Locksley

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In the heart of Sherwood Forest is a tree. That a tree can be found at the heart of a forest is not remarkable and yet, everything about it was. Unlike the the ancient trees that surrounded it, the Major Oak was squat and broad, it's low branches spread so far that in modern times an array of props and scaffolding stopped the thousand-year relic from collapsing under it's own weight. A cavernous rift wove into the twisted trunk as if many trees had merged together leaving a void large enough for a grown man to stand in; according to local legend, the folk hero Robin Hood and his entire band of outlaws had hidden within to conceal them from Nottingham's pursuit.

A smile tugged at Jensen's features. The story seemed preposterous when you considered it; but then, myths and folklore so often did. Of course, in modern times culture's memory merged stories of Robin Hood with tales of Peter Pan; hiding in trees became living in trees, arboreal networks of platforms and bridges that spanned vast areas of forest, and hollow trunks large enough to contain entire homes. Whatever truth had once existed, it was long lost from the memories of the world.

Eyes sweeping around his dusk-lit surroundings to be sure that he was not being watched, Jensen casually vaulted the fence and stepped over to the tree with an air of almost reverence. His fingertips brushed across the bark, senses ignited with faint memories from too long ago to be resolved in clarity. The feel of the bark, the smell of the lichen and the fallen leaves underfoot reminded him of family; of brothers; of the times they'd spent together in the shadow of these branches. The recollection tasted bittersweet: that closeness with his brothers had long since faded, growing up arriving hand in hand with growing apart.

He circled, his footsteps bringing him to the wooden cave. His hand lingered on the bough beside it as he stared into the tree's shaded core; a single word tumbled from his lips, as much memory as it was conscious choice.

"Dhíghlasáil."

The tree quivered in response to his voice. Branches swayed; bark quaked beneath his fingers; the vibrations shivered all the way to the Oak's roots, rumbling the ground beneath his boots. The shadows within the tree deepened, darkened, as if the man-sized rift had suddenly transformed into a cavernous void. Jensen drew a breath and, with eyes closed, flung himself into the depths.

The air rippled, as if the misty vista that surrounded them was a reflection on the surface of a lake. Qilin watched as something tangible pierced the surface, a figure rising from thin air like a lady from a lake. Not that the Keeper would appreciate such a comparison of course; the young man always seemed so sensitive, too unsure of his own self to be comfortable with comparisons to others.

Qilin paid him no more heed, his attention returning to the twilight clearing that the mist-filled woods encircled. Where he was presented a question to which there was no easy answer; the Locked Leigh was where it was, but also it wasn't. To young Jensen the clearing was found in the heart of a tree; to others it was at the end of a winding woodland path; or the destination when one walked through a properly enchanted door. Newton, from what he understood, had a fondness for entry via wardrobe, some closet reference to a children's fable that Qilin had not the patience nor inclination to investigate.

What mattered was not the where, but rather the what. Locked was such a clumsy adjective for what this leigh, this clearing, was. The mists were not simply vapours hanging in the air; they were a mystical barrier that warded them against trespass and observation. Those translucent wisps were an impregnable wall, a line of defense made of the very air itself like some impenetrable sky trench. Beyond the mists was oblivion, for the leigh was a place away from places; a time away from time. This was their bastion, their sanctuary. The ancient linguistic roots of the English name did it the most justice: a shelter from the storm.

Though clearing was the name that described it best, the leigh was far from clear. The darkness of the sky above was driven back by the reassuring glow of light that simply was without any apparent source, as if it rose harmlessly out of the grassy floor simply because it had nothing better to do. It cast no shadows, save for those it threw out into the perimeter of trees, wrapping around or perhaps simply shining through the scattered objects that cluttered the space. Most dominating was the circular table that stood at the leigh's heart, warm as wood and yet hard as stone, thirteen seats spaced evenly around: a forum for noble men to sit and speak as equals, a table at which no one's seat or stature placed them above any others.

It was not the table that drew Qilin's gaze however, but rather the relics displayed at the leigh's pentagonal points. He faced towards a flickering brazier, the light from which everything in clearing seemed to ignore, save for the statue of a hooded figure that loomed behind it, it's eyes seeming to glow with fire of their own. To his left stood a perfect apple tree, the fruits hanging from it's branches seeming to ripple and shift between the appearances of whatever cultivar crossed his mind; the seductive form of a nymph carved into the tree itself. To his right loomed a jagged mount of rock that had thrust it's way from the ground, an impossible sword thrust into the stone half way to it's hilt, watched over by a night that had stepped straight from the pages of medieval history. Though behind him, he felt the looming presence of the anvil and the fountain, and of the marble angel and granite devil that stood guard behind each. The thought of the water in particular was unnerving, trickling torrent that had been ushered forth from the depths swimming with shadows as it defiantly refused to reflect the clearing's light.

Qilin flinched as he felt a hand settle on the shoulder that the angel watched; he turned, and mustered the faintest of smiles for the woman who had approached, her pristine features more perfect and angelic than even the statue could achieve.

"My apologies," he said softly, a tired weariness scuffing away at the edges of his words. "I was lost in thought; I did not see you arrive."

A warm smile greeted her old friend as Thesis slowly withdrew her hand. The edge of her vision caught sight of the fountain and a minute nod of her head accompanied a a rather peculiar sensation. It wasn't outright dread, more a respectful sort of trepidation that she knew was shared by almost everyone who would be in attendance. Not all would aim their concerns in a single direction, most would always be of two minds regarding the others save their seconds.

"There are no apologies necessary, this place has that effect on all of us."

Steely gaze settled on the Keeper and a slow and deep breath was taken, letting the purity of the space between time soak into her.

"Do we know all who will heed the summons?" She doubted that Qilin truly knew the answer, it was one that was best kept for Newton, but he had yet to arrive.

There would be empty seats, of that she was certain, the question came more from just how many would be left so.

"So many questions."

There was an odd mix of tones in Vivienne's voice; a tired resignation mixed with a mirthful taunt. She didn't bother to hide her smile, and instead nurtured it, her eyes glistening with the kind of unapologetic scrutiny that made her eyebrows arch. She reached up into the branches of the apple tree in whose non-existent shadow she stood, her fingers wrapping around one of the subjective fruits, plucking it free. Her teeth sunk through the skin and tore off a bite of flesh, the juices flooding her mouth as her gaze remained transfixed on the older woman. A single bite was all she took before allowing the apple to tumble, wasted, to the floor.

It was only then that she looked away, not out of any compulsion that Thesis' returned gaze provided, but simply because the woman's visage no longer held her interest. Her gaze instead fell on her companion, standing dutifully behind her in silence, content to allow his mistress to do the talking. Her eyes lingered on his chest, fingertips trailing playfully down his shirt as her teeth teased at half of her bottom lip, tongue idly sweeping away the remnant traces of the apple's taste.

With a sigh she drew her hand away; still more effort was required to do the same with her eyes. Thoughts flooded her mind, all manner of inappropriate uses for the clearing and it's surfaces swimming about unbidden but not unwanted.

"Perhaps she's jealous -" she said at last, not to Thesis nor to her man, but to the woman with the coppery curls who, like her, lingered beneath the apple tree's branches. Her gaze flickered towards the redhead, the teasing taunt once again bright in her eyes. "- that ours are both here, whereas hers likely will not."

Her brow furrowed into a frown.

"Oh wait, no. I forgot: he's not yours any more, is he?"

A tut of pity clicked from her tongue, the same sentient conveyed in her eyes. "Such a shame that you couldn't manage to keep him."

It was her mother's blood that caused a sudden flare of burn within her, to nudge towards, but it was her father's that reigned her in, smothered the rising rage and allowed her to once again remember that there were things far greater than a woman with a sharp tongue. Even when words cut deep the wounds they caused would bleed slowly... much as they always had over the years.

No smile was favored to Vivienne, just a visage of composure that perfectly matched the calm tones she used to respond with. "People are not property, Vivienne. One day you shall realize this."

Marian caught herself beginning to glance towards the direction of the brazier and the man who lingered near it and brought it to an abrupt halt. A simple glance would have given too much away and she wasn't about to allow Vivienne's poison to leech towards him. She couldn't allow the woman the sense of satisfaction that would arise from it.

She instead looked towards the table and then to Thesis. It was her calling that would bring them there, something that had not occurred for longer than any would care to admit. It spoke of ill tidings...

While Blaise's vision had remained filled with the fires of the eternal brazier, the tones the others were speaking in was not a loss to her. Ages had passed since the last they were called to this place and yet lingering resentments and bickering resumed as if they all had only parted ways yesterday. The details were lost in the soft crackle of the element before her but they did not matter, very little here mattered. The gravity of the occurrence was not lost on her, but the fact it was Thesis' doing brought little in the way of concern.

Things were being set in motion, fulfilling fates that had been written since before many of those who had arrived were even born. There was little that could be done to stop it, but dangers and uncertainties were always lingering just at the edge of the mists.

Her gaze moved from the flames to regard the two women by the apple tree and then slowly moved to the man closest to her. Fate was not always a kind thing, no doubt Thesis had not taken that into regard when she had called them all together, yet even this meeting was inevitable.

It took all of Pythia's self control to stop her jaw from trembling in anger. She watched from a distance, only passingly aware of the people she was observing by reputation rather than personal acquaintance, and yet she knew enough to make her blood boil in her veins. There were family ties at work, brothers and sisters and daughters and sons; and yet their hearts held nothing but poison, their lips nothing but venom. These people were blood - worse, these people were family - and yet they spoke to each other without even the faintest ember of love. Pythia thought of her own family, of the way it valued love and loyalty above all else, and could not muster any sentiment towards these people other than pity and disgust.

Still, her sense of self control bode her to keep her silence, and her distance. It was not her place to interfere: not in these proceedings, nor in the precedings. She was there by invitation, extended to her by the sombre old man with the weary face and even wearier eyes. She knew who he was, knew what he represented, and could not even begin to fathom the honour being placed upon her by his request that she sit by his side. It was humbling; and anyone who thought otherwise was a fool.

She cast her eyes to the other companions: to Thesis' dutiful escort, and the subject of Vivienne's tactile affections. She caught sight of the respect in the former's eyes, and the total lack in the latter's. She took a cautious, tentative step closer to the escort, her voice and eyes kept low to avoid disturbing the woman he stood sentry beside.

"How can they have so little reverence," she asked him quietly, "In a place as hallowed as this?"

Gale couldn't help but smile as he looked over at the woman who had come at Qilin's behest. She was new to this place, new to the dynamics that had shaped it and for that her perspective was unique, disconnected, insightful. He let his eyes wander among those gathered, he knew their stories, their lives, how they all were connected. Perhaps it was true that they were all far too used to each other and it forced them to take for granted the unique positions they all filled.

"History." The single word was uttered as if it could explain everything, though Gale knew far better. "Too much of it, perhaps."

A long slow breath was drawn in and exhaled through his nose as his gaze met that of Blaise for an instant before drawn away to look back towards Pythia. "I know how this may seem to you, that they, we, are petty as they nurse old wounds that would best be forgotten once one was to enter this place. But you must realize that their anger, the slow churning discontent; it stems from the conflict of obligation versus solicitude. All their lives they have been warring between these two forces. Victories, losses, casualties, these are like daggers twisting in the backs of their minds even as they attempt to manipulate matters outside of their realms of personal influence. It is not an excuse for their attitudes, but perhaps you can at least understand why it may be hard to put such things aside."

The round table gained his attention and another heavy breath was taken with an air of melancholy. "I am not certain they will change once we have officially begun. I fear some grievances will always color their views."

Fred scoffed. Admittedly he wasn't entirely sure why he had agreed to come along. It wasn't that one of the seats wasn't rightfully his, it was that all that was taking place seemed so damn archaic. Would it have hurt Newton to spruce up the place? Maybe change things up, build a a nice lounge with comfortable seats and a bar they could all relax in rather than the damn uncomfortable chairs that they'd been forced to sit in time and time again. The whole scene made him uncomfortable nowadays as well, back when he had first been brought to this place everything had been so optimistic, so clear. Now though? Everyone was too busy trying to push forward their agendas and to be completely honest Fred just couldn't give a shit anymore. It wasn't worth the effort most days.

There was only one hiccup in his apathy - Vivienne.

He was loathe to admit it but the woman had him damn near wrapped around her little finger. So when Vivienne said they had to go and represent her side of things, he begrudgingly had agreed. Though, Fred did have to admit that watching everyone's reactions to each other after so long was priceless. He was surprised that Marian hadn't attempted to hit Vivienne considering what she had said, of course this was Marian not her sister. Part of him had been glad that Jensen hadn't overheard their conversation but another was curious to see exactly what his reaction would have been. Then there was Thesis who brought to mind the person who he was willing to place a very large bet on not showing up - which was also a bit of a shame considering Thesis' little escort and the woman in red. What a mixed bag of fuck up they all were... One seat for certain would remain empty and Fred couldn't help but be amused at the very thought of everyone's reaction to him showing up but sadly that just wasn't to be. Oh well, you can't have everything.

Of course that also brought up the two others that hadn't shown up just yet... He wished they'd hurry up so they could get this over with. Maybe it'd turn into a shouting match. Goodie.

It felt wrong, somehow, to have been summonsed in such a way, to a realm that was essentially of his making. Admittedly, the possession and the pronouns were more complicated, but for a lack of a better description this place, this Locksley as the Keeper insisted upon calling it, was his; the closest thing to a home that he possessed. It wasn't where he slept, of course, on those rare occasions when he did. It wasn't his domicile either: he had a home, with beds and kitchens and other such requisite things there to sustain his physical form. But they were not home; they were not the place in which he belonged.

His hand released the smaller one it gently but firmly held, the tugging weight of the child he had led into the clearing suddenly gone from his arm. He felt a strange sensation in the part of his chest where his heart supposedly was; a longing perhaps for the comfort the tiny gesture of physical comfort offered. Thoughts and knowledge and insights coursed through Newton's mind every moment of every day, the ebb and flow of causality and fate streaming away behind his eyes with every passing second. It was overwhelming, as if standing in a crowded room that was somehow encircled by highway traffic. The noise, the voices, the cacophonous and unending crescendo of sound was a haze through which his conscious thoughts struggled to meander. It was easy to become lost, to simply curl up in one's mind and forget about the world that existed beyond the confines of his skull.

His now empty hand slowly closed into a loose fist. She was an anchor; she turned the world and people into something relevant.

"Please," he said, a little startled by the sound of his own voice as he always was. He stepped from the treeline into the clearing and, as the perpetual twilight washed over him, felt glad that this place was so peaceful and quiet. It was a bubble, a soundproof room amid all that sound and sensation. The noise wasn't gone entirely, lingering muffled at the back of his mind; but at least it was enough to allow a little clarity so that his thoughts might emerge with less meandering haste.

He gestured towards the Round Table; a flicker of disappointment in him as the assembled regarded it with less reverence than he felt they should. "Perhaps it would be best if we all sat."

She liked it here. It was more real than where she came from and that was a strange thing to say all things considered. The truth was, she only liked it when there were others. The others at that. It had been too long since they had all come here. Or had it been just the right amount of time? Yes, definitely the second.

The others were looked at with the same mixture of curiosity and genuine care that were always placed upon them and she practically beamed at the Keeper before she suddenly seemed to become aware of the fact she was standing by herself on the edge of the clearing. It was when Newton spoke that she found herself flexing fingertips that had been in his grasp only moments ago. It felt wrong to be separated from him, the small distance troublesome. Several quick, soundless footsteps were taken as she came to the set of chairs that normally her and her guardian would occupy.

A pause as she once more looked around, a small frown tugging at her otherwise radiant expression. Just because some things were meant to be did not mean they still were not unfortunate and the lack of the presence of one in particular felt as if a void were present within a place that normally felt whole.

It felt strange to cast the questioning glance at Newton, knowing that they both already held the answers. Perhaps she was only reflecting what the others felt.

As the visitors to Locksley found their seats, the emptiness of two was conspicuous.

One seat separated Vivienne from Gale; a distance that he was no doubt glad to have present. A vacant chair at a Round Table was a circumstance with legendary significance; but this was Locksley, not Camelot, and the chair was not left empty to await a knight worthy of the quest for the Holy Grail. On the contrary, this chair at this table was left empty not in anticipation but in dread: a reminder of a darkness absent from their number, a missing thirteenth that, for the sake of the cosmos, almost everyone herein hoped would always be.

The other empty chair was a reminder of it's own kind: not of looming danger but of abandonment and neglect. Of the Council's thirteen members, three in particular had special purpose. The one who Heals and the one who Keeps were present as always, their duties well in hand though they disagreed somewhat in their interpretation of where one's responsibility began and the other ended. The duties of the one who Hunts, who guards, who fights however had long been derelict, his loyalty to this Council abandoned in favour of what he believed to be a higher cause.

But such was the way of the worlds that that one man was not necessarily just one man.

They knew him as Glen, the people in the circle before him; but he was not, for that name had been left behind him long ago. In his heart, his mind, and in the world he called home, he was Hábrók: mutant, proud, and more besides. He was a father. He was a husband. He was a blacksmith, and a brewer; a man who by day slaved over an anvil to forge the weapons of warriors, and by night slaved over a bar to forge their hearts. Like the man they all expected, the man whose absence they expected, he had abandoned his duties for another cause; but not as swiftly, not with the same nobility, and for that his heart was darkened with guilt.

More than anything however, Hábrók was angry: not the inferno aggression of a raving berserker, but rather the smouldering embers of a rage that would not be satiated. He stalked across the clearing like a predator, the table and his vacant seat his prey. Close enough, his arm flung forward, the ornate axe held within it thrown onto the heart of the table with a bone-shaking clatter.

His gaze shifted from person to person, lingering on those he knew: Blaise, Vivienne, Jensen, Fred; faces that were familiar and yet somehow not. He shook the unsettling sensation aside as he took his seat between Newton and the Keeper, his glaring gaze fixed on the former with accusation, as if somehow he was responsible for fanning his anger's flames.

At last he released Newton from his sights, a calming breath drawn into him with effort. His eyes settled on Thesis, almost directly opposite.

"You summoned a Hunter," he stated, as matter-of-fact as his voice could growl. "You now have one."

"And you are welcome here." Her voice carried the even measure of a woman hiding her shock, and perhaps a bit of dismay at this Hunter's presence.

Despite being of her realm she had not been the one to summon him. Eyes specifically avoided the axe on the table, well aware of all it stood for. The accusatory look may have gone to her companion, but even Gale would not be so bold as to overstep such bounds. Of those at the table who knew of what had transpired, the list of those who would bring it to her direct attention was very short indeed. Most held only confusion in their eyes, Newton an almost apologetic hinting that wasn't quite guilt that he oft seemed fit to wear, Ananke seemed far more troubled than expected - even going so far as to reach towards the weapon on the table before suddenly drawing her small hand back. Thesis could not bring herself to meet the eyes of the small girl, worried for what she would see reflected there, and instead settled upon Qilin.

Thesis' attention strayed from him, but Hábrók's stare of accusation did not falter. When Qilin had come to him, he had promised him two things: the first was a chance to unleash his rage in the direction of those who deserved to be on the receiving end of it; the second was the possibility of hope. As he stood and stared at the woman whose eyes cast judgement upon everyone they regarded however, he found that his resolve for the first faltered. He knew who she was; knew that the only weapon in his arsenal that might have any impact were his words, and realised that her cool detachment would make her impervious to even that. Where rage had burned in his chest now only smoke and smoulder remained, and as the coldness began to creep through him, he longed for the promised warmth of hope even more.

With a sense of hesitation, Glen took the seat that was his. He felt his skin crawl as Vivienne cast an uncomfortably familiar smile in his direction; the look of innocence and intrigue on Fred's face was not particularly welcome either. An urge boiled in his fist, and in his mind he grabbed the axe from the table and swung it with all his might at both of them. In reality, his anger bubbled unseen like lava beneath the earth.

Thankfully, Jensen provided a barrier between Hábrók and two of those he was reluctant to even be in the same room as; alas, not so with Newton. He spared a sidelong glance into the ancient eyes of the scrawny figure to his immediate left, before resuming his cat-like unflinching stare in Thesis' direction. Newton's mouth shifted as if words were about to escape; Hábrók cut it off with a grunt.

"The white witch called this congress," he uttered. "Perhaps she should enlighten us to why."

Many unspoken interactions passed through the table, small glances conveying questions, downcast eyes hinting at guilt that was either misplaced or properly focused, haughty looks filled with amusement and waiting for answers to the question the Hunter had spoken. She was not one for confrontation, her way was always to let things pass as they needed, interfering only with a select few and only to call upon them to bestow greater purpose. Even those situations were never meant to force situations, the individuals were always given a choice, always capable of declining and returning to their own paths. So it was with all under her charge, they were allowed to choose their own fates regardless of what destiny may have wanted for them. Some may have seen occurrences she had allowed as crimes, awful incidents that forever scarred those involved - the Hunter was certainly among them, but there were those at the table who certainly could not be among those to cast stones in her direction. If her world was a dark reflection of another, there was at least one out there that was nothing short of a waking nightmare.

There had been an agreement though, one made at this very table, there was to be no interference in regards to the others. As her eyes cast back upon the ornate axe she felt the beginnings of a frown tug at the edges of her lips. Someone had broken that agreement.

"Very well. I summoned this court in regards to ask a question of my own, I suppose." A quiet but deep breath was taken before she allowed her gaze to briefly lock with each individual. "I want to know who decided to take it upon themselves to disrupt events and remove two individuals from my world. Their sacrifice was of their own volition, the fact they were disallowed that..."

She left the rest unsaid as she could feel her disagreement with what had occured begin to surface. Anger was something she rarely experienced and was treading dangerously close on allowing herself to be overcome by. Another slow breath was taken before she forced herself to continue.

"A dangerous precedent has been initiated in this act."

"Dangerous for whom?" Qilin challenged; though it was more the challenge of a teacher encouraging a student towards insight than the confrontation of a rival.

His brows folded downwards into a frown, and a deep contemplative silence fell upon him as he pondered his next words. There were many things he could say that would undermine the White Witch as the Hunter had called her, many observations that would erode the edges of her her adamance. Such tactics would not work against Thesis, however: she was impervious to such attempts to chip away, and her steely resolve would only force her to be malleable, to bend her argument to evade such criticisms. The only resort against someone such as she was to pound her argument into submission with an undeniable, overwhelming truth.

"What precedent has been set by this act that has not already been established by members of this Council? You call the preservation of life a dangerous precedent, and yet you sit in the presence of one whose very mandate is to preserve all. You condemn this act, and yet you sit beside a man to whom you did much the same. You speak as if you advocate free will, and yet in the same breath you condemn whichever member of this Council chose to act upon their own."

"Perhaps what surprises me most of all, however, is to hear you advocate these souls being left to their Fate."

He fixed her with a look that conveyed all the accusation that his gently-spoken words did not.

"I was not aware you had abandoned your beliefs, and made yourself a slave to that concept."