particular attitude to. He could see 'challenge' written all over her, which, of course, made sense when Cas tapped his shoulder and nodded towards her in a, That's her, kind of way. Dean refocused himself and without bothering to wait for the nurse and receptionist to pause in their conversation, which wasn't even in English (Gaelic, right?), he marched over and asked, "Excuse me, miss? Nurse? Hi."

Dean kept smiling, despite the dubious peek and offended glare being thrown his way. "Can I help you, Sir?" The nurse's voice glided over him in an irritatingly smooth manner, and what Cas was able to pick up from a glance, Dean could now hear.

Her nametag read Brigit, and something about how she curved her eyebrows warned Dean to stay careful. She stood up straight, a clipboard balancing between her wrist and hip, and he had to force himself to not talk through his teeth. Hopefully he wouldn't sound too stressed. "We're not really from around here, and we'd like to go and see our cousin, Michael MacDougal. Could you lead us back there?"

Brigit studied Dean's face for a second before moving onto Sam's (sudden goofy smile and awkward half-wave go), and then Cas'. Her glance rested on Castiel a bit longer than what was probably necessary, followed quickly by the twitching corner of her lip. She flipped the clipboard into her opposite hand, handed it to the receptionist, and shrugged. "I'm sorry, but Mr. MacDougal cannot accept visitors at this hour. If you'd like to return later, visiting hours start at 8 am."

Dean tried really hard to keep a smile on his face. "Well, that's a problem. See, we're leaving. Flight for JFK leaves in a few hours-"

"Then if you would like, I can give you a private report on his condition outside the hospital doors in just a few moments." Brigit's eyes were wide as she looked back and forth between the hospital entrance and Dean, tilting and gesturing her head in an intent manner. Right, so obviously she knew something was up with their presence, or something was seriously wrong with Mr. MacDougal. Dean looked to Sam to make sure he was up to speed (because Dean was an amazing big brother who looked out for his little brother), and when Sam nodded, Dean returned his attention to Brigit, whose focus was back on the receptionist, their Not-English conversation still underway.

"Should we wait outside…?" Sam asked quietly.

It didn't look like Brigit was going to be finished any time in the next five minutes. Rather than stand there looking like lost idiots in a foreign country - ha, ha - Dean decided maybe waiting for her outside was the better choice. (Just so long as it didn't rain.) He lead the way out, not particularly pleased with the sudden blast of cold wind in his face, and chose a small, inconspicuous car to wait by.

"So, that's her?" he asked, looking at Cas. "Whoever we're looking for?"

Castiel was quiet for a moment, pondering as he looked at his fingers. "I don't know. She could be-she's very powerful, though."

"Better than nothing," Sam interrupted. "Honestly? I thought we'd find nothing."

"You are so lucky we didn't take a plane."

"I suppose I could ask what business the Winchesters have here in bonnie Scotland, but that's a stupid question, innit?"

Dean jumped, not pleased with how many times he'd been taken by surprise in the last 24 hours.

"Must say," Brigit continued, eyeing Dean up and down. Finally she turned to Castiel. "Thought yeh'd all left. All 'cept you, o' course."

Dean shared a quick look with Sam, who offered no answer to any unasked question,, and then back-and-forth between Cas and Brigit. "You know her?!"

Cas shook his head. "Not personally, no. I was never stationed in the British Isles, but I do know of her-"

"It's just as well. I've never met any o' God's angels, but everyone knows about Castiel, the Winchesters' go-to guy when things get too hard," Brigit played. But she added on a second later with a sigh and dismissive, but graceful, wave of her hand, "Good on yeh, I guess. Less to worry about, eh? I mean, just these two erses instead o' the other 7 billion?"

Brigit went on for another moment like that, but the whole mystery of who she was bothered Dean, and it hadn't helped to be called an erse. Whatever that was.

"Wait, wait! Just a second." Sam came up to Dean's left. His eyes were focused on some imaginary point on the ground in front of him; like he was trying to plot everything that was happening out on a graph, or pie or flow chart. He pointed to Brigit. "You know who we are."

"Aye."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," Sam exasperated. "Okay then. You know why we're here."

"Obvious." She pointed a finger up towards the sky. The state of the clouds hadn't changed much. There were just … more. "And since you're hunters, you're wonderin' where the others have gone."

Dean grinned. "Never had a monster so helpful."

Brigit's eyes widened. "Monster? I beg your pardon!"

"She's not a monster," Cas supplied. "She's one of the Tuatha De Dannan."

"Wow, that explains so much. Thanks, Cas."

"They're people of the mother-goddess Danu. It's Irish lore. But … we're in Scotland?" Sam gave a half-hearted shrug, and curled his lips in just a bit.

Brigit reached a hand out to pat Sam's cheek. "Aren't you the learned one?" She grinned, and leaned back against the car, this time crossing her arms just under her chest. "Aye, aye, all true. I'm the goddess Brigit. Goddess of inspiration, protection of the home, healin', and I'm also responsible for bringin' spring and summer to these islands."

"Think you might be overdoing it a bit?" A light roughness started cutting into Dean's voice. If this could have been just a straight-forward Q&A, he could probably be back in front of the TV and figuring out what happened between Marcos and Isabella.

"It's not me," she snapped. Dean was pretty sure he wasn't getting any points in her favor. "It's the Cailleach. She brings in the winter; Grandmother Winter, she's sometimes called. Whereas one of my jobs is to teach about inspiration, hers is focused on finding a solution to a problem, no matter the circumstances. "

Sam cleared his throat. "Through freak weather patterns?"

"Oh, that's just her gettin' tired of all the fake doomsday prophecies. It'll probably stop in a couple years. She's just tryin' to get a laugh."

"Couple years," Dean stressed. "No big deal. Shouldn't have even bothered!"

"Yeh should have! It's good yeh did! The other hunters, the Scotch and Irish hunters, thought they knew what they were doin' because they figured it out faster who was doin' it. You're lucky yeh found me first. Now what yeh need to worry about is what she's doin' to the hunters that have found her."

"And you're just giving up the information?" Sam asked. "You said so yourself. You two work together."

"Aye. I've got a job to do, and I cannae do it if she's goin' on like this. Humans are already suspicious enough, and enough hunters have already disappeared. Without the hunters, my existence becomes compromised. I've grown accustomed to this life and working at the hospital. I need yeh to save those hunters, or I can't do that anymore."

"How do we know you're not pulling our chain? Sorry if we don't exactly trust you right away." Dean crossed his arms, narrowing his gaze at Brigit.

Brigit didn't flinch one bit; she just looked mildly amused. "Trust me or no, either way it'll be the same. With me, you'll run into her; without me, you'll run into her. With me, she'll send yeh off; without me, she'll send yeh off. Trust me or no, same outcome. The only way to get out of this is to go home, but I highly doubt you three are just goin' to drop it and run off."

Sam coughed. "Okay, so then …why's it good we found you first?"

"Because I can warn yeh? I know what she'll be doin' to yeh and what yeh have to do to come back."

"Which is?" Dean straightened some.

Brigit remained silent for a little bit, fixing her stare at Dean and making him generally uncomfortable. "Tarot, gentlemen. She'll make yeh draw a tarot card."

"What makes you so sure we'll draw a card from her?" Sam asked.

Brigit refused to turn away from Dean, and rather than face Sam to answer his question, it was as if she was speaking directly to Dean, and it was something Dean was growing to like less and less."Yeh cannae fight where she is. There are too many protective wards. Once you're there, yeh cannae get out until she's done with yeh. To keep it safe, yeh'll draw a card and on it will be your role. You must satisfy that role to return home and break the spell." She paused, giving Dean an almost sad look. "If yeh fail to accomplish that, then yeh'll be stuck wherever she sends yeh to finish your lives.

"Yeh'll have to arrive to Cailleach after me. Just wait a minute before yeh pop in."

Just like that, Brigit had disappeared and left Dean to stomp his foot. (Only after shaking off the creepy feeling she left him with.)

"Send us?!" he ground out. "Send us where?! You know what it means when the mysterious character the protagonists meet is vague? It means they're the bad guys, guys! We should just turn around now, go home, and leave this alone! I told you we never should have come, but nope. Had to check out what was going on with-with the weather!"

"And the missing hunters," Sam oh-so-helpfully pointed out. "Wouldn't really be doing our job if we didn't."

Dean sighed. "So what do we do? Just go along with this? What was up with that-her existence being compromised with no hunters around?! That's a load of bull, she's a frickin' goddess. You guys do realize that she never actually told us what to do, right? She just said to fulfill our roles, but what does that mean? What roles?!" He paused as if waiting for an anvil to drop, and spun to Cas. "Is she Gabriel?! Cas, is she supposed to be Gabriel?! "

"Uh…. No?" he tried. "She's definitely Brigit. Gabriel is dead."

"Well, she said Tarot, right? So she might mean the meaning of the card?" Sam piped up. "I don't know much, but … take The Hermit card, for example. It means that you accept your self-worth. Or, if it's dealt upside down, then it's supposed to represent you becoming cynical, or something."

"Thank you, Houdini."

"…I don't think Houdini ever-"

"Whatever. Cas? You got anything?"

Castiel sat himself upon the hood of a car and was quiet for a minute as he tucked his feet in towards himself. "I am, though not as much anymore, a creature of Judeo-Christian beliefs. As … well as others, I suppose." He shrugged. "But the art of Tarot has never been a part of my required or recommended learning, despite many of the ties to Christianity. My understanding of the Tarot is … passable, at best. I'm afraid I can't really help out very much."

"Awesome. Okay." Dean clapped his hands. "So we're going in blind! Do we even know where she went?"

"Yes," Cas said. "I've just found her."

Dean turned his head back to Castiel, watching him jump off of the car and step towards Sam and himself with his fingers out and ready to zap. He glanced from Cas to Sam and back to Cas, and found himself almost stumbling with the sudden change of terrain under his feet. He caught his balance just in time, before falling into Sam. "Warn a guy next time, will ya?"

Cas' brow furrowed in confusion. "I was unaware that my reaching to your forehead was insufficient warning. I shall include something more catching to your attention next time."

"Yeah, you do that." Dean glanced up, gathering the rest of his wits about him, and looked around. They were near a small clearing in a forest, and if the clouds were anything to go by, they were still in Scotland. Angel GPS should have been a marketed thing, bested probably only by Samuel L. Jackson's GPS voice-over. (Or better, Samuel L. Jackson doing a voice-over for Angel GPS.)

"There."

Sam sent a light hit to Dean's upper arm, pointing ahead to a house - more of a cottage, really - about 90 or so yards away. Its windows were lit up all gold, and a steady rise of smoke from the chimney glowed a spooky silver. It wasn't long before Dean was pushing forward ("Get this over and done with."), and tripping over hidden roots, or cobbles. He played it off cool, though his blundering warned Sam and Castiel several steps behind, and was secretly relieved to reach the tucked-away cottage. Even if this Grandmother Winter broad was about to send them off somewhere. (Tahiti would be nice.)

Dean didn't really notice anything odd, or terribly out-of-place for a cottage. Flowers and other assorted foliage were planted around, or sat in little pots on the windowsills. Its innocence was pretty much the only disturbing thing about it, if Dean was being honest. A small garden was hidden not too far away, and a four-spiked cross (wheel, maybe?) sat next to the door. In all, the cottage was small, and quaint. Perfect for a crazy lady messing with the weather.

"So who wants to knock? I don't wanna knock."

"Dean…! Y'know, sometimes, I'm really not sure who the big brother is in this relationship."

Dean smiled to himself as Sam's log of an arm reached forward, knocking on the door. But it then occurred to him that it was probably already past 4 in the morning, and who really goes knocking on peoples' doors at that time? Sure, the cottage was all lit up, but that could be for security reasons, right? Brigit had alluded to safety, hadn't she?

"Aw, come on, Sammy. You can't blame me for being a little uneasy, can you?"

"We're all in the same boat, Dean. We're all a little uneasy."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Touchy." Dean rolled his eyes as he faced forward, and Sam stepped back. He resisted whistling by rocking back-and-forth on his feet, but honestly the wind was already doing a pretty good job of that. He hadn't long to wait; just a few seconds later, the door opened.

Beyond the threshold was Brigit, no real expression on her face as she stepped aside to let them in. (Though it was a great relief to no longer have such a piercing stare directed right at his soul, Dean thought.) She shouted something in a different language, and she walked off after gesturing to them to stay put.

As soon as Brigit was out of sight, Sam turned and tested the door. He turned the knob and jiggled it, but nothing beyond that was going to happen. "It's not locked," he said softly. "Nothing's blocking it, but it's not opening."

"This is a rather nice cottage, don't you agree?" Castiel asked. Dean turned to find him holding up what looked like a homemade candle. "Fresh Laundry," he added on once he noticed Dean's attention. "Sniff it. It's a nice scent. We should get some when we return. Candles, I mean. Not for any spells or rituals, but for homemaking."

"Here we are, trapped in some Celtic goddesses' little forest retreat, about to get sent God-knows-where, where we could be killed or stuck for the rest of our lives, and you're the new representative for Bath & Body Works. You have to tell me how that flip comes over; tell me, I'm literally dying to know."

"I think you mean figuratively," Cas said, matter-of-factly. "To use literally would mean you actually are dying." He stopped, as if turning the words over in his head and pondering them. "Then again I guess everyone is dying, since everyone will eventually die, so you're not technically wrong. But it really more or less implies that your life is in immediate danger. For example you were stabbed in the lung and are drowning in your own fluids. But you're not. So I believe figuratively would still have been a better choice."Dean cleared his throat. "Sorry I asked."

Sam snorted as he inspected some dried, hanging herbs, and small Celtic-looking knick-knacks. Some clay jars rested on tables here-and-there, alongside small sculptures of Celtic knots, and several different kinds of spirals. One in particular was separated into three spirals set closely together, much like how in art wind or water were represented.

"It's called a Triskele."

Dean jumped at the voice  - dammit - glancing around hurriedly to find an old, white-haired woman stepping into the foyer area. Just as Brigit was the Scotswoman, this woman was the stereotypical old woman. Short, a little plump, and her hair was up in a knot. Wrinkles defined her face, and her knuckles appeared gnarly. Her step was slower, but smooth.

"Spirals are a journey. A cycle."

And her voice was not at all easy on the ears.

"They can be whatever journey or cycle you wish, but I like to think of it as the path of life. Things seem familiar though they are vastly different, and sometimes it feels like you're going through circles, but with every step you are still closer to your goal."

"Uh…." Dean turned quick to glance at Sam as if asking for help. Sam only had an I-really-have-no-idea-what-to-do-right-now frown to offer in return, with a bit of an I'm sorry brow-furrow to follow up. Dean's eyes landed on Castiel, who was a bit too preoccupied with the patterns on a doily to be much help. How come it seemed like he was working alone, all of a sudden? "That's," he began, turning back to the old woman. "Exactly what I was thinking! You know, my brother and I are-"

Cas interrupted with a sigh, and glanced upwards. "There is no reason to fake who we are. She knows. Even if Brigit had not told her, she would know who we are."

"Wait, Brigit told-?"

"Rather than the Gaelic she spoke at the hospital, she spoke Old Irish when we arrived. Also called Old Gaelic. It gets confusing." Castiel set down the doily. "That's a very nice pattern. Celtic crosses have always intrigued me."

The old woman gave a pleased nod. "It took a lot of patience and a lot of time before I could get it to look that nice. Thank you." She regarded Cas with an eye that was beginning to make Dean uncomfortable, and he wasn't even the specimen on the table this time. "You are Castiel, the fallen angel. And Sam and Dean Winchester. Two young men that have saved the world time, and time again." She turned and began walking over to a table off in the corner. Slowly. "I know why you're here, so no need to explain or make up terrible lies."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but decided it was probably safer to just keep it shut for the moment.

"You can call me Beira. Non-Gaelic speakers can find Cailleach hard to pronounce. Now get over here and sit down, and let me get a good look at you."

Dean shared a tentative glance with Sam. It could be a trap; she was faking nice to lure them in, but sitting down wasn't that big of a deal. It might not have been a trap. The cottage was completely lit up, after all, with no darkened rooms or hallways (that they could see), and there was even a flat-screen HD TV playing some kind of golf tournament just around the corner. Where was the evil in watching old reruns of The Masters? (Depending on one's opinion of Tiger Woods, anyway.) They finally decided to follow her, and found that Cas was already sitting in one of the three seats opposite her, studying the table.

Brigit came to stand behind them, and shoved their shoulders gently. "Go on. Yeh need to do this."

An uneasy flick of the eyes from Sam and a surly grimace from Dean later, they stalked forward to take their own seats. Cas sat in the center chair, leaving Sam to take the chair on the left, and Dean the right. As soon as Sam scooted his chair to the table, Beira's hand shot forward to grab his chin and examine him roughly. She forced his head every which way it could turn - including ways it probably wasn't supposed to - and finally released him with a long and growling, "Hmm…." She skipped over Cas completely, probably having given him the same treatment while Brigit had their attention, and so took Dean by surprise. Her hands were clammy and cold, fitting of the Grandmother Winter title Brigit had given her earlier at the hospital. Her skin felt like used, nasty rubber, and smelled heavily of earth. She pressed hard into his jaw, and he was fairly certain a few vertebrae had been ground down by the time she finished jerking him around. He kept his words to himself, instead shooting her a displeased glare as he rubbed carefully at his jaw and cheeks.

"You," she snapped, pointing to Dean. "You sit in the center."

"Why me?"

"It's your reading I'm doing. Be quick about it."

This job was turning more and more into a hassle. Wasn't this supposed to have been about the weather? Now he had to put up with this woman, and some kind of Tarot hoodoo. But if Brigit said it had to be done, then … so be it. (He did still question her trust, but she did warn them that it wouldn't matter if they did trust her. They'd still end up right where they were.) Dean dragged himself out of his chair, and fell into the center one the moment Cas left it. His disgruntled expression was mirrored in Beira's.

"I think my jaw is dislocated," Sam muttered. It earned a half-grin from Dean, who still felt sore. There were probably going to be bruises.

But thoughts about sore jaws and bruises were pushed out of his mind as Beira pulled out a thick deck of cards, shuffling them faster than her likely-to-have-been-arthritis-ridden hands should have allowed. Dean was hard-pressed not to show how impressed he may, or may not have, been, and he only glanced up from the display when the cards were fanned out in front of him. It took both of her hands to hold them out evenly. For as old as she appeared - and was - she held them rather steady.

"Kind of expected you to have the older, worn-down cards. Not cards that looked so new," he tried.

"Those fell apart a few years ago. These ones will do. Now, draw a card. Not just arbitrarily, but actually put some thought into which card you'll choose. This card is your significator."

"And that means?"

"It represents you, and your role."

Dean wasn't stupid. He knew that things went bump in the night, and that it was his job to help take care of those things. He knew there were such things as ghouls, demons, and witches. He knew that faiths had deities that existed, and he knew that magic existed. He also knew that fake magic was out there to trick people into spending money on fake fortunes. Tarot cards? He typically tended to stand on the 'not that much of an issue' side of them when used on their own, but he'd seen what they were capable of more than enough times to know they weren't completely powerless. Memories of reapers and stage magicians in mind, being told that he had to draw a card made him just the tiniest bit uneasy.

The backsides of the cards stared up at him, none of them exactly screaming, "Pick me! Pick me!" No little hint or anything. Rather than be dull and boring, and choose from the middle, Dean reached to the left of the fan and carefully drew out his card. The fan was offered next to Sam, then Castiel.

"Normally I choose the significator, but I'm afraid I don't know you well enough to choose for you. You can look at your cards, there's no secret magic trick."

Well if that didn't put Dean at ease, he didn't know what would. "If you're doing my reading, why do they need to draw?"

"Are they not your companions?" Beira asked. "They have their jobs in this reading. It's not often I get to do this for groups." She snatched Dean's card from him and laid it down. She stared at it, eyebrow raised high enough to create a rather unflattering picture of forehead wrinkles. "I'm not sure if I should be surprised or not. The Fool?"

Though he didn't actually pay them any heed, Dean was pretty sure he could feel Sam's and Cas' eyes questioning him. "I'm not…! What cards did they get, anyway? There are worse cards than The Fool!"

"I got The Wheel of Fortune," Sam announced. He placed his card on the table as Cas declared his own card as, "The Sun."

"So Sam gets a TV show, Cas gets a ball of fire, and I get an idiot."

"The Wheel of Fortune, Mr. Winchester, is an important card. It is the wheel of life. One chooses a course of action; accept the consequences of that action, good or bad. You take the card you are dealt. You acknowledge where you went wrong, and try again. It's a cycle of human endeavor, but … it is also a card of luck, reminding us that good things do happen, which leads on to The Sun."

Dean shifted a little at the creepily soft smile Beira grew.

"The Sun is usually a good card to draw if contemplating parenthood, but it also represents a positive character willing to give up their own wants for the betterment of the family. And, or, a youthful, level-headed character in your life. It represents just that: The Sun. Bright, light, joy; of course, we like to think of it in a more positive light, but you must be careful. Without heeding caution, you may burn."Beira paused, her hands now dealing out the spread. "Dean Winchester. You don't have to answer aloud, but humor me and contemplate any questions you have. About anything. About now, about the past, about the future. What you want, or don't want. About people, pets; friends, family, lovers. Any questions you have regarding any of that. Any thing."

Dean was taken aback some. Everyone was asked this question two, three, ten times in their lives, but never before had it seemed so heavy, or so complex. He wanted to not think about anything, just because he could, but…. It didn't turn out that way. Trying to force himself to not think about it just made him think about it all the more.

The first thing to cross his mind was Hell. Hell was always there. He couldn't compare it to Sam's experience, but neither of their tours had been anything to envy. While Sam suffered Michael and Lucifer, Dean suffered Alastair and, probably worse, himself. Every day he had to live with what he'd done, and trying to make up for it was difficult. To Dean, it didn't matter. No matter how many people he saved how many times, what he'd done in Hell hadn't changed. He may have put it behind him, but he'd not yet forgiven himself, and he wasn't sure he ever would.

The past, present, or future … what was he supposed to think about? What was he supposed to want? Dean didn't want everything, but he wanted a home that wasn't on four wheels. And a family. And a steady job. He wanted what he'd had with Lisa and Ben-that kind of life was something he yearned for, and would never stop wanting. Though Dean knew wanting something wasn't selfish, he was raised to a line of work requiring that he keep others' lives peaceful. Wanting it for himself and having it, a peaceful life, seemed maybe the tiniest bit irresponsible.

When it came to friends, family, and lovers, Dean couldn't decide if it got more or less complicated. He could count on one hand the people Dean could say he actually loved. Two were dead, and two sat on either side of him, and this was the, "I have, would, and will die for you," kind of love, since it was the only kind of love the Winchesters dealt with. The only problem with it was that with that kind of love, there were always issues and problems of trust and fidelity.

As for questions. there weren't too many to ask, were there? At least, beyond anything like, "What will Sam mutter in his sleep tonight that I should record?" or, "Should I risk waxing Baby, or will Cas appear naked out of nowhere again?" If there was anything beyond that, it wasn't coming to him.

Giving up on it, Dean returned his attention to Beira. The cards she'd laid out were now all flipped over, and she'd begun talking about them. He was fairly positive she was explaining each card individually (which was a bore), and explaining the placement of each card (which was still a bore), but he was too busy staring at them. Sure, he'd noticed a difference in their faces when he'd drawn his card before, but he had to admit, they had a nice design. (Hopefully Cas wasn't getting any ideas about putting Celtic knots anywhere in the cabin for decoration.) There were a few words here-and-there about paths, and directions. Choices and decisions were big ones, too.

Maybe it was just a few seconds, or maybe a few minutes, but Beira had fallen silent, and when Dean decided to pay attention again, he was jolted back to reality by her creepy stare and rushed a breathy, "Jesus-.

"Lady, you need to find some kind of cover-up, or foundation, or something-"

"It's a pity some of your cards landed where they did. You might have had a better chance had they placed themselves elsewhere," she interrupted with a flat tone.

"What?"

"I've already explained it."

"Refresh my memory, I'm new to this stuff."

Beira uttered a long sigh, and a curse in Old Irish. She pointed to a card nestled somewhat in the middle of the design. "This position in the Celtic Cross-" ("Of course it's a Celtic Cross.") "-is the Fifth Position, which represents a passing influence. The influence may be leaving, or is already gone. The card there is the Knight of Cups, representing a soul in touch with their emotion and intuition. You could be a smooth talker losing the silver of his tongue, or a playboy unable to play." Dean forced himself from arguing back that he was just fine. "It does have more positive aspects; you have, or have had, the will to turn your ideas into reality, but as I said. Fifth position. Passing."

Dean leaned back in his chair, waving it off. "Pah, whatever. I still totally got it. What about the other one?"

"The Knight of Swords in the eighth position. Your external influences. In small words, it means you're surrounded by idiots who don't think ahead, thinking that their ideas will work."

Dean watched on as Sam's back straightened, and Cas turned his attention elsewhere. He brought his chair back down, looking still at the cards. "Hey, now, they may not always think ahead, but that doesn't make them complete idiots, right?"

Beira didn't respond, instead cleaning up the cards. She returned them with a shuffle to the deck and let go of another sigh. "You had a magnificent spread, Mr. Winchester."

"So what's my magnificent future?"

She fixed him with a hard glare. (Seriously, though-maybe some kind of wrinkle-remover cream.) "Tarot is not an art that shows the future. It shows a possible future, should you continue down that path. There are many paths to choose from."

"That's lame. I came all the way to Scotland for an MIB analogy."

Sam hit Dean's arm, and gave him a warning look.

"This particular spread doesn't necessarily show a possible future. It shows a fragment of a possible outcome. At the moment, things are in your favor, Mr. Winchester. Don't screw it up."

Beira grabbed her deck, and drew three from the top to hand over to Dean, Sam, and Cas. They took them, each of them the cards they'd earlier drawn, and with the rest of the deck in hand, Beira walked away, around the corner speaking some more in Old Irish. Sam hit Dean's arm again, only harder, then tucked his card away in an inside pocket of his jacket.

"Ow, man! Chill out! What was that for?!" Dean demanded, rubbing at his offended arm. He followed suit with his own card.

"She's a goddess, dude! Why not just piss her off royally?!"

"I didn't piss her off!"

"Perhaps not," Cas piped up. His card was already put away. "But you were getting there, without a doubt." He stood, Dean and Sam following with scrapes of their chairs, and they walked back the way they came to find Brigit standing at the door. She opened it, and gestured them out, following right behind.

The weather had not changed much, though the temperature had fallen some and the wind had slowed down just a little. Just through the trees, they saw the barest, barely-there hint of sunrise. Brigit tied her hair back, and fixed her shirt. Dean fixed her with a glare.

"What the hell was that? I thought we were going off to save the missing hunters."

"You are. Yeh didn't catch any of that inside, did yeh? I doubt these two know what's goin' on, either…. Listen, yeh got the most basic, but longest route to take."

"But nothing happened," Sam said. "She just did a reading for Dean."

Brigit rubbed at her temples. "And you three are supposedly the ones that saved the world. Yeh'll have to tell me how exactly yeh did it with nothing but dust between your ears." She lifted her head, and pointed in turn to all of them. "Yeh remember the card yeh drew, right?"

They all gave her a brief, hidden nod.

"Those are your roles. -Don't give me that, Cailleach explained it to yeh inside!"

"I know Sam's a caveman, but a wheel? And I know there's some kind of story about angels being stars, but come on!"

"Yeh don't listen, do yeh?!"

If Dean caught either Sam or Cas shaking their heads, he pretended not to notice. Instead he caught the little bit of light catching on some fallen leaves.

"Your roles. Sam. Yeh drew the Wheel of Fortune."

"Uh, yeah." He reached back inside his jacket, taking out his card and looking at the face of the Wheel of Fortune.

"Like the TV show, yeh spin the wheel and from there it depends on luck, but yeh have to take what it gives yeh. What life gives yeh. But it is still a wheel, and wheels turn. They keep turning to move us, and do work. Connections-bringing the world together to help us understand. Your job is to help Dean choose what to do."

"Wait, me? Help me? Why me?!"

"Castiel, yeh drew The Sun. Just like Cailleach said, the sun brings light. It brings light, joy, life; it helps us enjoy our day. It is a great thing."

"I don't understand how that is supposed to help Dean."

"I can't give yeh all the answers, Dunce Cap. And Dean…. I can't tell yeh much about The Fool if yeh don't already know. Just stay a course, aye? Don't make stupid or rash decisions."

"Wait a minute here. They get these mini descriptions, and I get a good luck, see ya later? Lady, this ain't flyin'! You said you needed us to break this spell, but I don't see where we're supposed to be breaking!"

"Yeh will, come sunrise. I promise yeh."

"But we don't understand what we're supposed to be doing," Sam tried. He stepped up beside Dean, trying to explain the issue-complete with hand and arm movements. "You just gave us these vague descriptions about the cards we drew, and then nothing! We need more to work on than that!"

Brigit wouldn't relent. Why she couldn't just tell them what was happening was beyond Dean. And Sam, and Cas. What exactly were they supposed to do with the cards' information? Write a book? Dean was pretty sure there were already five editions of Tarot for Dummies out by now.

"I'd give yeh more if I could, I'm sorry. If you're that interested, do some research. It won't be that difficult! Now be off with yeh. Good luck, and don't be stupid. Make it back alive."

Cas' lips morphed into something between a sneer and a frown. "Where are we going, exactly?" he asked, but it was largely ignored, save for an acknowledging nod of agreement from Sam.

It remained completely unanswered as Brigit disappeared into the cottage. But then the cottage itself disappeared, and the forest around it. The weather stopped; no more wind, or cold. No more lonely, chirping birds, and instead of the slowly-growing hints of sunlight they'd begun to witness, it was night again. The temperature fixed itself, and the sound of crickets met their ears. Instead of some goddesses' forest getaway, before them stood Rufus' old cabin, looking … rather nice, actually, with the flowers Cas had earlier planted.

Dean spun his head around, gathering his bearings. "Did you send us back? Didn't feel like an angel-zap to me."

Cas shook his head. "Because it wasn't. Brigit sent us back." A small grin of pride replaced the unsure curve from earlier when he once again saw his handiwork with the hydrangeas. "Yes, I think they complement the shade of the wood quite nicely, don't you think?" he asked. Again his inquiry went unnoticed, and he followed behind, unaffected, as Dean led the way inside the cabin.

When the door was shut and locked behind Sam, Dean threw his jacket and boots to the side without a second thought, and then threw himself on the couch without a second thought. His head lay against one armrest while his feet were crossed and rested upon the other. His hands arranged themselves over his torso and he burrowed into the cushions as well as he could with an irritated frown.

"Waste of time," he muttered. "I told you it wasn't worth it. I don't care what that Brigit chick says, that was worthless. Got some tarot cards read, and for what?" he demanded. "We don't even know what we're supposed to do."

Sam groaned as he hung up his coat. "She said we only have until sunrise to figure out what's going on-"

"Don't care! Pointless trip, and we didn't even visit London to see the Olympic decorations.""London's not-nevermind."

Sam stomped by, assumedly on his way to wherever it was human moose did their research. Cas, on the other hand, could soon be heard puttering around and searching, presumably, for something to do. (Dean reminded himself to get the guy some coloring books and a set of Crayola.) Pretty soon the shuffling stopped, and Dean could hear Castiel making himself a makeshift bed somewhere off in a corner. The flump of pillows on the floor, followed by the rustling of blankets, met Dean's ears, and he pulled himself up into a sitting position to find Cas fixing a comforter.

"Dude, what're you doing? I thought you didn't need to sleep."

Cas shrugged. "I feel fatigued for some reason. I'm not entirely positive, but I think it may have had to do with being in Beira's home. Just a quick nap should suffice."

Dean nodded slowly, and lowered himself back down to the couch. Though it was only 9:30 now, he supposed the trip had taken a lot out of him, and he wouldn't be surprised if Sam had fallen asleep on his laptop. He stared up at the ceiling cinching his eyes. Cas had earlier mentioned being the last angel left on earth, bringing back memories of the future (no matter how weird that sounded). He would be mortal pretty soon; human. As maybe-cool as that would be, it was still a letdown. Castiel was an angel, and he was a pretty awesome angel. It would really suck for Cas to lose that part of him.

Mind zipping from A to Z, and everything in between, Dean let himself fall asleep.***The first thing Dean noticed while waking up was the comfort. Whatever he was on was not an old couch. It wasn't much more comfortable than the couch, sure, but certainly nowhere near as comfortable as an actual bed. The second thing he noticed was the thing blanket thrown over him haphazardly, followed quickly by his third discovery: his lack of clothing. The fourth thing was the cool air. It would make sense, if he was stark naked with only a thin sheet to cover him, of course. And he knew Montana was no tropical paradise, but this? This was a bit too cold, even for late-spring Montana. The shift was too great. Ghosts, maybe? A little more than worried, even too worried for ghosts-just where the hell was he? Dean sat up straight, fighting off a rush of blood to his head (he didn't remember drinking…?) but stopped himself, eyes wide when he caught sight of his surroundings.

He sat in a large, large bed-the kind of large that only rich people own, yeah-and not too far away was a fireplace, alive with a bright fire. Old paintings and intricate, fine tapestries decorated the walls, hiding as much of the stone that made it as well as it could. Mouth open in surprise, his eyes slowly crawled down to the bed to find a curly-haired blonde peeking up at him. She smiled wide, a laugh accompanying her greeting.

"Good morning, Lord Smyth. I trust you slept well?"

Masterpost | * | Part II (a)