Delph stared at the man whose thick fingers now circled his wrist in a vice-like grip. He could not denote the color of his eyes, seeing only the gleaming whites as they hungrily devoured him. Beneath such scrutiny, a flush of pink rose to Delph's cheeks, tinting the veil of icy white that covered his skin.

His pained and soaking arms were fed inside the Warlock's coat, wrapped around the heat of his torso, and fixed firmly in place by the Warlock's strength.

"You're freezing."

Delph's shivering form was immobilized. His face rested in the crook of the stranger's neck, his body trapped in the restraint of his coat. Frenzied shallow breaths spilled out onto the Warlock's collar, but no words were carried upon them.

"With my power spent I cannot dry you," lamented the Warlock, "Nor take you home faster. Though perhaps this is better, that I might have reason enough to hold you closer."

The Warlock's shirt was quickly drenched by the siren adhered to his chest. With care to keep him in place, Delph was lifted as the Warlock stood, his toes grazing the riverbank without the freedom to stand there. He was worn like an item of clothing; limp and at the Warlock's mercy.

Ursa was laid on his back not far from them, uselessly crying for his brother. Had the Warlock a thought to spare for any but the witch he carried in his arms, he might have pitied him or punished him in equal measure. A crazed smile upon his face, the cries went unheard as he strode towards his great black steed, his ears filled only with the resounding of the witch's heartbeat.

Mounting his horse with the witch attached proved to be a problem, but not one without remedy. Delph felt his feet touch the grass beneath them, before the Warlock took hold of his legs, raising them swiftly off the ground to straddle his waist. The rest of the witch's body followed; hands sliding across his back, and the hidden face appearing once more in the Warlock's vision.

Delphin's shifting gaze refused to meet his eyes.

"Hold tight," the Warlock cautioned, "If you slip, I'll have no choice but to carry you all the way home to Relmund like this."

Gingerly loosing one hand from Delph's back, his foot in the stirrup; the Warlock swung them both into the saddle. Delph was pressed hard against him, his frozen body instinctually seeking the Warlock's warmth, but his mind still paralyzed with fear. A thick cloak was pulled free from beneath the saddlebag, and secured tightly around them both.

"Rest now," said the Warlock, cradling the witch's head to lie upon his chest, "We'll talk once we're home."

When Fiepet and the Counsel reached the lake, they found it littered with sleeping revelers; only a handful still drinking with plans to see the dawn. 

"Take Elion's horse," urged the Counsel, "We need to move quickly."

Those camped along the parade route seemed to be marking the path to their destination. The further they rode, the more people and tents they encountered, with one patch in particular proving to be the most popular. For many it had been a site of pilgrimage; believing as they did that Rel the Martyr lost his life there.

"This way!" ordered the Counsel, leading Fiepet beyond the sacred decoy, to where the road forked closer to the river. Only the witnesses to Rel's death knew where to find its location. The witnesses... and Ursa.

Up ahead, they caught sight of the Warlock's horse, his broad back masking the treasure contained in his arms. The carriage lay not far from him, abandoned with only the dappled gray.

"Pike!" cried the Counsel.

"Through the trees," he told them, with barely a turn of his head.

"Warlock, did you find them?" called Fiepet.

At the sound of his brother's voice, Delph began to struggle free from the Warlock's grasp.

"Help Ursa," the Warlock commanded, his arm tightening around the witch's waist, "I must continue the search."

The black steed raced ahead without them.

"Should we not go after him?" asked Fiepet.

"Help me with Ursa," said the Counsel, "If you want to help your brother."

Unable to understand the Counsel's meaning, but assuming a favor for Delph would be owed, Fiepet dismounted; hitching his horse to a sturdy looking tree before assisting Min down from the saddle. Closer to the trees they could make out Ursa's sobs.

"Wait here," said the Counsel, "And be ready."

He was still unsure how much of his friend remained in the mind and body of Fiepet Strahl. If he saw that spot in the river, he could not guarantee what kind of reaction 'Rel' would have. Ursa was staring at the heavens when he found him; lost in thoughts of family. Min's cold hand brushed the tears from his cheeks.

"No restraints," he promised Ursa, "Just take my hand. Let's leave here together."

Ursa rolled onto his side, balling his body, and burying his face in Min's lap as he crouched beside him. Min stroked his hair, his eyes falling on the glistening river. Were you hiding there all along? He asked Rel's spirit. Were you waiting for us all this time..? A glance towards the tree-line, and he could make out the gentle movement of a branch as Fiepet waited on the other side.

"Min... you're all I have left."

The Counsel wrapped an arm around his shoulders, encouraging him to stand, and moving to a safe distance from the water's edge. For a little while at least, he would indulge him. Until things were clear, and until the truth came to light; he would be whatever he needed. There was a suffocating feeling from hearing Fiepet's stolen memories, forewarning him that time at Ursa's side was running out.

"Is he alright?" asked Fiepet, the Counsel's delicate frame dwarfed by the large figure leaning against him.

"I think he has come to understand it," said Min, "That the witch he thought dead still lives."

An exasperated sigh escaped Fiepet's lips.

"Look!" he cried, "All that matters now is finding Delph. I don't care who he is! Only that I might keep him safe."

"Pike was here," said Ursa.

"He left when we arrived."

"With Piglet..?"

"No-" But the darkness had obscured him. "Where would he have taken him? What is he planning to do with him?!" 

"Your questions can wait until tomorrow," answered the Counsel, "It is done. He has found him. There is nothing to fear tonight; until their wedding, he will not touch him with anything but the utmost reverance."

The Counsel had overestimated the Warlock's patience.

In the dead of night, they arrived at the palace; the servants still awake were alight with speculation when they saw his approach. In the courtyard, they caught a glimpse of the figure concealed by their master's cloak. Surely it could be no other but the witch? Only the Divine would be granted a space so close to reside in.

For the handful of fortunate, they were granted a sight as yet believed to be a myth. The Warlock could smile. Accepting the use of the steps prepared for his dismount, he carried the sleeping witch into the Velvet Palace, his face buried in the shock of blonde hair protruding from atop his cloak. There! Did you see it? I swear it was a smile! The corner of his mouth was turned up just so!

Sweeping through the palace to the seclusion of his chambers, the Warlock issued no order, nor demanded the Divine's own possessions be brought. All thoughts were on his bride, and the ecstacy denied him for a hundred years. My room, my witch. To want for something for a century, and to feel it now so tangible within his grasp. If happiness were air he would have floated there on its wings.

The doors locked and bolted behind him, he set the witch upon his bed, watching carefully for the rise and fall of his breaths, the movement of his mouth, and the gentle furrow of his brow as his senses returned to him. It was the witch. He was not dreaming. Of all the faces forgotten, this was the one he had missed the most.

Delph woke to find him staring at him, close enough that he could feel his breath.

"Please..." whispered Delph.

"Whatever you need," the Warlock replied, "I am here. I will not be parted from you again."

"No. Please, believe me... I am not him."

The Warlock traced a finger across his face, restraining Delph's hand as he tried to prevent his touch. "I thought I lost you, yet here you are. You have come back to me. You found your way home."

Delph shook his head. "My name is Delphin Strahl," he told him, "I come from the land of Grunterbad. I am not the man you seek. I am no witch."

The Warlock pulled back to look at him. "You have forgotten me?!" he demanded, "After all that we were to each other?"

"I do not know you, sir. Perhaps you are mistaken..?"

All that remained of the Warlock's smile was shattered by those words. It had been only a century! How could he have wiped him so cleanly from his memory? No! He refused to believe it. The witch had near frozen in the river, his reason could not be relied upon.

"What are you doing?" cried Delph, his sodden clothes suddenly prised open.

"Chilled to the bone and you ask what I'm doing?"

"I- I can do it myself! If you would give me the courtesy of some privacy... and a change of dry clothes."

The Warlock's fingers paused on the edge of the witch's robe. He remembered finding him on that final day, naked and afraid after Brox had undressed him. Reluctantly he withdrew his hands, smoothing them upon his own dampened coat as he considered how best to coax him. The passionate reunion he'd envisaged was closer in atmosphere to their first meeting in the carriage. A defiant prisoner, and its puzzled warden.

His clothes much too big for his bride, the Warlock collected his finest regardless, throwing them onto the bed that Delph may choose his pick. Turning his back to the witch, the Warlock considered proposing that he should bathe before dressing himself, but aside from the fear of frightening him, had yet to seal the large stone bath from the shifting of its waters.

"Are you changed yet?" he asked, eager to put him once more in his sights, "If you do not hurry, I am not sure my patience can withstand it."

Delph selected a nightshirt that shimmered green in the lamplight, and a heavy brocade dressing-gown embroidered with curious shapes. His sodden clothes cast onto the marble floor, the damp still lingering on his skin; he sat at the foot of the bed, lifted his cold feet onto the covers, and tucked them beneath the hem of his dressing-gown.

"I am changed," he admitted.

It was the first full view he'd had of the Warlock. The man that turned to face him didn't dress like a ruthless killer; his silk shirt was soaked through, his midnight velvet coat adorned with blooms, and a glimmer of gold and jewels was hung from his ear. He would have rivaled even the most ostentatious of Grunterbad's daughters.

As his coat was peeled away, the aura of softness fell with it. Years of fighting had built a foundation of strength, his sturdy figure packed with the muscles that won him the war. Marked in ink on his inner arm, he wore the curious symbol emblazoned on Delph's dressing-gown.

"What is that?" he asked.

"A reminder," said the Warlock, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling the sleeve clear from his arm, "Of you."

He followed its lines with his finger to help him understand it, an 'M' sitting atop a 'W'.

"The Maddening Witch."

"He didn't have a name?" asked Delph.

"You never spoke it," the Warlock replied, "And I never thought to ask. The name you lived by, was the one I burned into my memory. The name I called aloud in the years of my longing. My Witch."

"My name is Delph."

"In the other world, perhaps. But here you are the Divine... my intended. There is no need to countenance the life you lived without me. We shall begin this day anew, Witch and Warlock united at last."

"My name is Delphin Strahl. And I am no witch."

The shadow of the Warlock loomed over him. A wild spark in his eyes, his mouth twisting into a smile. Delph shrank back on the bed.

"I'll grant you this night of clemency," said the Warlock, "For your mind is clouded, your recollections lost no doubt to the passing of years. But those lips now spilling lies to provoke me, know that I have waited a century to kiss them. I have built a kingdom that you might live safe within it. That we might spend the centuries remaining in the comfort of one another's arms."

The Warlock removed his shirt, his eyes trailing slowly over the witch's form as he took a step closer. Delph's head shook on its own.

"I have not lived for a century..." he protested meekly, "Do you think it might be? That you have mistaken me for someone else? My father perhaps..?" 

"You may have forgotten me," said the Warlock, his hand brushing the bedclothes, and inching towards the witch's hem, "But I remember you well, from the top of your head," Delph's cold foot was snatched from the dressing-gown, "To the soles of your feet."

He hadn't the strength to pull it back, his brow tightly knit as he squirmed on the bed.

"You forgot your stockings too," said the Warlock with a smile, slipping a silken sock on the witch's foot before dressing the other. "And see how much your body needed them? Your body will need me too... it just hasn't remembered yet."

"This... this is a misunderstanding," reasoned Delph, "Come the morning it shall be resolved."

"Come the morning," challenged the Warlock, "We will marry."