Archive of Our Own ^beta

Felwinter does not bother looking for a key to the locked door. Instead, he draws Solar Light to his hand, focuses it into a fine point, and feels the mechanism melt beneath his fingers, filling the air with the scent of char and metal.

He slams his shoulder against the door, forcing it open as hard as he can in case there are more people beyond. He doubts it – this Warlord's followers had seemed to be out in force and the Warlord himself did not seem to be the type to be calculating enough to hold any significant force back, but he has learned the value of caution over the centuries.

The hallway, as expected, is empty, the torches burned down to nothing. He throws open doors as he passes – an abandoned guard room, a meagre barracks for those lower in the Warlord's hierarchy, a storeroom which has supplies they will have to retrieve later – but each one is empty. Useless to him.

Another door, and this one is… if Felwinter could retch, he thinks that this would make him. Bones. Rotting bodies. Some fresh, some that must have been there for days, weeks even. Some that are much older. He steps inside and looks the corpses over. The freshest ones – it's only been a few days, and he hopes… he hopes…

No. He doesn't recognise any of them. Even the mutilated ones are the wrong shape and height.

Is it wrong of him to feel giddy relief at that knowledge?

No time for contemplating it. Not now. Felspring is already informing the others of what they have found here. Evidence of this Warlord's crimes. He hopes that it is enough to convince Radegast to mete out true justice, though Felwinter is sceptical.

He should have meted out his own justice as soon as he heard of this monster.

Through the doorway at the end of the passage, he finds cells. Iron bars splitting the room into tiny cages. More bodies. None that he recognises. None left alive.

He turns back, marks the door with chalk to indicate that it has been searched – saves time when the other Iron Lords arrive – and checks the last couple of rooms before heading onwards.

The stairs ahead spiral upwards, worn smooth from centuries – millennia, perhaps – of feet climing and descending them. The Warlord had chosen his fortress well, though Felwinter suspects he had chosen it more for the sake of grandiosity than for defence.

The next floor. More supply rooms, a large mess hall, a few more well appointed sleeping chambers for those higher in the Warlord's favour. No-one living, but no more bodies either.

The next set of stairs brings him above ground. He opens the main door to the outside to allow easier access to his comrades, and continues his search.

Kitchens, the fires burnt out. More storage. Smaller dining room. Then he opens a door and steps into a massive hall with a high ceiling.

It is certainly an impressive room – filled with colourful banners, the large table laid with fancy tableware, platters and goblets of gold and silver. There are candles on the table, but electric lights have been rigged to better show off the finery, and Felwinter spots a pile of vehicle parts half hidden behind a curtain.

Pathetic.

What use is gold and silver when survival is the only currency? What use when wood or tin would work just as well?

The vehicle parts are far more valuable than the glittering display, and Felwinter is certain that this Warlord had put far more effort into showing this off than in ensuring the castle was truly defendable. Felwinter has seen places where the walls have been ill-maintained, and his own entrance had come through a poorly sealed passageway.

He takes a breath, forces down his rising anger (a tyrant, he could have become as much a tyrant as any), and returns his focus to his search.

Next floor then.

Living spaces – not as luxurious as the hall had tried to be, but comfortable. More than many people would dream of. More storage rooms, but these hold supplies that may actually be of value beyond sustenance. Batteries, solar panels, data storage. So many valuable bits of technology hidden away in favour of showcasing trinkets.

A library full of books. Golden Age tomes, reasonably well preserved. Ancient paper books which are rather less so, though some of them may still be salvagable. He doubts this room has been used much, but at least the Warlord had sense enough to avoid destroying such a trove of knowledge.

He itches to search through what is there, but it is a distant impulse. He has more important work.

He should never have let Timur go alone.

He hopes that he is not too late.

The next flight of stairs is the last. Only battlements above this. One more floor. One set of rooms.

And if it is empty?

If it is worse than empty…

No. He owes it to Timur to face whatever he might find.

Still, his steps as he climbs the stairs are heavier than they had been.

First room – empty. He doesn't even stop to make note of the contents.

Second room – empty. Remnants of food, but nothing more.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

He pauses outside the final door, and listens intently. Had he heard something? Movement? Or is he just making up noises because the alternative is worse?

Some of the other Iron Lords have been known to offer prayers to the Traveller in situations of strife. Felwinter has never understood the point of it. Now though… well, mentally he offers a short prayer to Timur. Or perhaps it is more of a threat towards the man for causing this situation.

Brilliant, tenacious man, let Felwinter find you alive and whole, or else he will burn this place to a smouldering ruin, and all of the knowledge and technology with it. And you'd hate that, wouldn't you, Timur?

So you'd better be alive.

Another sound. He's sure of it! He draws his shotgun, holding it close and ready. If there is an enemy in there, he will not be found vulnerable.

He shoves the door open.

He swings his shotgun around just in time to catch the knife slash, his shot going wide. Smells the ozone tang of Arc energy and–

"Fel?"

That voice stops him dead, forces him to think rather than relying on instinct.

"Timur."

He can only stare, taking in the sight of his partner. A little worse for wear, a bruise spreading across his face, blood on his damaged clothing, and his gait is off like he's injured, but he is… he's alive.

Timur gives him a little smile. "Hey."

Relief is a tidal wave that drags him down, instinct taking hold once again, but this time to grab the man, draw him close, fingers curled against the back of his neck as Felwinter kisses him hard.

Timur yelps a noise of surprise against his mouth, but he clings to the front of Felwinter's coat. Distantly Felwinter hears the clatter of the knife being dropped, but he doesn't care because Timur is here and alive, and not one more corpse amongst many others.

"Fel, I– I need you to ease up a bit," Timur says. His voice has a note of strain to it.

Felwinter steps back, keeps one hand on Timur's shoulder, and looks him over more thoroughly. "You're injured."

"A bit, yeah," Timur agrees. "Warlord Hilmir is a right bastard."

Felwinter lets out a huff of startled laughter at the utter mundanity of that statement. "He will not be a problem any longer."

"Oh?" Timur asks. "I– good. That is good. Not sure I've got it in me to take out anyone else today, and I hate leaving all the work to you."

Anyone else?

Felwinter finally turns to take stock of the room he's in. A large bed takes up most of the space, covered in furs and blankets. And on the floor next to it is a body, the throat slit and a pool of blood spread out across the floor.

"Your work?" he asks.

Timur nods. "Hilmir thought that one guard would be enough to keep me contained. More fool him."

A fool indeed to underestimate Timur. Felwinter has seen what he is capable of.

He nudges the corpse with the toe of his boot.

"Think his Ghost thought better of trying to resurrect him," Timur says. "Or maybe it was put off by me standing over the body with his own gun," he adds, unrepentant.

Felwinter snorts. It is a sentiment after his own heart.

He turns back to see Timur sit heavily on the bed. He looks pale, tired, but now he is looking closely he can tell that much of the blood on his clothing cannot be his own, and must have come from the man he killed. The injuries though…

"What happened?" he asks. "You were meant to be doing reconaissance, nothing more."

Timur waves a hand dismissively. "When has what is meant to happen ever precisely correlated with what actually happens?"

When he is allowed to plan things, Felwinter thinks with some bitterness.

"Usually things do not end with you missing your check in and Radegast receiving an ultimatum from a Warlord."

Timur winces. "This would be a first, yes." He reaches up to drag a hand through his hair, but seems to think better of smearing blood into it before he can. "Ambush. I don't know if they found some of the equipment, or were tipped off by something, but they were waiting for me when I headed back from a watch."

That is something to investigate. Timur is not careless when it comes to things like this, but bad luck can happen to even the most experienced.

"The locked me up for a couple of days," Timur continues, "indulged in a little violence that was far more entertaining for them than for me. And then they dragged me up here. It must have been when they knew you were on the way."

Felwinter does not think that Radegast is capable of meteing out the sort of justice that Hilmir deserves. The urge to stride back out to the field of combat is strong, but the desire to stay here with Timur is stronger.

"The bruise looks fresh," Felwinter says. He grasps Timur's chin gently, tilts his head to examine it. Definitely new.

"Hilmir did not appreciate me saying that I was looking forward to seeing his head on a spike when the Iron lords were done with him," Timur says. "He left this as a parting warning before he rode out to meet you." He reaches up to rub at it. "I've taken worse hits from over-excited wolves."

Felwinter slides his hand further up, smooths his thumb against the bruise as lightly as he can manage. Timur rests his hand over Felwinter's, holding it against his skin for a moment before he turns his head to press a kiss against Felwinter's fingers.

"My Ghost will heal me right up," Timur says. "I couldn't risk her making an appearance before, but now that you are here…"

It is a show of vulnerability that makes Felwinter's chest feel tight. To trust him with the presence of his Ghost… it is not the first time, but the feeling of being trusted so intimately always takes Felwinter by surprise.

"I am not going anywhere," he replies. "Heal yourself, so that we can begin tearing this place apart. I found some treasures that I think you will enjoy."

"You say the sweetest things," Timur says. He holds his free hand out for his Ghost to perch on when she appears, but he does not let go of Felwinter's hand, and Felwinter does not pull away.