[b]Nightwood, Some Time Previous[/b]

It was snowing, thick wet flakes that melted quickly into the soggy ground. 

The clearing was orderly, with a large, square garden- well planted though Spring was still young- a small barn, and a tidy cottage of wood and clay with a freshly thatched roof. The Barkstead lads had evidently been hard at work for the old man, who'd never been one to allow his charges to wallow in grief.

The gnarled trunks of Nightwood closed around the homestead on all sides, budding branches reaching for the sky like twisted fingers uplifted in prayer. The only way to this place was through woods Brand knew better than any still living.

Anyone who came here was seen well before he arrived.

If the man who emerged into the clearing from the treeline knew that, he did not seem particularly perturbed by it. He was youngish looking -though he was not young- with a lean, weatherworn face, dark eyes, and a little smile that played across the corners of his mouth like he was in on something, some great funny secret soon to be revealed. He wore a simple black doublet and cloak. Snowflakes nested in his ruffled hair.  

He was unarmed. And, in spite of the freezing mud, he was barefoot. 

"Anyone home?" he called as he strode up the damp path to the cottage, "I think so-[i]oh[/i]. Smells like someones just put out a cookin' fire. What're we makin'?"

A bowstring creaked as it was drawn. An old man rose slowly from the tangled foliage of the garden, arrow notched and ready to fire, aimed at the newcomer's head. 

The stranger turned, his little smile widening into a lopsided grin, as though the prospect of an arrow in the throat was an unexpected thrill. 

"Hello Brand," he said. 

"Kadath," said Brand. His rugged face was hard as granite, eyes filled with murder. "What're you doing at my home?"

"You had to know Harry wouldn't let you alone after you spat on his offer," said Kadath, "Why didn't you run? Disappear with the boys into the woods? Too proud? Or just feeling your age?"

"Boys aren't here, they're nowhere you'll find 'em," said Brand.

"I doubt that, my old friend, I'm [i]very[/i] good at finding."

A flock of birds erupted from the woods to the south. In the distance shouting could now be heard, the rough voices of hardened men, too many to count.

"Why'd you come ahead of your lackeys, then? Something to tell me?" asked Brand.

"Not my lackeys," said Kadath, shaking his head, "You won't find a Red Fang among 'em. I owe you that much."

Brand snorted, "Why're you here then?"

"Came for the boys, not for you," said Kadath, "More valuable to me alive and stowed away than with their little heads perched on Harry's parapet. Always good to have insurance, no? Specially since the King's starting to lose a step or two. Not handling guilt too well, I guess. Can't stomach it like you and I." 

"I spent a lifetime working off the guilt you buried me in," said Brand.

Kadath shrugged and jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the treeline, where the shouting was growing closer. "You'll want me to find the Barkstead lads before they do. Where are they?"

"I'd rather the devils in all six hells find them than you," said Brand. 

He loosed his arrow.