Hellsing 1. The Bold Young Virgin

_The local county judge has looked over my documentation, but sadly he tells me that I don't own Hellsing._

* * *

Dawn broke over the emerald hillocks of England, bringing with it birdsong and light. The peasants were heading towards their lord's fields to do the day's work. The serfs were bustling around their homes, also preparing for the day. The servants of the manor had been up since 3:00 am, stoking fires and sweeping the home so that his Lordship wouldn't wake up to a filthy hovel.

Cows lowed in one of the lord's three barns, their udders full of milk. The hens clucked to themselves, nesting here and there in bushes and under trees among the beaten path between the barns and stables. The pigs rooted amongst the waste of their pigsty, their snouts covered in grimy dirt as they wallowed. Above all this, a crow sat in a large tree, his beady eye surveying all before calling out his hoarse song and taking flight to the forest.

The dairy maids trudged up the hill from the servants' house to the cow's barn, yawning and stretching in the morning light. They filed into the structure and began their work. A younger one of about thirteen or so banged on the side of the barn, the sound echoing into the loft above the cow's pens that held a store of hay.

"Seerus Victo'riay!" she called, the name becoming mangled through her thick accent. "Tha' aunt been callin' thee for near an hour!"

"Yes, yes, Seras Victoria!" the others crowed mockingly, their voices carrying in the empty space of the barn. "Yer aunt's been a callin' ye!" An answering grunt floated in the air before something in the loft moved and a naked young woman peered over the edge blearily, rubbing one eye.

"Has she?" she asked sleepily. "What is o'clock?" The dairy maids tittered.

"Tis dawn," said the one who had banged on the wall.

"Aye, nigh on seven now," an older one said, her head poked around the breastbone of her cow. The young woman named Seras shrieked as she heard, her eyes widening and suddenly there was a fierce scrambling on the loft.

"I'm late!" The cows looked up in alarm as hay fell between the slats in the wooden loft and floated down on their heads. The dairy maids scowled and brushed the golden stuff from their shoulders and neck, scratching at the itchy feeling left behind. A ginger tabby barn cat jumped from the loft, shaking its head and sitting amidst the women, letting them scratch its ears as it purred loudly.

"How so, Pippen?" one said to it, rubbing under its chin. Another passed by and it ran ahead to rub against her legs. She tucked a stray strand of hair back up into her kerchief and smiled down at it.

"Good morrow, Pip," she chirped before looking around to see if anyone of importance was nearby. Seeing no one, she spilled a little milk out of her pail onto the ground and the cat licked it up happily, gazing at her with content green eyes.

Then suddenly a maid cried in alarm as the hay her cow was eating was upset violently. The cow mooed in fear, backing up and nearly upsetting the pail before the maid caught it in time. She calmed the great beast before turning on the pile of hay in anger.

"Seras Victoria!" The girl, now dressed, popped out of the hay pile and onto the ground, brushing hay-dust off her clothing. She was dressed in a chemise similar to the dairy maids, although her long sleeves hung down instead of being pulled out of the way. Her bodice was dark brown and nearly too small, the laces barely holding her breasts in place. Her skirt was dark red, nipping her at the waist and flowing around her ankles.

She too wore a kerchief over her hair, which unlike all the other girls was cropped and stuck to her neck. Scandalous as it was, it was whispered amongst the servants that her hair _never_ grew farther than her shoulders. It was no secret around the manor that a witch had brought the pestilence which had wiped out her hometown and taken her God-fearing parents to Heaven.

Seras—who at that time was a tiny, frail thing of only four-years—had been one of the few who miraculously survived the night-chills and high fever. And though they thanked the Lord each night that the witch (who'd been caught and rightly burned at the stake for her crimes) had been unable to smite the child in all her holy innocence, they knew that her wild behavior could only be an effect of a spell gone awry. Instead of killing her, the witch's curse made her do as was her want.

She ran through the fields between the manor and the township like a child instead of behaving like a proper virgin of marrying age. She wrestled with the pigs and ate more than the other female servants and her hair stayed at her shoulders and she refused to bind it up. She enjoyed sleeping in the barn and gambling with the neighborhood boys and worst of all: she spoke her mind.

Her aunt and uncle were her guardians, the only family she had left after her parents had passed. A kitchen chef and the steward of the great manor, they were mortified at their niece's thinking. They had her whipped and starved and put on the ducking stool. They took her to the church and tried to exorcise demons from her mind, they told her that bad girls went to Hell, they prayed over her.

But nothing seemed to work. She stayed the same cheerful child, and even as she grew into a young lady of fourteen she never seemed to take their actions to heart. She told them outright in her usual way that she understood that they were trying to make her into a good person, but she felt as though she would rather enjoy carrying on the way she'd been more. So they threw up their hands and let it be. Every time someone complained, they'd give them a weary look and simply said "The Lord will handle her as he sees fit someday."

Eventually word got to his Lordship about the wild young woman running barefoot through his fields. The servants told him about the witch and how the girl couldn't help it, but he sent for her anyway, intending to whip the child himself and force the badness out of her. She went boldly alone into the Lord's solar, even as her aunt wept for her and the pain she was sure to feel.

Everyone said that her tears fell into the dough gave the servants a case of melancholy, but in truth everyone was worried about Seras. Even as uncultured and addled as she was, she was a likeable young thing and everyone couldn't help but see the good in her behind the frank words and strange behavior.

Seras stayed a long time with the Lord in the solar, but she came out unscathed, to everyone's shock. She'd come to the kitchens and stood before her aunt, curtsying slightly (no one could say that she never showed respect towards her aunt and uncle, who could have thrown her out at any time).

"His Lordship'd like to see you in the solar," she said using her "town voice", and not the colloquial dialect everyone in the countryside manor seemed to share. The aunt had tidied her blonde and gray bun under the kerchief, dusted the flour from her aprons, and met her husband in the Great Hall to see about heading to the solar.

Inside there, the lord had been resting on his bed. He was an elderly man, but he was still noble enough to strike fear into the peasant's hearts. He looked at them a long moment before speaking.

"I can see why that woman isn't married yet," he said at length. "No one alive would agree to such a match. She's an especially… forthright sort of thing, isn't she?" The couple had bowed and apologized profusely for a number of minutes before he silenced them with a wave of his hand.

"I have had a long talk with her, and she has made it very clear to me that I could whip her until she was unable to walk, and when she healed it would have done nothing but wasted my time." He sighed, looking rather impressed. "So I told her that if she wanted to stay and run in the fields, she might as well earn her keep doing it." Her aunt and uncle glanced up at his weathered face, scarcely believing their own ears.

"So there it is. Let her sleep in the barn with the animals. Let her run in the fields barefoot, and keep brigands away from my flocks. Let her wrestle with the wolves that threaten my sheep." He nodded as looks of horror passed over their faces. "Oh, don't fret. If any a human can wrestle a wolf and then talk him out of eating his keep, it'd be that woman."

So it had been for the past five years. Now she was a strapping woman of nineteen. Each day she took her breakfast in the kitchens with her aunt, and then traipsed off to the fields with the cows and sheep. The local shepherds knew her by her Christian name, and she _had_ fought off wolves and even a wild boar— although with a wooden stick and smooth stones, not her bare hands and blunt words.

* * *

Today was no different than the other days, other than the fact that the usually early-riser had slept in, bundled up beneath a coverlet and surrounded on all sides by the hay that served as firstly her bed, and then later the cows' meals. She gathered her chemise and skirts in her hands and took off in a mad sprint for the great house, dashing around servants in her hurry and only shouting a "how d'ye do?" over her shoulder.

Bypassing the main door, she circled the manor to the servants' entrance and ducked through the buttery to the kitchen. The warmth hit her like a brick wall after the chill of the morning air and she hummed in delight, soaking up the heat from the fires and cooking ovens already churning at full speed in preparation for his Lordship and the Lady's breakfast.

"There tha' ist!" Her aunt called over the din of scullery maids cleaning and kitchen maids running every which way, basting and turning and chopping and cooking and kneading, all with the many chefs shouting orders above their commotion. It was chaos; Seras loved it. If she didn't have such a yearning for the outdoors, she might have liked to follow in her aunt's footsteps as a cook. "Come, tha' breakfast is nearly gone!"

Seras obediently came, for although she respected the other chefs and housemaid and lady's maids on principle only, she truly loved her aunt and uncle and tried very hard to be honorable to them. Her aunt disappeared into the buttery and came back with a mug of ale and a chunk of white bread before sending her in the direction of the hearths with a gentle push.

She sat on the stones before the hearth, out of the way of the maids but still able to feel the warmth from the flames and smell the golden-brown skin of the goose on the spit as the fat crackled. She ate her breakfast, reminding herself—as she did every day—that she was a very lucky girl to have white bread with her ale for breakfast, instead of the coarse brown bread serfs and peasants had to eat. She barely remembered eating that sort of bread when she lived with her parents, but that wasn't the problem. Her uncle had told her to always be grateful for the privileges that she had, even if she was less than a servant.

She quickly finished her food and drink, and wiping her mouth discreetly handed it to a young page running by, hoping for a snippet of his own to eat before his master called him away again. She instructed him to take it to her aunt; the woman named Alicia, and bid her to fill it for him. Then she made her way out the door and down the path again, this time more slowly and bidding good morning to all she saw.

Once the dairy maids were through, the hens' eggs were collected, the pigs were given the slops, and the sheep were inspected then all grazing animals were released unto her care. She led them out like a hardened shepherd and they turned out in the fields. Waiting on the top of the hillock where the manor rested, she watched the flocks from afar until her uncle came with her pack for lunch.

The steward was a busy man, but informing her of her tasks for the day was one of his duties, and he made extra time for it in order to see his niece. His younger brother's child, she was the only blood and bone family he had left, and while he hadn't time to raise her properly and often scolded her for the mess she was in he did love her in his own absentminded way.

He thrust the pack into her hands, counting down on his fingers her list for the day. She tucked the pack around her waist, the strap slung over her shoulder and across her breast as she listened as attentively as she could muster to his monotone.

"Ye must use the two spare fields today; the others are fenced off for hay-making," he began, and she nodded dutifully. "Ye also keep an eye on that cow with the bad leg; nothin' should be startin' her. And remember, don't go near the forest."

"Aye, Uncle," she agreed with a brisk nod. He patted her cheek fondly before hurrying off again, shouting at the farmhands to stop before they drove the mule into one the barns before ducking back inside as his Lordship called for him. Seras stared after him a long moment, wondering. It was by the grace of God, she decided grimly, that the two babes he'd borne with her aunt had died in infancy. Otherwise, who would have raised them, with mother and father both so busy? It was a horrid thought, but there it sat in her mind and it took all her willpower and love for her family to keep from voicing it.

Turning, she hopped and skipped down the hillocks and over the glens until she ran among her own animals. She led them out to the farthest pastures, away from the temptation of the longs stalks of grass that were scheduled to be hay soon. There she sat with them, singing to herself and watching the sun travel across the sky.

She ate her lunch in the noonday sun, looking forlornly at the shadows that danced under the trees at the edge of the forest. If only she could go there and sit in the shade, out of the burning glare of the sun! But from the time she was young, she had promised over and over to her aunt and uncle that she'd never step foot in the shadows that skirted the edge of the enormous wood. Her uncle reminded her every day to not go there.

There were stories about the forest, of the creatures that live in the darkness beyond the trees. She'd heard it whispered in the chapel that the Devil lived there, stalking the leaf-strewn ground and enticing foolhardy people into signing his black book. In the kitchens, the women spoke of how Death walked there, waiting for young maidens to ferry back to his cold, lonely palace in the Otherworld. Her aunt had scoffed at these when Seras asked as a youngster.

"Nonsense," she had said, her strong arms pounding dough into bread. "Tis silly to be think'n such things. There's highwaymen n' scoundrels n' murderers that live in tha' forest. It'd be best to put it out o' yer mind, Seras." And put it out of her mind she had, forgoing all temptation and reminding herself of her promises whenever curiosity plucked at her heart.

_But_, she thought to herself as she stared out over the valley at the forest that lay beyond and stretched as far as the eye could see, _just once I'd like to go'n see it. Maybe when I'm old n' gray, I'll walk there and just keep'n walking until I lay down underneath a tree n' die. _It was a highly romantic thought for her: lying underneath a tree, her last sight of the Earth the leaves fluttering in the breeze, sunlight turning them into emeralds that cast a beautiful colour on her dying form.

She entertained the fantasy for a while, her head in her hands and lunch forgotten. It was only when she heard the bleating that she looked up and saw a sheep heading into the forest, away from the rest of the flock. Standing up, her food tumbled from her lap and she gasped as she watched the sheep disappear from sight between two large oaks.

She tumbled her way down the large incline, jumping on broad rocks and skittering down dirt grooves made by rainfall. She hesitated at the mouth of the forest, weighing her options in her mind. She looked back at the flock still grazing peacefully on the knoll. Then she glanced at the forest before her, spread wide and empty with darkness hiding things from her eyes where the leaves were too dense for the sun to shine.

What were the chances that she'd come across a murderer in the wood in the time it took to get a wayward sheep and get out of there? She bet that the odds weren't stacked against her. But her uncle told her to never go into the forest! Wouldn't going in, and thereby dishonouring her uncle, be a sin? Yet, if she lost a sheep, it would mean a loss for the manor, and his Lordship would be furious!

She hopped on her feet, aware that as long as she stood there, that blockhead of a sheep would be going further and further into the wood. She bit her thumb, tasting blood as she made her decision. She had to get the sheep. No one would ever know that she'd been into the forest, and if they found out, she had a very good reason. It wasn't like she was going in to sate her curiosity. She had a mission—find the lost sheep, and get out.

She gulped, lifted her skirts, and stepped into the shadows.

* * *

Seras padded nearly silently across the leafy carpet, her eyes adjusting to the dark as she scanned the brown and green for a hint of curly white wool or a black face munching the leaves. She had no idea why the sheep had decided to leave its grass for something as silly as a bush to eat. Her senses were on high alert—she stopped at every crack of a twig or stir of an animal in the brush.

Finally she saw the sheep in a clearing just ahead, eating some green grass growing in the spots where leaves hadn't covered the ground. She sighed in relief, bending down with the intention of wrapping her arms around the animal's wooly bulk and carrying back in the direction she'd come. She'd lost sight of the knoll and the exit, but she was certain that if she just walked the way she'd came, the wood between the hillocks and her was narrow enough that she'd reach the end at some point before sundown.

"Well, well, well," a voice rang out in the air and she froze, her hands still in the process of reaching for the animal. The shadows changed shape and she realized that someone was standing behind her. Her pupils dilated and she choked on a scream, her body refusing to cooperate as her mind screamed at her to forget the sheep and just run for her life. "A little lamb who's lost its way… and dinner, too."

Someone else chuckled at the words, the sound slicing the air like a knife, and Seras felt her heart thump wildly in her chest as she slowly stood up. She couldn't breathe right; the air had thickened and she could only take small gasps in at a time. The sheep bleated and took off running, only to have wolf leap from the shade and grab its throat in giant jaws. The wolf—no, it was a _dog, _an enormous _dog_—shook the limp body and it crunched on the ground, the life leaving the animal.

"No…" she whispered and then her anger took over, making her forget that she was terrified for her life. "Why did you let him do that!" she shouted, turning on her aggressor. Her eyes flashed and her hands bunched into fists. She had lost a sheep! Now she'd be let go from her position, disgraced and bringing her aunt and uncle down with her!

The man standing before her was actually not as big and bad as she thought he'd be. He was clean-shaven, his bald head glinting in the dim light. A scar cut jaggedly across his temple and down over his right eye, which seemed to have a hard time opening and closing. He wore brown clothes and was very dirty—Seras supposed in a rational part of her mind that this was good camouflage if your lot in life was to live in a forest.

"Why!?" she shrieked again, and the man began to laugh raucously, slapping the side of his hip. "Tell me!" she demanded, which only made him laugh harder.

"Ye hear that, Baskerville?" he crowed. " The whore wan'sa know why we let the hound get'm!" he shouted, nearly doubled over with laughter. Seras paused, looking at him for a fraction of a second before taking off in a dead run around him and into the trees. She heard him yell behind her, and then the baying of a hound that was answered in the forest all around her. The hunt was on.

Gasping, she tore through the trees with the sole thought that if she could somehow get back to the manor and the light, they would stop pursuing her. The wood seemed to do everything it could to hinder her; thorns pricked her bare feet, she slipped and slid on the leaves, and many times she could have sworn that the shadows themselves were tripping her and trying to ensnare her ankles in their murky tendrils.

Suddenly, she felt the air twitch and heard the snap of jaws where her hand had been only a second before. Unable to waste needed breaths with screaming, she swung out blindly with her fist and made contact with a large, furry something. Her blow didn't even hinder the behemoth, and she wracked her mind for another plan.

She stopped, sliding on the ground, and they overtook her. By the time the dark shapes had managed to turn around, she had changed course and was zigzagging as fast as she could through the trees. Now it had become a game of tactile thinking. The three black wolfhounds were trying to decide what her next move would be, crowding around her with the intention of blocking her in. She was faster than them at turning, though, and was nearly scot-free when something fell on her from above.

"Baskerville, ye dog! Ye caught the wench!" Struggling, she was turned and came face to face with a grungy man beaming back at her. He was dressed in the same manner as his comrade, who had come panting up behind them both. The man called Baskerville pushed his stringy black bangs out of his face, tucking the hair back behind his ears while the rest hung in a loose ponytail. She gazed at the four gold hoops in each ear before he grabbed her cheeks, forcing her to look back at his chocolaty eyes.

"Tha's quite enough," he murmured, and she recognized his voice as the chuckler. "Yer a rather audacious little lass, aren't ye? Didn't yer mum and dad tell ye not to go into the forest?" Seras didn't answer, still struggling as she fought to gain enough of a foothold to push herself out from under the reedy man and to her freedom. The man watched her in amusement, motioning to his friend, who was laughing at her again.

"Don'cha think the King might like to see this'n?" he asked. The bald one paused, thinking for a moment. "Us bringin' back some meat, too… he might see fit to let us have 'er as our own."

"Well, if you think it's best," the man answered with a shrug. Baskerville nodded, leering down at her for a moment before raising back his arm, hand curled into a fist. Seras saw what was coming and flinched, her eyes shut so that when the blow landed to the side of her head, she didn't see the shadows behind the two men shrink and wriggle in anger before she lost consciousness.

* * *

"So she outsmarted ye, Viz?"

"Like tha's hard to do, eh?!"

"Pass me some 'ore of tha' lamb. Tis good, Viz. I didn' know ye cooked."

"Well, we hardly have meat _to _cook, is why, eh?"

Firelight danced, and she saw it even behind her closed lids. It was warm, but she wasn't in the kitchens. She wasn't tied up, either, but she couldn't escape. Someone sat directly behind her; she knew because every so often he'd accidentally knee her in the back. She was pretty sure it was the man who kept saying "eh?" at the end of everything, because his voice was loudest.

Without letting them know that she was awake, she listened to their conversation. She heard that Baskerville man and the bald one, which they kept calling Viz. There was the "eh?" guy, and at least five other voices filling the night air with laughter and chatter about the lamb they were eating and which one was the smartest and so on. She sensed that there was another, maybe two, that didn't speak at all, but instead sat silently and listened to the others.

Her dread and panic were growing with each passing second, and although she wasn't bound she still felt trapped. It was night, and there was no way she was making it back to the manor. Perhaps they'd sent a search party after her once they'd found the untended flocks, the spilled lunch, and the missing sheep? But she didn't know how far in the woods she was—how would they find her?

Finally her stomach growled with hunger and she opened her eyes, unable to keep up the charade any longer. She was lying beside a roaring campfire, the remains of her sheep lying close by, freshly cooked. Around the fire, the men milled about and sat in groups of two or three, eating their share of roast sheep. There were more than she thought there were—instead of five, there were at least ten, maybe twelve! Most of them were too busy eating to pay much attention to the conversation _or _the girl, but Baskerville saw her eyes glinting in the firelight and pounded the dust with a fist.

"Oi, she's awake!" The men all looked up and answered with jeering calls and sinister grins. She sat up, tenderly touching the knot on her aching skull where the man had so crudely knocked her unconscious. She felt something nudge her spine again and turned to see a very portly man behind her, gnawing on a leg bone, meat and ale mixed in his thick beard. He was hitting her with the toe of his massive cloth shoes, but he seemed to be doing it on accident instead of on purpose. Beside him, a teenage boy reclined against him. The boy smiled at her almost kindly, tearing off a scrap of meat and handing it to her.

"Good evenin'. I bet yer 'ungry, eh?" he said, grinning a gap-toothed smile at her, the remaining teeth well on their way to rotting. The portly man eyed the boy, but said nothing. Viz, in a "corner" beside Baskerville, laughed. Seras was on her way to realizing that this was a thing of his—this uncalled-for laughing.

"Oi Giant! Teach yer boy better! Don't hand whores scraps!" The boy frowned and retracted his hand, but only after tossing the meat in Seras' direction defiantly. The "giant" growled.

"If'n you want to live to see tomorrow, Vizzini," he snarled, his voice a deep rumble like thunder, "you would do well to remember me name." Vizzini, or Viz, or whoever he was, waved his hand dismissively.

"What do Gypsy names mean to me?" he replied scathingly. _Slam! Slam!_ The man's hands hit the ground and he stood. The men sitting beside Viz leaned out of the way as Seras realized why they called him Giant. He. Was. Huge. Eight, no, _nine _feet tall! She felt her jaw drop and he stared at her before stepping clear over her upright form and standing before his tormentor, who wasn't laughing now.

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't crush your head between me hands," he hissed. A cool voice rang out in the night and Seras felt herself tremble at the silkiness of it. It was a voice she hadn't heard before, but it gave her chills. These men scared her—if they would kill her, or rape her, or disembowel her and yet somehow keep her alive for some magicked rites, she didn't know. This voice, and its unidentified owner, _terrified_ her. The unknown was three times as horrific with him!

"Sit down." Two words, but they had a profound impact. Every man flinched, staring off into the shadows. Viz gulped and the giant obediently stepped back and sat down in his previous seat. His son placed a hand on his arm and he shook his head silently in answer to some unasked question. "Baskerville," the voice continued thoughtfully, "you aren't a good host. Offer our guest some meat." Baskerville immediately motioned to her with his arm.

"Would you like something to eat? Meat, or we have berries and ale as well." Seras balked, wondering at the power of such a man that owned such a voice, that the strong men who had attacked and subdued her immediately obeyed his every whim! The only one she knew with power like that was… his Lordship! Or a king!

She turned her head, searching vainly in the darkness for the source of the voice before turning back with an obstinate frown.

"I don't want a single piece of your ill-begotten meat!" she hissed, trying to sound angry and commanding—in control. "I bet you didn't even pray over it, did ye?" Loud laughter answered her question. Baskerville even choked on his mouthful of food and Viz had to pound him on the back to get him to stop coughing. The ruling voice also laughed, the sound high and cold. She gulped, biting her thumb so that she wouldn't start crying. She would _not _show her fear in front of these men!

She winced as she tasted blood again and suddenly the air around the camp _changed, _somehow. The men noticed it too, sitting up straight and looking at the same spot with gooseflesh visible on their hair arms. She watched them, twisting around in her spot to see the giant man and his son both paralyzed.

"Let the girl come to me," the ruling voice commanded, this time calculating and sly. The men obediently backed away from the fire and the giant reached out and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled on her legs and looked around at the men, whose shapes had been turned into shadows with blinking eyes as they kept backing away from the fire. She paused, uncertain of what to do. "Come here, little one," the voice implored, and she could nearly feel the words brushing smoothly past her in the night. Or was that the shadows of the camp?

"I can't bloody well come when I can't see ye, can I?" she protested boldly, peering around the fire at the darkness. "I ent moving unless you tell me where ye are!" The men let out a collective gasp and she spun around, glaring at them as if daring them to tell her what the matter was. No one moved, although the Gypsy's son gave an imperceptible shake of his head that could have easily been a trick of the firelight.

The voice laughed, the sound sending chills up and down her spine, and then she edged closer to the fire as she sensed something out there, close to her body. She scowled at the night, hoping that she was looking in the right direction, and hoping that her bravado wouldn't give out and leave her a shuddering, weeping mess like the maids at the big house would have been by now.

"I'm right here," the voice said, close to her ear, and she gasped despite herself. Then, all at once, she could see two eyes glowing in the darkness. Her blood froze in her veins as she realized that it wasn't the fire that made them glow; the irises were crimson as the setting sun! _Oh, Aunt, yer wrong_, she thought helplessly. _The Devil __**does **__live in the woods. _As if he could read her thoughts, the shadowy figure grinned, teeth glinting wetly in the dim, flickering glow. She held her hand to her throat as she saw his canines, longer and sharper than the average man's. At the movement, a drop of blood from her hand fell and hit the earth, staining the dust.

"Oh my," the voice purred. "You've hurt yourself, my dear." A polished riding boot came out of the shadows, followed by a long, thin body that was tall enough to make her look up to see his eyes as he stepped dangerously close to her. It was easy to see now why she couldn't find him at first; although his skin was pale, the rest of him was clad in black and it seemed to blend seamlessly with the shadows. Even his hair was black, and while it was cut just above his shoulders it hung all in his face and around his ears, making his eyes seem that much redder.

He grabbed her hand with a lightning-fast move and held it up, turning it this way and that as he watched the blood from her bite trail down her palm. Then, before she could jerk her hand away or take his focus off it, his tongue swiped out and ran up her thumb, catching every last drop. A disgusted feeling worked its way through her and she shuddered in revulsion at the feeling of the slimy, warm appendage.

"Delicious," he growled, licking his lips. She wrinkled her nose and frowned at him, wondering at his actions. Who thought blood was _good_? Was he really the Devil? He was terrifying, yes, but not in the way she thought a Prince of Darkness would be. Perhaps he was only one of the lesser demons. "Now," he continued, his lips pulling back in a sneer, "what to do with you? It's been _such_ a long time since we've had a ripe young woman in our midst." He reached for her chest and she smacked his hand away briskly, her arm coming to cover her stays.

"Lay a hand on me if ye dare," she threatened. "I'll throw you into the fire!" The man's smile widened in mirth and he began to laugh cruelly, motioning to the blinking shadows.

"Do you hear that?" he said to the men loudly. "She'll throw me into the fire!" The men chuckled nervously, all eyes on their leader and the girl who'd dared stand up to him. She glowered and tried to yank her hand out of his iron grip.

"You don't scare me!" she grunted, her bare feet clambering on the ground as she kicked at him. "Let me go!" she finally shouted and he released her abruptly, making her stumble. She caught herself before she fell and brushed off her bodice, standing up straight and glaring defiantly at him. When no one made a sound, she crossed her arms over her chest and stood her ground. "Thank you," she added as an afterthought; at this point being polite probably would neither hurt nor help her chances of surviving the night.

"Aren't you the little firebrand," he muttered, rubbing the black stubble on his chin. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like it, boys," he called to the men, who made agreeing sounds. "She is attacked, abducted, mocked and tossed around and taken from her family… yet she doesn't seem to be afraid. She stands here and stares death in the face, and what does she say? She thanks me for obeying her!" he hooted, and the others around them laughed as well.

He reached out and caught her arm again, bringing her close enough to see her face. He bent down and she swore she smelled her blood on his breath. "I like you. I think I'll keep you." Something in his words didn't register to her, except that he planned on letting her live. She didn't fuss about how tightly he held her arm in his grip, but instead looked up into his eyes with a shrewd frown.

"I ent letting ye rape me," she said bluntly. He grinned at her, and again she was startled at the way his teeth were long enough to reach his lower gums.

"I've never had to rape a woman yet," he assured her. "And I wouldn't waste my first time on a cheeky little whore like you. But don't worry," he said, bending even closer to speak into her ear. "When it comes, you'll be begging _me _for it."

"I doubt it," she answered back into his ear, not putting any emotion into it other than pure stubbornness. He caught her up in an embrace and she felt the wind get knocked out of her, her face pushed against his torso. He smelled like soil and sweat.

"This girl is mine!" he called out to the band of men. "If any of you dare to touch her, you'll deal with me!" The men were silent, and the threat loomed in the air like a tangible thing. "Baskerville!" The man stepped forward, bowing slightly as he stood next to the fireplace. "Take her and let her rest. The night is old and dawn will soon break." She watched him as he gave his orders to the man. He spoke so articulately, like he was a noble and not a simple brigand. However, something inside her mind told her that he was more than he appeared to be.

"Come along then," Baskerville said matter-of-factly, grabbing her arm and dragging her along. The leader cleared his throat the rough treatment stopped somewhat, although his grip didn't lessen on her arm. That was a good thing, since Seras was certain if he had let go she'd have ran off into the dark without a second thought.

He led her away into the trees, and then stopped suddenly before a springy young tree and a broad, branching willow. She nearly ran into him in the dark and he stared at her before motioning ahead, acting as if he'd only now thought of something.

"Ye need the lav'try?" he asked brusquely, and it took her a moment to realize he was trying to ask if she needed to relieve herself. Thinking hard, she nodded hesitantly and he squished her arm in his burly hand. "Don' ye try anything—the King knows where ye are n' if ye run, he'll be rightly settin' the hounds on ye." She nodded fearfully and hurried away a pace before choosing a tree to hide behind and do her business, making sure that she didn't see any prying eyes peering at her in the dark.

She finished and went back to where he stood, and he led her forward again, away from the fire to a moonlit grove, where the leaves were sparse and the light shone down. There were trees gathered closely around, and what looked like bed sheets strung between them. She blinked at them before turning back to Baskerville questioningly.

"Wha'? Ent ye seen hammocks a'fore?" She shook her head and he sighed. "I guess yer used to a bed of yer own, ent ye?" She shook her head again and he stared at her. "Where'd ye sleep?"

"In a barn loft," she answered as if it were a grand thing. He laughed, throwing his head back. It was a real laugh—instead of sounding cruel and sinister, it sounded rather nice.

"Sure ye did!" he said, and she wasn't sure if that meant he believed her or not. "Alright, c'mere. I'll hoist ye into the thing. You can use mine to-night." She backed away and he scoffed. "Didn't ye hear him? I ent touching ye; my life depends on it." He seemed serious enough, and she was still trying to stay strong, so she bravely walked back and put her foot into his laced fingers. He let her steady herself on his shoulder and then with a swift motion she tumbled into the sheet, which was broader than she thought and she realized that it was cloth folded over rope like fisherman's nets.

There were growls from below and she looked down to see the three wolfhounds gathering underneath the hammock, their dark eyes blinking up at her. She looked at Baskerville, who waved.

"If ye need to use the lav'try again, call me. otherwise, if ye get down they have leave to bite yer legs clear off, and they will. Ye saw the sheep." She nodded, hunkered down in the hammock, and saw his face in the moonlight. It highlighted his features and she noted that if he would smile, and maybe bathe, he'd be a very handsome man. "Alright then, go to sleep. I'll come get ye for breakfast tomorrow." And he left her alone.

She curled up in the hammock, hearing the snuffles of the hounds beneath her and laid her head in her hands. Her stomach growled again and she realized that for the first time since she could remember, she was truly hungry. She heard the muffled calls of the men at the fire, and every so often the muted sound of their leader answering them. The forest was awake, even at night, with the owls and crickets and other nightlife. She couldn't hear a road, or other people besides the men.

She began to cry silently, her shoulders shaking as she realized that she had no idea what was to become of her. That was the worst part; if she knew, it might not be so bad. But her imagination ran rampant, coming up with the worst possible scenarios for her. She wondered if it would be easier to throw herself from the hammock and let the dogs devour her; however, at the thought of their white teeth and snapping jaws she lost her courage.

She laid there, tears running down her face, staring at the moon, and praying that somehow, she'd wake up and it would all be a dream. Exhaustion finally gave way to sleep and the girl was quiet, dreaming of her hay loft and happier times.

* * *

The two figures stared at the young woman in the hammock, the moonlight accentuating her tear-stained cheeks as she lay oblivious to the world. The taller of the two reached out and smoothed her hair before wiping the wet trails gently, leaving dryness behind. The hand then lay on her forehead and she sighed, a smile forming despite her circumstances.

"Wha' did ye do?" Baskerville asked softly, trying to keep quiet so as not to wake her as he watched his leader touch the girl's face.

"I only made sure that her dreams were pleasant, nothing more." Crimson eyes watched the man as he stared at the girl, looking befuddled. "I want you to watch her with your life, dog. Or you'll find yourself back with your brothers, walking on all fours." The man bowed his head, murmuring his assent. "She should want for nothing. If it's within your power, get it for her. If not, come to me and _I _will get it for her."

"Aye, milord. But—" He paused, trying to puzzle it out for himself. "Why show so much of yer leniency to a whore? Ye'd never let a common harlot speak to ye in front of the others the way she did. I was _surprised_, sire." The man smiled, tilting his head.

"Is a dog truly trying to discern _my _actions?" Baskerville lowered his head.

"I meant no disrespect, sir."

"A common harlot would have been thrown into the fire the minute she threatened me with it. But this girl isn't common, wouldn't you say? She's got such a passion within her. Such an interesting little thing!" Baskerville nodded.

"She's certainly no' like the others." His owner laid a hand on her again, brushing the stray hair from her neck and tucking it under the edge of her kerchief, which was sitting askew from where it had slid on her head as she slept. "The others will talk."

"Let them talk, if they dare. I have my reasons behind my actions. No one need know what they are, especially not those idiots."

"Sire." The man dipped his head again.

"I will speak to her more tomorrow, and decide what I'll do with her at that time. For now, let her sleep. And when she wakes, tend to her wishes."

"Yes, milord."

* * *

**Afterword:** Vizzini. Princess Bride. FTW.


	2. Standoff in the Forest

When Seras woke, her fist muddled thought was that a hole had fallen through in the barn roof, for the light was shining harshly on her eyelids. She opened her eyes and the leafy canopy of the forest swayed in the breeze above her bed. The birds were already long awake, singing their morning vespers with piercing clarity and answering one other like they were a choir in the chapel.

She closed her eyes, wishing more than anything that scratchy hay was beneath her, not smooth fabric and knotted rope. Her tears from last night came back to her eyes and she blinked rapidly, rubbing them away. It was all well and good to cry when you were alone, but she didn't need the men seeing her in broad daylight with tear-stained cheeks and red eyes.

At the thought of red eyes, her mind turned over to the leader of the brigands. He was cruel—that was easy enough to see—but at the same time, she wondered if he truly meant it when he said that he wanted to keep her for himself. She wasn't a fool; she knew what he intended to use her for. Yet at the same time, she wondered if this was some black, twisted form of luck. Better to be raped by _one_ man, than an entire troupe of them.

"Oi." The harsh male tone nearly startled her out of the hammock. As it was, she jerked and upset it, the rope creaking as it swung on the tree. "Ye wake?" She rubbed a hand over her face and peered over the edge of the hammock to see the man from last night—Baskerville was his name, right?—standing and staring up at her. The hounds paid him no mind, and she wondered if they were his dogs.

"G—good morrow," she said hesitantly, wondering about the proper way to address one's captors. She was still mad at him for hitting her so hard in the head; she had a pulsing knot there, but it didn't hurt too badly. The man motioned for her to come down and she tried to figure out the way to roll in order to get off of the hammock without falling. She wasn't very good and tumbled out, but Baskerville caught her before she hit the ground.

"Clumsy whore," he growled as he set her down. She choked at the smell wafting off his clothing, pushing him away from her.

"I _ent _a whore!" she shouted, stamping her foot. She was hungry and tired and she smelled her own sweat and blood on her, which didn't make her feel any better. She needed her basin and some clean water. She _hated _feeling dirty. "Don't call me that anymore, or I'll…" she paused, uncertain of what threat she could pull up that would scare a murdering rapist that lived in the woods. He tilted his head, filthy strings of hair falling into his chocolate eyes. They reminded her of his Lordship's hounds, with their pitiful, sad eyes. But instead of being soul-searching and watery, these eyes were icy and pitiless.

"Quit yer bellowin'," he said indifferently, and she wondered if he was just teasing her or if he'd meant it. It was hard for her to read this man—it was almost like he didn't belong in a human body. Was he a malignant spirit too? "Tis breakfast-time."

"I need to wash up first." He stared at her blankly. "Ye know—a bath? A basin of water? A puddle?" she insisted, and he looked almost uncomfortable at the thought. "Ye may enjoy smellin' like wet dog, but I'm a lady and I need to be clean!" she proclaimed. He thought for a moment and sighed.

"Food first. Then I'll find a place to wash yer ears at."

It was all Seras could do to breathe through her mouth as they entered the main part of the camp. Even so, she could _taste _the stench in the air. The entire clearing smelled like men, sweat, and something burnt. She coughed and shook her head, wondering how she got into this mess, and how she was going to get out again.

* * *

The fire was embers, but something was still cooking betwixt the coals and she swore she smelled potatoes. There weren't half as many men as before wandering around the campsite, but she recognized a few from the dim impressions she had last night before the fire. The hulking Gypsy wasn't hard to spot at all, on his knees before the embers stoking the fire. The bald man that had helped capture here was also there, and he leered at her across the clearing. She scowled back so fiercely that the mocking grin slid off his lips and he actually looked startled.

She wondered what breakfast was going to be when the teenage Gypsy came running up to them. To her surprise he smelled the cleanest, although the must odor of the fur-lined shirt he wore wasn't the best fragrance in the world. Baskerville stared at him without any of the contempt the others had the night before and he grinned sheepishly at them before speaking.

"M'lord wants ye to come and see 'm, so I'm to get the lass's breakfast and keep her in the camp until ye're done, alright, eh?" Baskerville's lip turned up in a snarl, but he nodded and pushed Seras in the boy's direction without another word before turning to head in between the trees and disappear. The boy looked at Seras and fidgeted, seemingly shy.

"Ah, erm," he began, scratching the grimy mass of curls on his head, "What'd ye say yer name be, Miss?" Seras was surprised at his polite tone. Of all the Englishman amassed here, the Gypsy would be the most gentlemanly?

"Seras Victoria," she said, trying to be polite in return. "'n ye?"

"Me name's Jarrod," he replied too quickly, and then seemed at a loss as to what to do next. Thankfully, Seras' stomach made a very loud noise and he jumped, grabbing her hand and dragging her over to a felled log, all covered in moss and bugs. She spread her skirts out as best she could and sat, and he frowned at her. "Ye won't get far in them, Ser-as," he said, trying to sound out her name right around his accent. "If'n I was ye, I'd ask M'lord for a pair o' breeches."

Seras gasped in shock as he ran off, keeping one eye on her as he knelt by his father and whispered in his ear. A woman, in breeches?! That was unheard of! She wasn't a savage; she was an Englishwoman! She fingered her skirts as Jarrod came running back, his hands full of what seemed to be two identical meals. He placed them in her lap with an order to hang on, before running away and coming back with a large bladder.

"Tis water, not ale, but here ye learn not to be picky," he told her as he sat beside her. He took some of the food off her lap and she took the bladder, taking a long drink. The water was clear and cold, and tasted delicious. She gave it back to him and he also took a drink as she looked down at the leftover food in her lap.

It _was _a potato baked in the embers, and with it a hunk of what looked like a rock. She picked it up and realized it was bread—very stale brown bread. She tried to bite it, but Jarrod stopped her.

"Tis easier this way," he explained as he spilt a little water from the bladder over the bread. "Softens it up, eh?" Seras let him pour the water and then ate the bread with a sense of resignation. She was hungry. The potato was much better, having been cooked until softened by the warm coals. Still, she missed her white bread and ale. She knew now why her aunt had stressed the importance of being thankful.

"I can't wear breeches," she said softly, chewing her food. Jarrod turned to her and swallowed before taking another drink and offering her the bladder.

"Ye may find it easier," he said gently. "A woman, in this place? Tis nothin' more than a common harlot, eh? If'n ye dress like a man, perhaps ye gain a bit more standin' amongst the others, eh?" Seras shook her head.

"I ent stayin'. I'm going home." Jarrod smiled ruefully, but said nothing. They finished their scanty meal in silence, listening instead to the sounds of the men in the camp. Seras' stomach protested as the men kept walking by, bringing their odors with them, and finally she gave Jarrod her leftovers with a disgusted face. "Ent ye brigands learned what a bath is?" Jarrod laughed.

"Sure, we know it!" he chortled. "But we can't can we, till we find a stream, eh?" He crinkled his nose good-naturedly. "We ent been near a body o' water for a few weeks. We're all used to it, but I'm sure we smell nasty, eh?" Seras nodded.

"Oi." Again, the rough voice nearly scared her out of her skirts. As it was, she leaped off the log and sent Jarrod into another fit of laughter. Baskerville actually smiled, the corners of his mouth wrinkling up as he watched her in her fright. She stamped her foot on the ground, hands on her hips.

"Ent ye learned how to properly greet a lady?" she snarled. "Ye don't scare her, for one!" Both men sobered up at her aggressiveness, Jarrod coughing politely and running off with the bladder, stuffing the tail-part of Seras' leftover potato into his gullet. Baskerville sniffed, not bothering to answer. He reached over the log as if to grab her arm, but seemed to think better of it and instead motioned for her to follow him.

"M'lord wants to see ye." Seras stopped in her tracks.

"I need to be washed up first." Baskerville shook his head, but instead of the usual sneer he actually looked apologetic, almost subdued.

"Ent no place to," he said gruffly, but not unkindly. "I asked M'lord about moving towards a stream, and he's considerin' it." Seras frowned, and then ran her fingers through her hair, fixing her kerchief and straightening her bodice, setting herself to rights.

"Alright then," she mumbled, and he jerked his head and turned to walk into the forest.

* * *

They walked for longer than Seras could have ever imagined having to go. The voices of the men and popping of the fire had been left behind long ago, and she could see through the leaves that the sun was rising higher as they walked.

To Seras' immense surprise, she hadn't seen a single animal since she had come. In her old home, even as she sat on the knolls, she had seen birds and deer and foxes running around in the forest. But here, there was nothing. The birds had stopped their singing, the forest was quiet save their footsteps on the ground, and not even the wind blew the leaves.

To make matters worse, the sun was barely able to shine through the leaves anymore. The further they went, the more dense the canopy became, and the more closely the trees grew together. The light shone only at intervals in small clearings, and the dim light that graced the forest now seemed misty and more like twilight.

Seras was afraid, of course, because she had never been in such a situation. Her whole life had been played out on the manor, where the trees were few and far between. And men in the manor had left her alone, because they were respectable people, not outlaws. And she'd never been called "whore" or "harlot".

But Seras was also a very curious young woman. She kept a close watch at all times, taking it in because if she could keep track of everything, she might survive long enough to escape the men. And while she remembered the leader last night as being cruel and scathing, she also remembered that what little she had seen of him had been intriguing and handsome. She wanted to see him in the daylight now, and see what had frightened her so badly last night.

And Jarrod, at least, had not been outlaw-ish. He had been very kind to her for the brief minutes she'd sat by him. Even this Baskerville had not touched her beyond steadying her as she fell from her hammock. She supposed she ought to count that as good, because he could have just let her fall and embarrass herself.

She was so deep in thought that when Baskerville stopped, she barely kept herself from running into the broad expanse of his back. Looking around, she found them in a very densely grown cluster of trees that made a circle. Bushes grew here and there among the trees, turning the circle into a room of sorts. And in the middle of the circle stood the leader.

In the daylight, however filtered and dim it was, he seemed like just another man and not a demon at all. She stepped around Baskerville, peering inquisitively at him through her bangs. His hair fell all around his face, and her impression last night was correct—his eyes were a strange, glowing crimson. He wore black, from his long sleeved tunic to the black riding boots. His skin was extra pale by comparison, which was strange for a man who spent his life outside. He was the cleanest of all, nothing on his person stained or matted with filth. She wondered how he managed it. Even his stubble, while dark and spread across his chin and cheeks, seemed immaculate.

"Well, little one," he said and the silk of his voice entranced her once again. She felt a tremble of fear, but didn't show it and instead stepped forward boldly, her head held high. Whatever happened, she wouldn't cry or show how frightened she was. She wouldn't give him that pleasure. "How fares your hand?"

She wondered what he meant until a memory from last night surfaced in her mind; his tongue gliding up her skin as he licked blood off her hand. She looked down at her hand and was shocked to see it unmarred by her teeth. She held it up and let him see, even as far away as she stood. He laughed darkly and walked out of the circle, sitting on an old stump a few paces away. He patted his thigh invitingly.

"Leave us," he ordered, and she heard a shuffle as Baskerville obeyed. She hesitated only briefly before striding up to him, standing within arm's reach but silently refusing to sit on his leg. She tucked her hands behind herself and waited quietly, the same way she had when facing his Lordship for the first time all those years ago.

Watching her, the man's eyes became scrutinizing as he stood and began to circle her slowly. She felt his eyes stopping at different points on her body, but she kept a straight face and didn't move a muscle as he examined her. She found that it became easier as time passed to relax, even if only the smallest bit.

"Well now, shepherdess." She froze, answering without thinking.

"My name is Seras Victoria, not shepherdess." He stopped behind her, making her nervous.

"I'll call you as I please. I am your lord now." She scowled. "You have questions for me, little one." She frowned, wondering what he meant, and then realized that he was giving her leave to ask questions, not saying that _she did_ have them.

"Why are ye keeping me here?" she asked first.

"Because you interest me," he replied without missing a beat, coming around to stand in front of her, his chest nearly brushing hers. He mimicked her pose, hands behind his back and eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Wha' does that mean?"

"Something to _me_ but nothing to you, other than the fact that no harm will come to you should you be a good girl and obey me."

"And if I don't obey?" she asked quietly. He grinned.

"Then you can choose—my hounds can eat you alive, or my men can have their way with you before slicing your throat. Either way, it's not a pretty end for such a pretty girl." A hand reached out to rub a strand of her golden hair in-between his pale fingers.

"Why are ye doing this to _me_?" she asked, hearing tears in her voice. "Why not go out to town and get a whore, if ye want one?"

"I thought you said you weren't a whore." He tilted his head slightly, looking down his long nose at her and scratching his stubble.

"I'm not, but…." She hesitated, unsure of how to say it. "I don't want to be here. I want to go home. I have family there."

"Your home is with me now, my dear." The words gripped her heart like a vice, squeezing until her chest was cold and barren. "Those men are your family. Don't worry; you'll grow used to it with time."

"But why must I?"

"Because you interest me." That seemed to be a full circle. They stood in a silent stare-off, crimson eyes boring into sapphire ones. "Now, be a good girl and come sit with me." She faltered as he went to the stump and eyed her expectantly. She pursed her lips and strode over brazenly, sitting on the forest floor by the stump with his leg against her side. He arched a brow and she smiled innocently up at him.

"You said sit _with _you, not _on_ you," she explained in answer to his unspoken question. His smile disappeared, but she could have sworn he looked impressed, although whether at her cheek or her wisdom she didn't know. He let her be, but rested his hand on her head, running his fingers underneath her kerchief and through her hair.

"At supper, you will sit beside me," he began, and she nodded. That was a simple enough order to follow. If she was expected to stay here long enough to survive and get to a town for help, she needed to be somewhat obedient, it seemed. "During the night, you will remain with me." She didn't nod, but she didn't shake her head either. She was trying to wrap her mind around any hidden meanings.

"Aye," she finally said, wondering at his intentions. "'n in the day?"

"In the day," he answered, "you may go wherever you please. But you must not leave the forest, and either the hounds or Baskerville must accompany you." She wilted. She'd been hoping that he wouldn't think about an escort. She could _feel _his smug attitude in the air around them. "We can't have our little shepherdess getting lost, now can we?"

"I suppose not," she replied indifferently.

"If anyone touches you, I want to know." Suddenly, his voice had taken an edge that promised bloodshed. She shivered.

"A-aye." His fingers ran through her hair insistently, as if weighing the locks in his hands. "The G—Jarrod, ye know who I mean?"

"I know my own men," he responded wryly. "What about Jarrod? Has he done something?" the tone grew quieter, the fingers stilling in her hair. She quickly shook her head.

"Nay! I mean, I was only going to say that he suggested I… that I… wear…." She faltered, cheeks blazing. She couldn't even get the words out.

"Men's clothing?" he suggested for her, and she nodded wordlessly, not wanting to know how he guessed. "He has a point," he said musingly, and his fingers continued their journey across her head.

"Tis uncivilized," she protested softly, unable to bear the weight of her own embarrassment. Why, oh _why _had she even brought up that?! Was it for him to deny it, so that she wouldn't worry anymore? But of course he'd say yes!

"Why do you need to be civilized out here? There's no one to see you but us, and if one of those peasants so much as looks at you in a way I don't like, I won't hesitate to have him slowly ripped apart for my pleasure." She colored again at the way he seemed to not care that she was a woman, and just said whatever was on his mind. He was nearly as blunt as she was, perhaps more so.

"But—"

"No, my dear. I think it's a good idea. Those skirts will hinder you out here in the wilderness." She didn't reply, but her shoulders slumped even further. His hand stilled in her hair a moment and then disappeared from her head altogether. Before she could even make a sound, his strong arms encircled her and she was lifted up and onto his leg. She struggled wildly, fists pounding against his biceps to no avail. He grinned, but quickly tired of her desperate attempts and his hands deftly grabbed hers, forcing her to either still or wrench her own arms out of her sockets.

"Shh…." He murmured teasingly, his other hand supporting her back as she leaned away from him, trying to wiggle off his lap or find enough footing to stand.

"Please," she whimpered, forgetting her vow to show no tears in her panic. Twin trails of salty sorrow spilt out of her eyes and down her cheeks. "Please let me go; let me go _home_!" she began to cry, her shoulders shaking as she started sniffing, and then sobbing. "Please…." The grin on his face faded somewhat, his eyes widening only the slightest bit as he saw her tears. He blinked slowly, and when his eyes opened they were solemn.

"You are home," he said callously, letting go of her hands. She fell backwards off of him and onto the forest floor, curling up with her hands clasped against her chest as though he'd struck her. She didn't howl, but instead let out tiny, wretched sniffles that would have shaken even the hardest man into pity for the poor little thing. However, the bandit King only stood next to her, looking down unsympathetically as she cried. "Get used to it, shepherdess." He walked away, leaving her alone in the forest.

Once she gaged that she was out of earshot and had truly left her by herself, she allowed herself to wail, burying her face in her hands. She had never before felt so helpless and destitute, with every aspect of her life in the control of another. She had no idea what to do; she couldn't stay, but she couldn't run away and she couldn't fight them all off, so what else could be done?

The only thing that was left to her was to pray, and she was in too much of a state to do that properly, so she lay on the leafy ground and cried herself out. Finally, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and rubbed her tear-stained cheeks with her hands, still sniffling to try and stem the flow of tears and snot running down her face.

* * *

She didn't try to find her way back to camp; resolving to sit until she died of starvation or a wolf came and ate her. She didn't want to return. That man—no, that _monster_ was too cruel! How could she ever look him in the eyes and show him respect, much less spend nights and evenings in his company? She'd rather let his hounds rip her to shreds. No, she'd rather face the men of the camp! At least the kinder ones might treat her with a little compassion!

A sound alerted her to someone in the clearing and she looked up to see Baskerville standing there. He looked uneasy as he took in her haggard appearance and jerked his head in the direction he'd come.

"M'lord says, tis time for ye to come back now," he announced. Seras buried her face back in her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs.

"I ent comin'," she replied frigidly. "Ye are nasty n' brutal n' has no sort of manners. I hate it here. I'd rather the wolves eat me, if'n ye will not let me leave." Baskerville was silent, and when she looked up the setting sun had highlighted the astonishment on his face. He had clearly been expecting her compliance by this point.

"Surely tis not so bad," he said moodily after a moment. "We're thieves, not demons, after all."

"Ye're uncultured beasts!" she shouted back, feeling her unbearable despair give weight to rage. "Yer just a… a _dog_!" Baskerville looked abashed.

"Well, aye," he admitted. "But tis not a problem to the others." She frowned, trying to discern his meaning before standing on wobbly legs, her stained skirts bringing bits of moldy leaf and dirt with her.

"I don't want to live with ye," she enunciated. Baskerville shrugged, clearly as indifferent as his leader.

"But we want ye to," he retorted, and the admission threw her off balance a moment. "Besides, M'lord thinks that if'n we have a lady around, the men shan't be so rowdy. Ye know, more genteel-like, which is good for our trade. We fit in better with good manners." Seras wiped her eyes again, glaring incredulously.

"Ye want me to stay so ye'll be better at stealing things!?" she squeaked, and he nodded. "Ye have no shame!"

"Not particularly," he confessed. "But we do have a nice roast boar on the fire, and if'n we leave now we'll get back to camp by supper." He licked his chops at the thought of food, and Seras noted that he truly _did _look like a canine when he did that. She walked over to him silently, and he turned and led her back into the forest, the setting sun casting their shadows onto the trees.

So caught up in her hopelessness, the usually eagle-eyed girl didn't notice that the male in front of her cast a lupine shadow in lieu of a humanoid figure, and that the curling mist in the forest seemed to have eyes, watching their step as they walked back towards the campsite and promise of food.

* * *

**Afterword:**

It's back to school time for Juju! So I have to pick and choose what to work on and what to slack on while I'm focused on studies. So be happy for this update! Happy I say! _Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof_; if it's possible to actually _feel _like a room!


	3. Surviving

_I will not make a scene. I will __**not**__ make a scene. I __**will not**__ make a scene. _

Seras followed Baskerville into the ring of light made by the fire, her back straight and her head held high. She paused as Baskerville inched around the edge to take his seat, and all the men stared at her. She walked forward steadily towards the far edge of the campsite, where the flames didn't seem to make a dent in the shadow.

She allowed herself to glance at the men out of the corner of her eyes as she passed them slowly. Many of them she knew only by face, and didn't know their names. Some of them stared after her with lustful eyes; others looked upon her with indifference, and even sympathy swam in a few eyes. But they all stared curiously at the woman who defied their expectations, who refused to cry or show fear and had won the favor of their leader.

She saw the leader's eyes before the rest of him. They were the only thing glimmering in the shadowy darkness. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she was able to make out his form. He sat on a large, misshapen rock, arms crossed and legs dangling off the edge of the boulder. She stood before him a moment and he grinned before inclining his head in greeting.

"Are you finished with your display, my little shepherdess?" She clenched her jaw at the mocking tone, and bit back a retort. Instead she nodded sharply, her eyes the only part of her face showing her disdain. He watched her before motioning to a smaller part of the rock that stood to the height of his knees; a smaller seat-shape in the much larger boulder. She glared a moment longer before clambering up the side of the rock and sitting down, spreading out her skirts.

"Well then, everyone. What do you think of the newest member of our group?" he asked. The men called out different things, some more lewd than the others. She heard Jarrod's voice ringing out above the rest with "Quick-witted, eh?" Another yelled out "Looks like 'e shrew!", which got a lot of laughs. He let them riddle her with catcalls and names before holding up his hand. Even in the shadows, everyone saw the gesture and silence reigned immediately.

"Yes, those are _all_ right," he purred, looking down his nose at her. She scowled back and her stomach grumbled loudly. The leader made another gesture and she was presented with another bladder and a steaming leg of what she saw to be deer. She took it without ceremony and ate quickly while the leader talked, alternating with drinks of ale from the bladder.

"This woman is mine. As such, there are some… ground rules, if you will." The men groaned, but a single glare from the man was enough to quiet them. "If I hear the word whore, or anything else of that nature being thrown around in reference to her, the man who dares say it will lose his tongue." There was a sudden hush, even in the near-silence. No one moved. Seras stared at the men as she ate; mingled expressions of shock and puzzlement were on each man's face. Clearly, that had never been an order before.

"No offense, M'lord," said the one called Vizzini, his bald head gleaming in the light. "But… _why_?" The leader smiled.

"Because she's already forcefully explained to me that—" he paused, throwing her another glance before continuing in a high falsetto that was clearly a mockery of her own voice, "My name is Seras Victoria!" And so Seras Victoria she shall be, to _you _pathetic worms at least." No one refuted his words again, and he watched the circle of men before continuing.

"If I see any of you touch her, or make a threat, or even _look _at her the wrong way—and you know what I mean—then I will personally make sure that your last moments on Earth will be a living Hell. Consider it a taste of what you'll face in the afterlife, boys." No one moved, but then one by one they began nodding and voicing their assent to this rule as well.

"If my little shepherdess asks for something," he continued, one hand going to rest on her head. She paused in her eating, weighing the pros and cons of knocking it off and deciding that as long as it was only her hair, she wouldn't bother him. "You are to attend her without delay." _This _rule was not taken as well as the others.

"What?!" one man cried indignantly. "Yer putting this w—" he paused, gulping at the near slip, "this _girl _above us?!"

"I am, Dawes," the leader replied calmly.

"Wha's she to us?!" another demanded, actually rising from his seat to glare across the fire at him.

"She's mine," he declared, as if that was enough to seal the matter. "Sit down Thomas, before I allow Cerberus to finish the job he started." He gazed pointedly at the man's arm, and Seras saw a deep healed-over gash before the man tugged down his sleeve and sat, his face schooled in mixed disgrace and fury. "Anyone else?" They all shook their heads; if they had a complaint, they dared not speak it.

"She won't be in your way much, men," the leader assured them. "In fact, I daresay you can get along well without having to even speak a word to her." No one replied. "But if she demands something of you, I expect it done… within reason, of course," he amended. "If you're uncertain, see Baskerville." The man in question huffed, looking rather put-upon with all this extra work.

"Are there any questions?" Everyone shook their heads again. The rules were straightforward enough that even the dimmest of the bunch could understand. Their lord wanted this girl all to himself, and he wasn't sharing. That was enough for them; one wrong move could seal their fates, and they had spent most of their lives trying to survive. They didn't need to die because of one little lady. There were always other whores, in other towns.

"Good!" he said when no one made a move. "Now, on to other business. We're moving tomorrow." This was met with cheers among the men.

"Finally!" said the one called Dawes, a portly man with a bushy beard that looked like a rat might be nesting inside and enough chest hair sticking out of his shirt to weave a rope with. "I've been rightly tired o' bein' stuck in the middle o' nowhere."

"Where to, M'lord?" asked a skinny man with a scar running over his pallid forehead. He wore spectacles, the second pair that Seras had ever seen on anyone. Before, the only spectacles she'd ever glimpsed were the ones that the apothecary wore.

"To the riverside, near the town of Brookdale." The men oohed and hummed their approval, suddenly much more animated.

"Brookdale," one said happily. "I hail from that 'ways. Or I did, anyway."

"How grand, the river!" Jarrod crowed to his father, who nodded. "Meself, I'm weary o' smellin' like the pig's slops, eh?"

"Ah, fish e'rry night for our supper," Vizzini sighed cheerfully. "No lack o' meats, tha's what I crave."

"What do you think, little one?" the leader asked her. Everyone paused in their talking and turned towards her, their ears straining to hear what she'd say. She sniffed, putting down her leg-bone next to the ale bladder and looking up at him evenly.

"Yer all due for a dip," she said honestly. "I can hardly stand the smell of ye." The men roared with laughter and agreed with her, clapping each other on the back and arguing about who stunk the most. Seras frowned; why did they make something like _that _a contest? Still, even as much as she wished she was home, watching them was rather… fun.

But moving meant that she would be farther away from her home. However, that was the least of her worries at the moment. As it was, she had no idea how she was going to escape. So instead her goal was simply to survive, and when the time presented itself she would act on it. Leaning against the rock, her belly full and her eyes tired from crying, she watched the men making plans with their leader, who was doling out jobs to everyone. She sat blearily, trying to listen and match each face with a name. She fell asleep repeating them in her mind: Dawes, Thomas, Johnathan, Philip, Jarrod, Armand, Vizzini, Golan.

Her last thought was that she'd fallen asleep, and someone was carrying her with strong arms and laying her down on something soft. She wondered if she were at home, for the soft thing moved and licked her the way a cow would, and someone's fingers gently brushed the hair from her forehead before covering her up with something worn that smelled like forest. She turned over and buried her face in the fur, too tired to think. It was like fog, pressing down on her mind….

* * *

"Oi." Although the sound was close to her head, this morning the sharp call didn't even phase Seras. She opened her eyes at once and stared unblinkingly at Baskerville, who was knelt by her head, a lumpy bundle in his arms. "Ye wake?"

"I am now," she replied with a yawn. Stretching, she sat up and came eye-to-eye with one of the enormous wolfhounds. She shrieked in alarm and its ears perked before falling back, its tongue licking its chops disinterestedly. She realized that she had been sleeping on its side, her head against its ribs. The others were settled apiece from her, on the lookout. They watched her, their tails thumping lazily on the ground. Looking down, she realized that the black fabric that she'd taken to be a blanket was actually someone's shirt. She wrinkled her nose before folding it up and handing it to Baskerville.

Standing up, she took her kerchief from her head and rubbed her face with it, and then her teeth. Tonguing her incisors as she cleaned them the best she could, she absently thought that she couldn't wait to get to the riverside. She needed a bath desperately, for now she smelled of dog and dirt.

"We all'll be traveling soon," Baskerville told her as he watched her try to tidy herself up. "Do ye want yer clothing now?" She stared blankly at him and he pushed forward the bundle in his hands. "Yer clothing. Men's; it's—better." He gave her a look that told her it would be easier to just take the clothing without complaints.

He pointed her behind a tree and she bashfully took off her clothing, keeping her chemise, skirt and bodice close by while stepping into the breeches and then into the loose shirt. The shirt was baggy on her front and hung down her arms, and she tucked it as best she could into her pants before pulling her bodice back on. She buttoned it, finding it actually fit better without the bulky chemise underneath it, and then tied her kerchief back on her head deftly. Then she bundled her chemise and skirt and walked out barefoot, her cloth shoes in hand.

Baskerville nodded in approval and then held out a pair of black boots. "They may be a wee bit large on ye, but when town is near some o' us will get ye a new pair. Those Jarrod outgrew and we usually keep 'em for barterin' purposes." He took her shoes and bundle, and she looked longingly at it.

"Can I keep me chemise?" she asked hesitantly. "For to wear at night." At the barn, she'd slept naked as everyone else did. But here, among all these men… she didn't feel comfortable doing that. Baskerville looked at the bundle and then frowned.

"I'll ask M'lord," he told her, and she shook her head.

"Lemme ask him instead," she responded, thinking that if it came to that, she could probably plead her case better. Baskerville looked surprised, but nodded without another word. Seras was a bit shocked that he would agree so readily, but then the leader's words came floating back to her mind. _Tha's right. They have to do as I ask. Within reason. _

The wolfhounds got up and followed them, and Seras looked around before turning shyly back to Baskerville. Even if he was a gruff and strange man, she still felt that he bid her no ill will, and he would help her if he could.

"Do they have names?" she inquired. "The dogs, I mean." At home, the hounds hadn't been named, but the watchdog inside the great house had been called Grendel, after some tale his Lordship had been particularly fond of.

"Oh, aye," Baskerville responded. He seemed happy that she seemed in better spirits today, and was asking about the camp workings. And to tell truth, she _was _in better spirits. The sleep had been refreshing, and even if she was going away from her home she was curious about the forest, and the town and the river. She'd never seen Brookdale before, although she'd heard his Lordship speak of it at times. It was a town far bigger than her own meager village, and the thrill of seeing somewhere new dimmed the horror she felt at being kidnapped and dragged through the forest.

"That one there," he said, pointing to the dog she'd slept on—she knew it was him for the gray speckles on his muzzle—"that one is Mephistopheles. And the one with the white back paws is Cerberus. Then the largest one, that's Patrasche."

"Cerberus, Mephistopheles, Patrasche," Seras repeated, trying to faithfully keep the right pronunciation. "Those are very noble names."

"Noble names for noble animals," Baskerville said with a hint of pride. Seras stared at him, wondering at his words. If she didn't feel such anger towards the leader, she might ask him why Baskerville acted the way he did.

The sky was overcast, so she had no idea of the time as they walked into the center of the campsite. The fire was not going, and the embers had been covered in dirt and ashes. However, Jarrod came up to her and gave her another potato. Baskerville left her with him with orders to stay put, and she obediently stood and spoke with the Gypsy boy as she ate.

"I remember ye didn't favor the bread, eh?" he said brightly, wide awake despite the early hour. "So potato it'tis. I asked Papa to cook it special before 'e covered the fire." Seras smiled, happy to have someone being friendly towards her. He gave her a rotted, but cheerful grin in return. "Oh, ye're happier today. Good, eh!" he commended.

"Tell your papa I give my thanks," she said softly, finishing her potato. Jarrod nodded and then his name was called on the other side of the camp.

"I'm comin'!" he called back. "I'll see ye soon, eh?" He waved and ran to help. She stood and watched the men running around, carrying more than she'd ever seen in the camp. There were horses, carts of material goods, flagons of ale, and so much more! Where did they keep all this?

"Hello, my dear." Oh, how that voice sent cold chills up her back, and made the hair on her neck stand straight as if she'd seen a ghast! She turned and saw the leader striding up to her, wearing his usual black. She realized with a start that the fabric draped over her must have been one of _his _shirts; the other men didn't wear such drab colouring, choosing instead the greens and browns and mottled reds of the forest. "How fares my little shepherdess?"

"I am well," she said stiffly, her hands behind her back so that he wouldn't see them balled into fists. He was the key to her survival. She had to stay on his good side—she would not bow before him, but she could humor him. "I wish to keep me chemise. For night, to wear when I sleep."

"You may," he replied, a sly grin creeping up his cheeks. "But for a price."

"Name it," she answered without missing a beat, her eyes locked steadily with his. He moved in closer, close enough that she smelled the sweaty-bloody-forest smell that was him. It was strange—last night, his shirt smelled fresh. Was it his body that held the stench of gore? His breath?

"For each night you wear it," he said solemnly, "you must give me… a kiss." She nearly burst out laughing in his face, until she saw the severity of his expression.

"Do you—do you speak true?" she snickered, biting her lip. A kiss good-night? Was he a child, or did he hear too much of the bards tales of love and romantic poems? "Very well," she finally laughed. "As you like, Sir."

"Sir?" he repeated with a laugh of his own. "Am I a knight, now? I thought yesterday I made it clear that I was your lord. You may address me as "My lord", shepherdess."

"Tis a bit formal, for one who wishes me at his side ev'ry night." He smirked at her cheek and crossed his arms.

"And "Sir" is not formal?" he retorted. She paused for a moment before answering.

"Only as I know not yer name." The unspoken question hung in the air between them. He stepped even closer, his clothing brushing hers as he tilted her chin up, his fingers brushing the skin of her face.

"I'll tell you my name when we are alone, little one. And when it is you and I, you may call me that. But among others, I am "My lord", or "Milord", or even "M'lord", as the others say." She nearly laughed again at the noble tongue drawing out the dialects of the thieves, before it hit her that he was not denying her what she wanted. She wished to know his name, and he would tell her. But under his terms. It was a compromise. She wasn't sure what to make of it; however, if the man "in charge" gives you a concession, then you take it.

"Aye, M'lord," she conceded with a nod. He patted her cheek fondly before stepping back, no longer towering over her. He watched the men scurrying around, and she stepped forward to stand at his side instead of behind him. He gave no notice of her silent bid for equality—in her world, the women walked behind the men, but this was no longer her world. Perhaps he didn't think anything of it.

"How far to Brookdale," she asked, a part of her wondering why she spoke voluntarily to him at all. She didn't like him—she was angry at him for stealing her, and not letting her go. But at the same time, she was… interested in his ways. He was unlike anything she'd ever seen. And his voice, while giving her gooseflesh, had a mystifying way in that she wanted to hear him speak more and more the longer she knew him.

"Oh, a good day's journey," he told her. "We will reach it after nightfall. I'm afraid you'll have to wait until the morning for your bath." She frowned, slightly disappointed, but didn't reply.

"All is ready, M'lord." Baskerville came forward, the men at his heels. Seras tried to remember them in her mind, but the faces and names blurred together. _Tis alright, _she thought a bit bitterly. _I have more than enough time to get acquainted with them. _

"Good," he replied. "Let us be off then." He looked down at her. "And where shall my shepherdess sit on our long journey?" Seras looked at the wagons and horses, and the hounds. Most of the men were already in position, whether walking or riding. Before she could answer, he did for her. "Jarrod, Golan!" he called, and the two Gypsies looked up half in alarm at being singled out. "Let her ride with you. I don't trust her on foot—she'd sneak away the first time our backs were turned."

He led her over by the hand and she climbed into the Gypsies' wagon, Jarrod scrambling into the back with what looked like bolts of cloth and a wire pen that should have housed chickens, but was bare at the moment. She sat next to the hulking man and he looked down at her sternly, warning her with his glittering black eyes that she best stay in the cart.

"Oh good," Jarrod exclaimed. "Now I'll have a body to speak with, eh?" Seras looked back at him with another small smile as the leader mounted his black steed, and along with Baskerville on his own horse they led the front of the pack of thieves. They all began to move and with a jolt, the Gypsy snapped the reigns and they were off. Seras gazed around her at the forest that surrounded what was once her home, her heart aching. She felt like crying, but instead turned her head forward and stared straight ahead, ready for what the future brought.

* * *

**Afterword:** I'm really churning them out for this story. I'm surprised.

The dogs are all named after famous dogs of literature. Go Google it.


	4. Travelling & News

They travelled all morning without stopping. The sun rose higher and higher in the sky, but the forest canopy was thick and the trees grew closer together the farther they went. The forest seemed to be thrown into a sort of perpetual twilight, casting dim shadows on her and the men as they made their way over a thick layer of molding leaves and dirt, boots and cart wheels crunching the twigs with audible snaps.

Seras was sore from the jostling of the cart. She was sitting on the tiny wooden seat on the front of the cart, just behind the two horses. She had a tiny corner of the bench to herself, the rest being taken by Jarrod's giant of a father. So far, she'd found out that his name was Golan, and he wasn't too keen on answering questions that required him to speak more than two words at a time.

Jarrod had fallen asleep within an hour of setting off, and was still curled up in the back next to the wire cages. He didn't seem to be bothered by the constant movement and instead was snoring quietly, his head tucked under his arms. Seras was too kind to try and wake him, and so instead she began to quietly study the men with a sort of avid curiosity.

She hadn't spoken to any men beyond Golan, Jarrod, Baskerville, and the leader himself. But there were many of them, at least 40 or perhaps more. Her cart was closer to the front of the line, but far enough back that the leaders black horse was only visible when they curved around large rock formations or fallen trees. The line in front of her held maybe ten men or so, some on horseback and a few in another cart.

Her gaze was held for some time on the two men driving the other cart. They were identical in nearly every way, and she was shocked to see that two humans could be so alike. She had heard whispered stories of accursed women who'd bedded more than one man, and had birthed two babes at the same time like an animal.

She'd heard conflicting accounts, too. The housemaid had sworn that the babes were demons, and could work magick. However, her aunt had told her later that if a woman birthed more than two babes and they survived baptism, they were the Lord's children all the same. She wondered briefly if these men could work unspeakable feats. She had already seen enough strange workings in the forest to last a lifetime. And, sinful as it may be, she was curious to see a demon working magick.

Watching them, she decided with a hint of disappointment that they weren't very good demons, if they were at all. They laughed and joked with each other, sitting side-by-side on the cart's seat. They had short blonde hair and sparse beards, and had thick, corded muscles.

To her right was another strange fellow. He was the pallid one with spectacles and the scar running across his forehead, breaking up the skin with a jagged, puckered edge. His brown hair hung into his face, held back by a thin strip of cloth, and his eyes remained riveted on a manuscript as he let his cream-coloured horse lead its own way. She wanted to speak to him, but he seemed so immersed in his manuscript that she hated to interrupt him.

She had even leaned over without him noticing and read a line in the book when the horse passed close enough. Well, she had looked, at least. The page was in Latin, which she recognized from his Lordship's books, but she couldn't read it. Her aunt and uncle had taught her how to read tolerably well in her own language and sign her own name, but Latin and German were only for boys to learn, and she had been flogged the one time she had tried to sneak into the tiny room to hear the schoolmaster speak.

She had also looked with interest at the illuminated drawings on the manuscript's surface, but Golan had cleared his throat warningly and she had obediently leaned back to sit straight once more. The giant had looked down at her for a long moment before shaking his head, much like her uncle used to do when she did something foolhardy and thoughtless. She supposed leaning out of a moving cart far enough that she could slip and be crushed was reckless enough; however, the memory of her uncle pained her heart and her mood was dampened.

There was a tiny Spaniard on a horse, leading a few more by a rope attached to their bridles. There was Vizzini, nearly falling asleep on his horse as it plodded languidly. He carried many of the pots and pans they used on his horse's saddle. There was a long-necked man with sad eyes that rode a few paces ahead of Golan's cart, who kept pushing his bright red hair out of his eyes and tucking it behind his ears. There was the large Dawes, who had twigs in his beard, which annoyed Seras to the point she wanted to go up to him and pluck them out.

At the forefront rode the leader, with Baskerville just behind him on a horse and the three wolfhounds following in their wake. He seemed to know where he was going; he had no map or compass, but instead seemed to read the forest by its shadows. He would pause for a moment in the deep shade, looking around with crimson eyes burning before going on his way without a sound.

She found herself watching him the most, the few times he came into view. It irked her, but she couldn't help but feel like she needed to keep a close eye on him. He was so mysterious; something about him made her skin crawl, but at the same time all he had to do was talk to her and the silkiness of his voice put her at ease. It was baffling.

It didn't take long before she was completely bored. She was tired of looking at the men, who did nothing but speak among themselves or nearly fall asleep and then jerk awake to shake themselves and keep a stronger grip on their horses. Golan didn't speak at all, Jarrod seemed set on sleeping until they arrived, and the forest was endless and every part looked the same as the last. It was all leaves and mottled colour.

She finally grew weary enough that she wished she'd chosen to ride with the leader. At least he would have probably spoken to her, and if not him, than Baskerville would have. She would have even ridden with the hounds, if not for the change of pace! A plan began forming in her mind and she licked her lips, gathering her courage and looking around before making her decision.

She sat demurely until they slowed down to round a corner, and then with one fell swoop she leaped from the cart and landed on the ground. She nearly lost her footing, but she managed to keep her boots on the ground as she slid on the leaves. The reading man's horse neighed in fright and reared, causing the man to nearly loose his seat. He threw his manuscript up and yelped in alarm, his hands coming forward to grab the horse's mane as his long legs slid off the horse's back.

Jarrod sat up, looking around in confusion at the commotion. Golan shouted, but the horses weren't paying attention and he couldn't stop them, nor could he leap from his place at the reins to chase after her. Besides, she was gone. Gone, running through a sea of men's feet and horses, ducking underneath and around parcels and packages as she dashed through to the front of the throng.

The men at front, who had heard the startled neighing and calls from the men, stopped and turned. Baskerville squinted back at the carts as if daring anyone to make any more noise, but his master saw the blonde hair bobbing through the equine sea and his lips curled up in amusement. He waited for her and presently she appeared, panting and glaring up at him as if he'd dealt her some offense.

"How now, shepherdess?" he said pleasantly, bending his head in a bow. She took a few deep breaths before standing up straighter, dusting off her new breeches and shirt.

"I grew weary o' riding in such ways," she informed him, jerking her head at the cart. "I wish to ride up front." She looked meaningfully towards the hounds, which looked back blankly. Mephistopheles wagged his tail briefly before looking at Baskerville, who seemed too surprised to speak.

"And ride you shall," the leader obliged her, leaping off his black horse. She barely had time to gasp when he landed before her, turning her around and throwing her up on his horse before mounting behind her. "As always, your wish is my command," he jeered. She coloured at the jest, her nose wrinkling before she sniffed haughtily. _Two can play at that game_, she thought irritably before sitting up and turning her head to address him.

"Forward, then." He grinned a sharp-toothed leer before clicking his tongue and his horse moved onward. She heard the trail start up behind them and then they were off. She was already sore from the cart, but the horse ride wasn't too bad. She felt his sturdy chest, rock-solid against her shoulder blades, and she twisted her head to watch the hounds and Baskerville trotting along beside her, the man on his own horse and still watching her strangely.

"How do we fare on time?" she called out to him, giving him a warm smile. She really needed to try and become friends with at least a few of these men. It would make her time here easier for however long she was forced to stay until she could find a town to run away into and make her way home.

"Ah, a ways yet," he replied once the shock had worn off. "We'll make camp by nightfall, but only just."

"Perhaps not even then," the man behind her purred, pointing. Baskerville looked ahead and his mouth tightened into a thin line. He held up his left arm and the men behind her bristled. Seras couldn't see them, but she felt their tense mood in the air all around her. Her companion's arm tightened around her waist in a vice and she felt her heart drop in mingled excitement and dread. Something was happening.

She craned forward, searching through the leaves for whatever it was that they saw. Then, a horse brown as the tree trunks seemed to appear from nowhere, and she gasped and flung herself back into the leader's arms in fear. She hadn't seen the horse, or the man astride it, until they were right upon her! If they'd been a cutthroat and she was alone, it would have been far too late.

The man wore the same coloured garments as the men of "her" troupe did, blending in seamlessly with the foliage. He was stained and scruffy, with sharp black eyes that glittered like a beetle's. She felt his eyes land on her and his mouth curved in a lusty sneer. She recoiled in disgust and felt a rush of anger from the man behind her. The arm around her waist tightened ever so slightly, and to her surprise she felt a sense of complete safety.

She heard other horses ahead of her, and knew without being told that this was another pack of thieves that roved the forest. The men had made snide comments about how lucky she was to be "found" by them, and not another travelling band of bandits. Now she could see why; these men, who seemed to be coming out of the leaves themselves, were far filthier, uglier, and even more uncultured than the ones she was with!

They stared at her unabashedly, without the barest hint of civility. She felt like a piece of meat at a market, and some of them were even licking their chapped lips as they kept their eyes riveted on her thighs and chest. The leader led his horse to the front of their trail and bent down in a bow, his eyes fliting up for the briefest moment to the leader before coming back to her. She scowled her fiercest scowl and he grinned savagely before addressing them.

"Well met, 'm sure," the man called to the leader. "Me men and I was just passin' this way on our journey towards Living Ridge." Seras knew the place he spoke of; it was not two towns off from her dear Hollydean. She felt a twinge of fear for her family, and the townspeople whose acquaintance she'd cherished.

"Well met," the leader called in reply. "We are also passing on, though we head towards Brookdale." The men of the other troupe murmured and their leader paused, thinking hard for a moment before answering.

"I has news o' Brookdale," he said hesitantly. "I'd willingly part with it, in exchange for yer comely little whore." He grinned, and his teeth were nearly as rotted as Jarrod's. Seras pressed back further into the leader's touch, preferring the hell she knew to the one she could only imagine.

"I'm afraid I'm not willing to make such a trade. This maiden is mine and mine alone. If you have information, I suggest you give it forthwith, sir. Otherwise, I might not let you pass so easy."

"Is it a threat?" the man growled, then paled as he saw something in the leader's face. He cleared his throat, his tone changing to a more beseeching, friendly one. "Ah, erm…See here, friend. We wants no trouble; we has no cause to cross arms, does we? But news such as mine don't come at a small price." Again his eyes drifted across Seras, lingering on her legs, outlined so prettily in those breeches.

"You're right, _friend_," the leader purred back viciously. His voice made every hair on Seras' body rise, a shiver running from her head to her feet. She felt the sudden urge to run far away, her body screaming of imminent danger. The man's very aura reeked of bloodshed, and the comfort of being on _his _horse flew away in the blink of an eye. "I'll make a price—that information for your life."

"Ye drive a hard bargain, sir." The man grinned weakly, but his eyes remained on Seras. She scowled back, despite feeling weak herself. "How 'bout this—I tells ye the news, ye gives me a quarter-hour with the wench, and we part as we may."

"Very well," the leader conceded in a bored tone, relaxing his grip. Seras froze with a gasp, her nails biting into the arm wrapped around her waist. The men behind them let out shouts of protest, and even Baskerville balked at the easy way the leader had agreed to the bargain. He held up a hand and the protests quieted immediately. "But if you lie, I _will _know, and I will not hesitate to kill you."

"Ye can hold me to me honor," the bandit swore. "News is, the Silver Knight has made landing in Brookdale. 'olds _supernatural _powers, but 'ent no one going to cry sorcery when the town's protected, is they? They says the Knight can hold its own against any danger that be comin' round, and that e's got it in good with the Traveling Priest."

"Traveling Priest?" the leader repeated, a curious edge to his voice. The bandit nodded.

"'E travels 'round, blessin' the folk and ex-cor-sisin' demons, praying over deathbeds, the like. 'Ent one for bandits, either. They says he wields a blade, fine as any swordsman worth 'is mettle. 'E's been poking his big nose 'round these parts too, word is."

"Interesting," the leader murmured. Seras heard him well, but the bandit strained forward. Perhaps it was because she was up against his chest, and his voice echoed in her ears as if she were in the manor's cellars. "A sorcery Knight and a swordsman Priest. Both in the area." The sense of bloodlust came back, but not near as… yearning, perhaps. It was as if he was content to wait awhile in order to sate his appetite.

"Aye, aye," the bandit snapped impatiently. "Now, 'tis time for ye to keep yer end o' our bargain." He was practically drooling, and Seras shrieked in fright as the leader practically threw her off the horse with a sense of disinterest. She looked up at him disbelievingly, her mouth hanging open as the man dismounted his horse and stomped her way.

"Ye can't….ye can't let him," she sputtered, looking up at him, still mounted on his ebony steed. He gazed apathetically back at her and she felt her eyes fill with tears, her bravery forgotten. He wouldn't rape her, but he didn't say that he wouldn't let others do the job for him. She began to shake and looked frantically at Baskerville for support. He was not moving, but he was staring between her and his master with something akin to fury. She made a small sound and he averted his eyes from her, looking steadily at the far trees with a grave frown.

The men didn't dare stir from their horses and carts, but they were all watching with a sense of helplessness. Some awkwardly avoided her eyes as Baskerville did (Jarrod was covering his ears, his eyes screwed shut), but others gave her sad looks of "what-can-be-done?". No one would go against their leader, when he had clearly agreed with the man.

She turned back to the oncoming danger, which was currently arguing with the men of his own troupe. They wanted a piece, too. She heard their raucous comments clearly, her heart nearly stopping in her terror.

"No! The agreement was me only, not ye lot!" the man snarled. These bandits weren't as hierarchal as the ones she knew. They argued and pettily fussed with their leader, even after the order to stop had been given.

"Come on! I haven't had a go in so long; you never let us stop!" "Aye, look at 'er, plenty to go 'round!" "I bet the whore's game!" She looked up one last time at the leader.

"Don't let 'im do it." Her mouth formed the words, but she was unsure if she had even managed to say it aloud. Her eyes met his, and despite her fear she still managed to look brave. It was as if she were trying to lie to herself and say that she was commanding him, and not pleading with him.

She saw something in his eyes change—for the briefest instant he looked at her the same way he had when she had begun crying in the forest—but the next second it was gone, save for a softening of his mouth, making him seem nearly uncertain of his own intentions. Then he swallowed and the moment was broken as her eyes moved to his neck.

The man grabbed her and she was roughly swung around, her breath failing her. He pulled her closer with a wild grin, his body odor and revolting breath making her gag. She tried to scramble away but he was stronger than he looked. She ended up slapping him as hard as she could, the sound echoing in the clearing and the catcalls of the other bandits dying away as they gazed at her in shock.

"Get yer hands off me!" she commanded, in the same way her aunt commanded the scullery maids. Her booming voice and temper made the man stop and stare at her, his mouth hanging open stupidly. Then a riding boot met his chest and he was torn away from her, flying through the air to land near his own horse with a grunt of pain.

"You heard her," the leader sneered. "She doesn't want you."

"Ye-ye said," the other man rasped, trying to get to his feet. "Ye go back on our bargain now?" The leader shook his head, looking offended.

"I do not! I agreed that you could have her for a quarter-hour. But I never said you could touch her." The man gaped and then unsheathed his dagger with a snarl of fury at being deceived. The other bandits saw their leader getting ready for a fight and pulled their own weapons with cries of battle.

Seras could do little more than squeak as she was hoisted back onto the ebony horse, her hands tangling in the dark mane before she knew well what she was doing. Something cool pressed against her neck and she heard a voice in her ear.

"Close your eyes." They fluttered closed obediently, almost with a mind of their own, as she breathed a sigh of relief. So he wasn't going to let them rape her after all. She felt a small vein of anger—why had he tricked her along with the others!? Did he enjoy tormenting her, like a proper demon would? Or had he originally meant what he said, but her plea had changed his mind? She was suddenly puzzled. He didn't seem very moveable, but perhaps she had managed to find some favor in his eyes?

"Do you doubt me?" his voice was wry now, and it grated at her. "I told you true; if you're a good girl and do as I say, no harm will come to you under my watch." They were moving quickly through the forest with a flick of the reins, and her eyes stayed closed as branches smacked at her legs and face. She heard shouts and the snarling of hounds dying away in the distance. "Open your eyes now."

She opened her eyes as they slowed to a stop, and she saw a large cliff overhanging made from rocks that seemed to have been placed there by a giant. It seemed so out of place in the forest, but moss grew on the sides of the smooth face and the overhang made an easy shelter.

"Oh," she breathed, and he dismounted before holding out his arm to help her slide off the back. "How lovely." She scrambled up onto the rock, mossy and soft under her hands as she reached the top and looked back down at the leader, who was watching her with an amused smile on his face.

"We'll wait here for the others to catch up," he informed her curtly before climbing up after her with a far quicker stride. He made it to the top in half the time where she sat quietly, her legs dangling off the overhang. He sat beside her, close enough that it should have made her want to move away. But she was partial to him for the moment, since he refused the man what he wanted.

"Why did ye throw me to the wolves if ye didn't mean it? Ye should 'ave told me. Or better," she added, glaring balefully at him, "don't use me as yer bargaining chip. I want none of it."

"You should trust me," he replied with an indifferent roll of his shoulders. He grinned at her when she huffed in exasperation. "I told you that no harm would come to you when you obeyed me. You haven't disobeyed me yet. And besides, I truly thought he would lie; but humans are such changeable creatures. I can never discern exactly what they'll do next."

"Ye say it like yer not human yerself." Seras crossed her arms and sniffed. The man's grin grew wider and he even spared a laugh at her offhanded sentence.

"Well, my dear, perhaps you shouldn't be so quick to assume that I am human." Her head jerked to the side and she stared at him steadily, trying to see some hint of mockery or lies in his features. She could see none. He watched her just as attentively, his eyes fixated on hers.

"Ye ent from England," she said suddenly. That seemed to catch him off guard; his eyes widened and he looked blank for the briefest moment before his expression became neutral. She smiled internally; every time she reduced him to a state like that, she took it as a personal victory. He might have stolen her away like some changeling child returned to the Fae, but she could still gain the upper hand, it seemed. It gave her a strangely bleak sense of hope, as if her best option for survival was to keep him on his toes.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, and she heard the guarded tone in his voice. Her eyes narrowed; what was he hiding? What did he think she was referring to? "Is my countenance too exotic for this island?"

"Nay," she shook her head. "Ye speak too boldly. A true Englishman would have some measure of chivalry in his voice and actions." This prompted a roar of laughter from her companion, who nearly fell off the rock as he leaned back and guffawed.

"Chivalry?!" he repeated, almost incredulously. "You mean to say," he continued as the laughter ceased somewhat, "that I am more barbaric than those knaves that wanted to ruin you the night you joined our little party?" She frowned and he tilted his head, staring out at her from behind his stringy bangs. "Those were Englishmen, born and bred on this hunk of stone. But I am a savage compared to them."

"I didn't say it that way," she snapped. "I only meant that ye speak as ye see, and that's not somethin' that the others do." He stayed silent, and she looked out over the clearing to the trees, leaves fluttering in the breeze as the gray clouds overhead continued to roll along slowly. The sky was clearing, patches of sunlight dancing in amongst the dark clouds that spoke a promise of rain.

"And ye are barbaric. A chivalrous man might have let me go back to me home." To that, there was no reply and they sat in brooding silence, waiting.


End file.
