Author notes:

This story has been on my mind for a long time and I have been adding bits and pieces to my ideas file for well over two years. Yet I did not manage to put the puzzle together - until two months ago. This is thanks to Slightly Tookish who let me ramble on about the story almost every day.

Dreamflower has also been of enormous help in creating this story. Not only did she beta it, but she also let me borrow her story And so it Begins not only as an inspiration but she also allowed me to work bits and pieces of her story into mine - since I couldn't have told it any better.

I was long wondering what to do with the prologue - to change the rating or not. I decided not to, but simply let you know that this is going to be the darkest bit of the story.

When Trouble Came

Prologue

He was floating; flying in the sky like a bird, unseen, but seeing. Lands rushed past beneath him: juicy green grass, sparkling streams and gushing rivers, thick forests that seemed to stretch endlessly across the earth. Fast they went by – fast and ever faster. He closed his eyes, dizzy and light-headed.

When he opened them again, he was surrounded by blackness and fear gripped him. He reached out with his hands, but there was nothing; no ground to stand on and nothing to hold onto.

Then suddenly, as if a candle had been lit, he saw a small golden red glimmer coming from below. The light extended itself until he recognised a dark wooden desk. On it lay a piece of parchment. Somebody had scribbled onto it in a thin, flowing hand, but ever so often the ink was blurred as if the writer had wetted them with tears.

To my loving mother and father, was written there. I’m sorry.

His throat became tight, choking on the tears of a young woman running through the dark of night. Her left hand was on her stomach, swollen with child. Her long, auburn curls fluttered around her shoulders along with a green shawl as she stumbled across the grass exhausted and left breathless from crying. She stopped short when she reached the bank of a wide river. Her hands were on the trunk of a tree, supporting her, keeping her from falling.

She looked up at the sky, her dark eyes looking right through him, entreating him, accusing him of the grief that was her life; and all the while tears rolled down her cheeks like endless streams. He wanted to hold out his hand to her but he could not move.

She gathered up her pale yellow skirts, shining bright in the darkness, and climbed down the steep bank. One last time she looked over her shoulder, back at the life she used to have and for a moment she seemed to hesitate. She climbed onto a huge boulder at the bank and put both her hands onto her belly as if to ask the forgiveness of her child. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and was carried away by the wind, when slowly she stepped forwards and threw herself into the river.

“Pimpernel!” He cried out but his voice choked before any sound left his lips. Horror-stricken he watched her body float away in thick, red liquid. Blood, his mind whispered. The Brandywine was filled with blood and whatever it touched withered and died. And from the distance a voice called. “There is no life left in Buckland.”

As if the mention of Buckland had brought another thought into his mind the vision faded. The gardens of Brandy Hall appeared before him – bare and empty, deserted. The smell of death filled the air and as he watched, Merimac walked out of empty stables. The doors gaped open behind him like the black abyss of demise. He looked pale and worn. His hair hung in streaks across his face and blood dripped from some strands. Splashes of blood covered his clothes and body, and his hands, as he held them out to him, were dripping wet and shining red.

“I had no choice,” he whispered in a choked voice and hung his head. If Guilt ever had a face it would have been Merimac’s.

Again the vision faded and before him sat Esmeralda at the head of a small table. Thirty or more children were gathered about her, all thin and frail, all crying and reaching for the single lump of bread she held in her hand. Despair, in its purest form was in her eyes which were tired beyond measure and lined with dark rings. And as the vision faded again into darkness, he knew that the old roll was the last one left.

Then he saw people – hundreds of them – clustered in an unlit corridor, pushing and pulling and gasping for breath; desperate, like rabbits caged in their own den. And among the jostle a voice rose, clear, but weak and without hope. “It is stifling. The rooms are crowded, the corridors blocked. We cannot get out. The Hall will be our grave sooner or later.”

And in the distance the Horn-call of Buckland rang.

FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE! AWAKE!

~*~*~

Paladin started into wakefulness. He was breathing hard. His hair clung to his brow. He was soaked in sweat and trembling.

“Pimpernel,” he whispered into the darkness, shivering. The dream burned vividly in his mind and he knew beyond doubt that things looked bleak in Buckland. He had to help them, save them; save Nel.

A knock at the door made him jump. “Master Paladin, wake up sir.”

“What is it?” he called, sharper than he had intended.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but some ruffians have crossed the borders. A group of Tooks are hunting them, but we need your help.”

Paladin got out of his bed, careful not to disturb Eglantine who was stirring uneasily. His legs almost gave way beneath him as he stumbled towards the wardrobe, trembling with cold and fear. Buckland was in trouble. He grabbed one of his shirts and dug his fingers into the cool fabric, closing his eyes.

“Master Paladin, are you coming?” came the voice from the door.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. Buckland was in trouble, but he could not help them. He had to defend his own borders.

~tbc~