"I came around and found myself now searching through a dark wood."

The words came from Dante; the sour grunt came from Anatole, Paladin of shadows of the Ashen Court.

He stared into the wreckage of the Autumn Court Hollow, now reduced to dim, dark, tiny space where shadows pooled and the Thorns pressed eagerly against the remnants of his Wards. The grandiose spaces and the library which had belonged to Rhodes had been devoured and drowned in the resurgent hedge. The remains of the panelled flooring was being consumed beneath his feet even as he stood in the space. The sound was both a gnawing scrape and a liquid burble, all at once.

"You were fast, then."

Anatole tugged on his beard, speaking to no one in particular but directing his speech to the hungry Thorns.

"I am coming through."

He spoke with weary determination, focussing his will - and more importantly his Wyrd upon the murderous Thorns, so tantalisingly close. He felt the Glamour eased away from him like a lover's caress and shivered despite himself. Foliage shredded and wood rattled as a passage opened before him: dark, dim, light shrank from it in keeping with his own shadowy mantle. His mouth formed a stern line, sinking beneath his effusive curls as he stubbornly marched forward. Grasping Thorns yanked and cut at him where his brusque pace outpaced the forming path.

He snarled when his long beard and foaming hair became ensnared. Something sighed in the gloom. Something laughed in the darkness. Once, after a very nasty tug, he bought his hand to his temple and found blood on his fingers. Huffing, the Wizened pressed on.

"Yeah, yeah. You've taken everything back with the Crown. Good for you. So what - gah!"

Not content waiting for the path to continue before his presence, the dwarf resorted to manhandling the Hedge itself. He scraped and scrabbled like a pathetic beast, bloodying his hand and his fingers. Vines ensnared one of his wrists, tearing at his flesh and dragging against his muscles in painful resistance.

The Paladin of Shadows fought.

He fought as the sliver of a trod he had created by will alone began to seal up behind him.

He swore, snarled his defiance.

Was it defiance that compelled him, or did he simply not care? Even he didn't know any more.

Then the Thorns convulsed and vomited the burned dwarf into a dim space much greater than the narrow path he had been carving. The space was too dark for him to make out its dimensions but his feet ground against dirt and gravel. A smell of sweat and dirt, pain and grief, grew as he pressed forward. Dim, muffled sounds: clink of metal; hammering; industry.

Slavery.

The Fear had him as he remembered his Durance.

Behind him came the vegetable sussurus of the hedge as the Thorns closed and sealed the way back. He could only go forward and so he did, limping as a phantom pain snagged at his leg: the dead weight of the manacle that bound him to the anvil; bones broken and healing after his challenge to Iron Meg.

He came upon the anvil where he thought he had left it. It was an ugly thing, blocky and crude. Around it lay the materials and tools of the Smith. The fire still smoked and steamed; the leering face in the flames had been replaced by another wearing abject despair - it was the only light source now. Metal ingots gleamed in a pile. Fresh made weapons were stacked together where had left them (had no one come for his last batch [i]or was this a simulacrum of his memories?)

"A test then, is it? Fine!"

Snarling, Anatole reached out and touched the anvil, solid as ever. He had spent a life time breaking free of the anvil's chains.

For the longest time he dared not reach out and touch the tools of the forge. Had he not vowed to never take up the smith's tools again? Had he not swore that he'd never work with his hands again? Fear again wheedled at him - Anatole knew now how words could play the Lost and he was deep in the Hedge where words meant more than ever, spoken or unspoken it mattered not. Thick fingers gently ran over the tools: tongs, hammer and so on - long lost lovers meeting once again.

Had he loved the simplicity of the task? The reward of a job well done - by his own standard and no one else's for the warmaster only cared for arms and armour for his liege's armies

But this was no long requited meeting. This was a test, he was certain. A task to be completed in the presence of that which he feared the most. He should have buried his emotions deep, shielding them from the dread fear that pressed upon him...

So why was he smiling - evening humming - when he set to work once more in the dark and lightless place?