You might give thought as to whether control matters too much to you.

It has been months since she has left the house for any length of time at all, other than to take short walks in the park nearby. She hadn't wanted to see anyone that she knows; hadn't wanted to break the fragile globe of her confined existence, which is all the shelter that can be left to her, now-- she who once had been whole, and loved.

Jennifer Lowell is not entirely certain why she has come, except that it's Paul, who had been clever enough to trick her into it -- but not cruel enough to push.

"The themes don't change much," she says, looking at images of cranes and mountains, of boats and rivers and streams that bend out of sight into places unknown.

From:

Paul glances over at her, and then back at the prints on the walls. They have, it seems, moved into the twentieth century.

"Not much," he answers - noncommital, if not absent.

From:

Behind them a shadow moves, quick but steady, in among the other shadows on the floor.

It wasn't there a moment ago.

From:

They're nearing the end of the exhibit.

Paul passes by a couple more twentieth-century pieces, feeling oddly restless, and then pauses in front of a large print of a river scene - more because he feels he should, than from any particular appreciation for it.

The reflection in the placid print is more interesting than the image itself. There's the sleepy security guard, dozing off in his chair; a few students taking ardent notes, and -

- and behind the students, or next to them, the blurred reflection of a wolf.

Paul doesn't need to pause to know what it means. He turns instantly, muscles already tense.

And meets the eyes of Galadan.

From:

She turns as he turns, and sees what he sees.

Who he sees, and Jennifer freezes.

Silver amid the dark of his hair, and how should it be that he should have such deadly, cruel grace? Like Brendel of the lios alfar, she had thought, once, if not for long.

She goes north for questioning he had said, and so she had been taken, and then--

--oh, and then--

Her soft gasp echoes clearly in the sudden stillness within her, and without, as well.

From:

There is no time -

Paul grabs Jennifer's hand and turns back, moving as quickly as he can through the exhibition, the way they've come.

The security guard doesn't look up from his doze; one of the students gives them a curious look before returning to his notepad.

Paul knows, without a doubt, that if it came to a showdown in this room, Galadan would have not a single care for the life of any of them.

He'd noted exits, absently, on his way up; he's thankful for it now, as he remembers which way to turn for the emergency exit. Mumbling a swift prayer, he pushes the bar down.

No alarm sounds.

From:

Galadan's smile is sardonic.

The Twiceborn of Mornir, fleeing before the Lord of the andain.

Of course.

How could it be otherwise?

But he knows well his quarry has nowhere to run, and so it is that his tread is even and measured as he follows them through the security exit, ignoring the cries of the guard as he does so.

If the man chooses to continue making a fuss, on his own head be it.

From:

Her hand is cold in Paul's, and her other hand is pressed tightly to her seven-months'-swollen middle, cradling the child yet unborn.

"No," she says, under her breath, and "No," a second time.

He will not have her, will not have them. Not again, no matter what. Silently, she swears it to herself-- and in the moment that she does, Jennifer Lowell feels something of pride and strength return to her, strengthening the spar that Paul had tossed out to her in the apartment, not so very long ago.

In the next, she stumbles as the corridor forks and Paul hastens her through another door, throwing her changed body off balance.

"I can't run, Paul!" she snaps.

From:

Paul curses under his breath, looking around.

He'd thought he was so clever, taking the emergency exit. They've come into Henry Moore's permanent sculpture exhibit, now, a long gallery of looming structures, with two doors - the one they've just come through, and the one at the far end.

Impossibly far away.

It is the pride of the museum, this room. It is, it seems, the room in which they are going to die.

Still, there's no point in standing and waiting for it. Paul grips Jen's hand as comfortingly as he can, walking her quickly past the huge white figures staring blankly past them, until he finds one with a base broad enough for her to sit on.

"Wait here."

From:

Jennifer can wait all she likes, Paul can search for something to defend himself with all he likes.

In the end it will change nothing.

Galadan's tread is light but inexorable as he steps through the door--

--and stops, facing Paul.

And for the second time, now, the world seems to hang suspended, waiting to see what might happen in this moment, to these people, that might change the fate of this world, of all worlds.

From:

The cold light from the skylights overhead falls with chill brilliance on the twisted bone of Moore's figures, making her think of a battlefield.

In a way, it's certainly fitting.

She sits, tall and proud and golden, before the reclining shape behind her, and when she speaks, her voice is shockingly cold.

"It is too soon, Paul. Whatever you are, you must find it now."

She herself is unmoving, and there is no compromise or room for uncertainty in her words, either.

"If you do not, I will curse you as I die."

From:

Galadan's steel-cold gaze never leaves Paul, even as one long, slender finger rises to touch the bright red weal at his temple.

Well does he remember the days Paul was hanging upon the Summer Tree, and well does he remember what came of it, too.

"This one I lay at the root of your Tree."

From:

Paul's eyes meet Galadan's.

"You are lucky," he says, hearing his own voice steady with some surprise, "to be alive to lay it anywhere."

He doesn't look at Jen; doesn't look anywhere but at Galadan, and tries to feel like more than a man.

From:

Galadan smiles, cool and silky and a little bit amused.

"Perhaps, but no more fortunate than you have been until now."

He inclines his head a toward Jennifer.

"Both of you."

There is a knife in his hand, now. A familiar knife.

And Galadan is advancing, blade sharp and bright in his hand.

Soon it will be buried in Paul.

Then Jennifer.

And then Galadan's work here will be done.

From:

She does not scream; does not even consider screaming.

There is no one else in the room, and no sound from the hall outside. There might as well be no one else in the world but the three of them, here.

Jennifer holds her head high, watching.

Golden, she had been, and golden she is again, and her silent courage blazes in this room almost brighter than the chill pale beams filtering down from above.

From:

They might as well be alone in the world; for no one, Paul knows, is going to help them.

But he knows something else, also.

And it is that knowledge that allows him to step forward, away from Jen - to step forward, his head straight, as he feels the power of a god stirring in him at last.

"Would you battle the Twiceborn of Mornir?" he says - not sharp, not frightened.

A challenge.

A challenge, at last, of equals.

From:

Galadan's reply is matter of fact, a fait accompli.

"For nothing else am I here, though I will kill the girl when you are dead."

He smiles, teeth flashing sharp and white.

"Remember who I am: the children of gods have knelt to wash my feet. You are nothing, yet, Pwyll Twiceborn, and will be twice dead before I let you come into your force."

It is too simply spoken to be a vow; Galadan speaks merely the truth as he sees it.

From:

Paul shakes his head.

There is a tide running through his blood, now. It's the power he's been searching for, that he's been trying so hard to control all this time -

- he has no control over it.

And for now, it doesn't matter. He is not a man, to control such things.

He is the arrow of the god, and he has been launched.

He hears his own voice, as if from a long way away: "Your father bowed to me, Galadan. Will you not do so, son of Cernan?"

From:

Galadan's eyes widen a fraction, and he pauses in his relentless advance.

Father.

But--no.

Galadan has a dream, the deepest dream of his darkest heart, and he has been pursuing it for a very long time. Paul's words are as nothing next to that, and so it is that the Wolflord laughs, empty hand upraised.

The room plunges into utter darkness.

"What son have you ever known to follow his father's path?"

Galadan's voice is closer, now. Much closer.

"There is no dog to guard you now, and I can see in the dark!"

From:

The surging of power in Paul's veins rises, rises - and then stops, filling him completely and transmuting into something altogether different.

He takes a step back.

There's a quiet in him, now, a space as of a pool within a wood, and instinctively he knows that this is the true access to his other self. The self that is not Paul Schafer, but the Lord of the Summer Tree; the self that now is, and will be.

And from this self, he knows what he can and what he must do.

"Be easy," he murmurs, to Jennifer, "but hold fast to me."

From:

It is not hope that drives her to her feet beside him.

She no longer truly believes in hope, even as she takes Paul's hand and holds tightly, waiting.

From:

And Paul speaks once more to the Wolflord.

"Slave of Maugrim," he says, and his voice has changed, now, beyond measure, "I cannot defeat you yet - nor can I see you in the dark."

"We will meet again, and the third time pays for all, as well you know.

"But I will not tarry for you in this place."

Galadan is close - too close, now, he knows that, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the still, deep place he has finally found in their great need, the pool within, into which he dives - down and down he goes.

And, holding tight to Jennifer, he takes them both away. Away through the cold, and the space between time. Away from the empty hall, and the silent staring statues, and the Wolflord in front of them -

Back to Fionavar.

From: