The interior of the Ironclaw barrows was a dry and dusty place, one that carried the unmistakable scent of old death beneath the mustiness.

It was well-made, and smartly constructed; the walls were rough stone packed into the dirt, insulating them well against the bitter cold outside. The winding path from the entrance led to a large chamber in the center of the hill, its walls and floors lined with still-intact animal hides. In the center of the chamber lay a large stone bowl, filled with the black ashes of long-dead fires. By the bowl lay a curious object; a large boulder, woven about with thick, corded ropes. Multiple dark tunnels led out from the chamber, into other areas of the barrows.

Their first order of business was to get themselves some light and heat, so they no longer had to rely on Martim's torch. Fortunately, there were even a pile of old logs stacked in the central chamber; they piled these high in the stone bowl and lit them. It was a welcome relief to see the darkness dispelled, though such relief was short lived. For when the room was fully lit by the fire, it revealed something they had missed by the light of Martim's torch alone. Among the hides that lined the floor lay broken clay plates and shattered jars, and in many places, dried brown stains that were unmistakably old blood. Aela paled upon seeing these, her mouth a thin line.

Kells led them in a search of the rest of the barrows, wanting to ensure that they were truly alone here before they could relax. They each took torches and crept down the tunnels leading from the main chamber. The barrows was, fortunately, not that large - nowhere near the grandeur of Dun Cairn; it had not been built by the Crosscraw's ancestors. Their torchlight revealed nothing but abandoned, cave-like rooms dug into the hill, cold and empty, long devoid of any sign of life. Though Martim could not help but remember that the bogge-men could appear and disappear through portals and doorways; one of the creatures could appear here any time they wanted. Lucky enough, he supposed, that Hadley's memory of him kept the bogge-men from attacking.

Finally satisfied that they were alone, they returned to the main chamber to sit around the crackling fire, the chamber already having grown snugly warm during the time they took to explore. The central chamber had been built smartly, with a hole in the ceiling far above them, so that the smoke was funneled out of the room as the fire burned. It was a comfortable respite from the btiter cold and frost outide; Cecil curled up close by the fire, purring contetedly, and Flit settled into his fur, giving small, whistling snores in his slumber. "Hopefully," Kells said, as he passed around rations of hardtack bread, "Those creatures cannot make their way in here."

Elyse took her portion, and then winced, setting it down in front of her. Her stomach, where the creature had gripped her, was tender; she could tell she was in for some bruises even with what healing she had given herself. Though mere bruises were a lucky break compared to what she might have suffered. "I do not think they can. They're far too large to make it through the entrance."

"Sure," Kells replied, sitting down on a small, flat rock that served as a seat by the fire. He stared into the flames, leaning forward, his hands across his knees. "But I'm not going to assume that would stop them. If the bogge-men can appear through doors, what's to say those things cannot? What do you suppose they are, exactly...?" When nobody offered him an answer, he continued. "How...how is it, do you think, that they spoke in Roark's voice...?"

Martimeos glanced up. He held Elyse's sickle in his hands; the witch had given it to him to inspect. He was curious as to how it might have possibly cut through the creature as it attacked Elyse, but the thing seemed as dull and plain as ever. Even running his finger along the blade itself had not been enough to draw blood. "You heard them," he replied. "They are mimics. They spoke in Mors' and Elyse's voice, as well."

"Right." Kells shifted, and unbuckled his kettle-helm from around his chin, setting it aside. He ran a hand worryingly through his short dark hair. "But Roark is dead. How did they know his voice, to mimic it...?"

There was silence, for a moment. "I don't know," Martim answered, softly. He wished he had a more comforting answer to give the soldier.

Kells sighed, wearily. "I suppose I had hoped," he said, "That...wherever Roark was now, that he might be at peace. Certainly not somewhere where these...things, might learn his voice." He looked away from the fire, down at the hardtack bread he held in his hands, looking, frowning. "I suppose there's no helping where you go after death, though." He gave a half-hearted, crooked grin, though it never reached his eyes. "Isn't that something to look forward to."

A grim silence settled amongst them. Martim grimaced; it was an unpleasant thought to think that Roark, gruff old soldier that he was, might have his soul trapped in some strange part of the Lands of Death. He might have lied to Kells, told him that he was certain Roark was fine, but the soldier was too smart for comforting lies. Instead, he turned to Aela. "What is this place?" he asked, looking for something to get their minds off the subject. "You called it Ironclaw barrows?"

Aela sat further from the fire than the rest of them, at the very edge of the light, her hood drawn up about her face. "Aye," she said simply, swallowing a bit of her bread. "Th' main holdin' of Ironclaw clan. Mighty warriors, once. Strongest amongst th' Crosscraw. All gone naow. Nae a single one o' em left." She looked down at the ground, expression dark. "Lest ye count th' ones that were turnt tae bogge-men."

"None of them fled to Dun Cairn?" Elyse asked. "It is not so far from here to there."

Aela shook her head. "Et were nae en th' Ironclaw tae flee. Tae th' end, they fought. Each clan has...well, had, their pride, ye see. Ghostfoot clan, we were th' sneaks. Foxtooth - that were th' clan th' Chief belonged tae - they were th' clever ones. But Ironclaw, they were th' strongest. Some said they had giant blood runnin' in their veins." She looked up, and pointed across the fire, to the strange boulder in the center of the room, bound with ropes. "Ye see tha' rock? Tae become a man among th' Ironclaw, ye had tae drag et by yerself, three times around th' room."

Kells slowed his chewing, glancing at the boulder, and then gave Aela a skeptical look. "I have a hard time believing that," he said dubiously. "I would say it would take five men, at least, to budge that thing."

Aela gave a small laugh, brightening a bit. It was a relief, Martim thought, to see that she still had some cheer in her. Her mood had been dark ever since they entered the Killing Grounds. "Et were nae meant tae be easy. Et were their rite, ye ken. All clans had one. Tae become a man, ye had tae pass et."

"I suppose that's not so strange," Kells muttered, rubbing his chin. "Plenty of the town guard in Twin Lamps had something similar, come to think of it. They said you were not a man until you had bedded a girl." He gave a small grin, grey eyes gleaming with curiousity. "So what was the Ghostfoot rite?"

"Ghostfoot were a little different." Aela smiled faintly, as if reliving a fond memory. "Fer us, both men an' women had tae pass th' rite. We had tae sneak intae another clan's hold, and steal somethin from 'em. Th' more precious, th' better. Oh, we'd give et back ef et were somethin' important - th' point were nae to plunder, but tae show our skill."

"Ha! I like that," Elyse said, clapping her hands, eyes gleaming. "Much more interesting than lugging around some big rock. So did you do this?"

Aela's smile went a bit crooked, her bright green eyes grew a little dim. "Ah did," she said softly. She gestured around the chamber, at the hide-covered walls and old, dusty ruin. "Et were actually this very hold Ah came tae steal from. As for what Ah stole...Their Chief, Uther, had a son. Tomag, his name. They say Ah stole his heart." She gave a small, sad laugh. "Nae mah intent, but Tomag caught me while Ah were sneakin' about, an' held watch over me tha' night. Ah thought him a big strong goon at first, all muscle, nae thinkin'. But we fell tae talkin', an' by th' time mornin' had come about, tae kissin'. Ah thought Ah had failed mah trial an' had tae try again, when Ah left. But Tomag came tae Ghostfoot hold nae long after, tae tell mah elders Ah had passed, fer he couldnae get th' thought o' me from his mind."

Martimeos, Kells and Elyse exchanged surprised looks with one another. When Aela frowned at them, confused, Elyse gave her a small shrug. "It is just...I have a hard time imagining you as a..." she waved her hand, pausing, struggling to think of the right word. "A seductress," she finished.

"Et were nae like that," Aela replied, her green eyes widening in scandalized shock. "Ah felt th' same way fer him. Tomag were a sweet lad, nae empty-headed. Curious, he was, about th' Ancestors, like nae other. Where they had come from, an' how they had built such wonders, an' why we couldnae do such any longer. Ah loved him dear, fer th' time that Ah knew him. But..." She gave a long, weary sigh, and cast her eyes back to the fire. "Et were nae long," she murmured, "Afore Reinhast One-Eye came back among th' mountain, tae recruit more men fer th' Queen's War. Uther had already gone tae fight, an' this time, Tomag followed after his father. An' while Uther returned, his son never did." Suddenly, she was blinking back tears. "Ah wanted tae go wit' him. Among us Crosscraw, men do most o' th' fightin, but it ent unheard of fer a woman to join battle, as well. But grim ol' Reinhast would only take th' men." She scrubbed the tears from her face, and pulled her hood tighter around her head to hide them. "Tomag promised me he'd return. But th' White Queen took him from me."

She fell silent, her face in her hands. The fire popped and hissed. Martimeos could not help but be reminded of Vivian, and the promise had had made to her to return swiftly. Promise made and broken. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Sorry to hear that."

"Et may hae been fer th' best, en th' end," Aela sighed after a long moment, her voice trembling. She sniffled, scrubbing her face once more, and looked up at them with bleary eyes. "Fer ef he had returned, he would hae met th' same fate as all the Ironclaw. When Uther returned, ye ken, he led his clan in battle against th' bogge-men. Ironclaw were our great hope, ye see. Et was th' day they fell, Ah think, that we all knew th' war was lost."

"You were succesful in fighting them, at first?" Kells asked. Finished with his rations, he bent to unlace his knee-high boots, but not before removing no fewer than three daggers he had tucked away in them. Martim wondered idly if the man had his boots specially made to stow them. "I had wondered about this. Just one of the things was enough to terrorize Twin Lamps. What was it like to fight many of them at once...?"

Aela paused for a moment, considering. "Bleak," she said finally. "Et...et all started out slow. Didnae feel like a war, at first. We heard about folk gone missin', en th' woods. An' others who told o' a dark shadow that had chased 'em. But th' bogge-men didnae raid holds, tae begin wit'. They were clever, about that. They stayed in th' forests, buildin' their numbers. Bidin' their time." She grew pale, and her voice grew hoarse. "An' then things got darker. We spotted th' headless dead, wanderin' the crags. Found folk kilt en their own beds, wit' no sign o' how it had happened. An' others started tae go mad, an' attack their own clans. We were already en bad shape, by th' time th' bogge-men were brave enough tae simply walk intae our holds - appearin' through doors in empty rooms - and start slaughterin' clans entire. Tha' was th' worst bit. Knowin' there'd be nae sign o' em, that they could appear amongst ye at any time.

But still, we fought. Foxtooth showed th' clans how tae lay clever traps around their holds, ef th' bogge-men should appear. Six Stones clan shared th' fish an' meat they caught, so other clans wouldnae go hungry. Stonecaller clan would sing tae us en th' camps o' our Ancestors, an' helped us tae believe that we'd fight off th' bogge-men, that this too would pass. Th' Moonmouths, they had th' most among 'em who knew of th' Art, which the bogge-men feared." She tapped a fist to her chest, smiling faintly. "Ghostfoot clan, we'd scout th' woods, lookin fer bogge-men tae catch unawares. An' Uther an' his Ironclaws, what men they had left after th' Queen's War, they'd fight. An Ironclaw were strong enough tae face a bogge-man alone, and et were even said that Uther had faced th' Bogge-King himself an' lived. Still, et were rare that we'd kill a bogge-man. Most like, we'd drive 'em off. But et were enough tae make us feel as ef there were hope. Fer a while, at least. 'Til they struck at Ironclaw. 'Til they showed us jest how foolish et were tae hope tae fight 'em."

She fell silent, staring into the fire, tugging nervously at her long red hair. Martimeos was just about to ask her what exactly had happened, when she took a long, deep breath, gathered herself, and continued. "Et happened all en one night. Nae jest th' Ironclaw en th' hold, here." She gestured around the chamber, to the shattered clay pots, and the old bloodstained hides. "Every single one o' em. Every camp, an' even th' Ironclaw who were stayin' in other holds. They all vanished, though we found th' women an' children soon enough. Nailed tae trees. Th' men, though, we never found. Taken, tae be made intae bogge-men. An' that were th' end. Maol-Manos an' his Foxtooth were th' first tae get wise, an' flee tae Dun Cairn. Said the bogge-men were jest toyin' wit us. Other clans called 'em cowards, but then again, he probly saved th' most folk bah doin' that, an bah findin' Grizel, too, an' askin' her for help. An' he's Chief o' us all now, fer doin' et. Fer et weren't long afore th' bogge-men went after th' Moonmouths, too. An...an' then, th' Ghostfoot."

"And yet you lived," Martimeos said quietly. "You and your brother."

Aela was deathly pale now, and shaking so badly that her teeth chattered. Her breath was ragged and weak, her eyes wide and wild, and it seemed as if, for a moment, she might lose herself. But she gulped, and nodded her head. "Ah still remember et," she whispered. "Wakin' up tae shadows an' screams. An' the burnin' eyes o' the bogge-men all around en th' darkness. Ah lived because..." She paused, and lifted her eyes to stare across the fire at Martimeos. "Ah lived because Torc grabbed me, an' together we fled. We hid among th' pines as the bogge-men stalked th' woods, lookin' fer us. Torc didnae sleep, didnae eat, didnae stop runnin' until we reached Dun Cairn. He carried me upon his back, when Ah couldnae go on. He were near-dead of exhaustion, bah th' time we had reached safety. D'ye understand...? Ah dinnae fergive him fer what he did en th' Queen's war, but he's mah brother. Do ye...?"

Aela, Martimeos realized, was looking at him pleadingly, and her tone had almost become that of begging. He could not help but feel sorry for her. There was nothing in the world that would make him forgive Torc, and he did not think Aela took her brother's crimes lightly, either. But it was no wonder why she had begged for his life. Although there was a small part of him that whispered furiously that this did not matter, that she should simply realize the suffering her brother deserved. "I do," he replied, only half-lying.

The Crosscraw woman remained staring at him for a long moment, her bright green eyes probing, searching. Then she nodded, seeming relieved, and sat back.

The hour was late now, and the mood dark, from Aela's grim telling. They did not quite go to sleep right away; Elyse remained awake, examining her sickle, and Kells bought back a little levity by trying to pull the Ironclaw's rite-rock, declaring that he still did not believe that a single man could possibly move the thing. Aela brightened a bit at his attempts, laughing at the soldier, but still was paled and shaken by the time they all retired to their hides for rest.

Martimeos, however, found sleep difficult to come by. He lay on his back, hands folded across his chest, watching the shadows across the dirt ceiling grow as the fire in the chamber slowly dwindled. Too many thoughts swirled about his head; too much of what he had seen and heard had disturbed him. The headless dead, marching endlessly through the snow. The strange pulling of the Art he had felt, looking at them. Aela's tale of the Bogge-King's slaughter of her people. Hadley's slaughter of her people. And so much else; so much that pricked his curiousity, and so much that disgusted him. He breathed, and tried to think of something simple, to clear his mind. The strange creatures that had attacked them, he thought, the mimics - they were something that might be written about, just as he had tried to make notes of the Mirrit and the bogge-men. What might be said about them...? He drifted off to a fitful sleep, trying to settle on what might be written about them with certainty.

It did not last long, however. He awoke a few hours later, backsore and tired, to a room that was much colder and darker than the one he had fallen asleep in. Sitting up with a quiet groan - he could hear the snores of the others, and did not wish to wake them - he glanced, frowning, at the fire, which had dwindled nothing but glowing orange embers inside its large stone bowl.

He got up carefully, gingerly setting aside his hides, and crept to the fire, gently setting some new logs on top of the bed of coals. He breathed life into it with the Art, until the chamber was well-lit and warm once more. He sat with a sigh on a rock by the flames, far too awake now to go back to sleep any time soon.

His eyes drifted across the chamber. He had been a little disappointed when he realized that this place was not created by the Crosscraw's ancestors; he might have liked to have seen more of the curious carvings that were so abundant in Dun Cairn and Stelle Cairn. There was little enough in here to hold his interest; other than the broken pottery and the hides that still held old bloodstains, and well, he knew what had happened there. He shivered, to think that this place had once been the site of such a slaughter.

He caught sight of Elyse, in the light cast by the fire. The witch slept in an indignifed manner, sprawled out, Cecil laying halfway on her chest, her hat over her face, snoring lightly. She did not cover herself with furs; it was probably too warm in here for her liking. He could not stop a fond smile from spreading across his face upon looking at her, though it was quickly replaced with a frown of concern. He wished he had managed to convince the witch to stay behind. When the mimic-creature had attacked her, he had been certain, for a moment, that she had been killed. And that had made his mind go blank and dark with panic and fear. Perhaps he outght to have begged her to come, instead of telling her that he wanted her to remain safely behind. Perhaps then she would have remained, just out of her contrarian nature.

He realized his gaze had lingered on her for some time, and with a cough, he looked away, casting his eyes about the rest of the room. Kells slumbered with his armor still on, unwilling to take it off in case he might awake with a need for it. It looked uncomfortable. Martimeos had given thought to buying armor sturdier than his leather tunic before, but it seemed a chore. Joints and clasps and chain might rust, and where was he to stow it when he did not wish to wear it? Perhaps if he had taken the time to have a smith make armor specially fitted for him, it might be more comfortable.

And then, he blinked, as he looked away from Kells. For where Aela should have lain, there was nothing but empty hides. The Crosscraw woman was missing.

Feeling the beginnings of alarm, he looked around the chamber, to the dark tunnels leading away from it. And he noticed, far down one of them, the faint flickering of torchlight. With a frown, he leaned forward, plucking a sturdy stick from the fire to serve as his own torch, and quietly set off down the tunnel himself.

It quickly grew cooler, away from the main chamber, and Martim soon wished that he had bought his cloak along with him, or at least put on his boots. The packed dirt of the floor was frigid on his bare feet. But he pressed on, and soon came to the source of the light.

Aela stood alone, in a large chamber that resembled nothing more than a cave, dressed in her furs, long red hair cascading down her shoulders and back. When it was fully untied, Martimeos realized, it very nearly reached her feet. She held her torch high, staring at the stone walls of the room. They were decorated with hundreds, if not thousands, of handprints, each outlined in the stone, outlined in blue chalk. They jumbled over each other chaotically, layered over and over again, the older ones a darker blue than the newer, like some strange, thousand-handed creature reaching through the stone itself.

Martimeos took a step forward, and Aela whirled around, bright green eyes wide with shock, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle a shout. "Ye scared me," she said, when she saw it was only Martim, though her tone suggested that she was still uncertain whether or not she should be frightened. "What are ye doin' here...?"

"I couldn't sleep, and noticed you were gone," Martimeos replied cautiously. He could not help but notice that Aela shrank away from him as he stepped forward into the room. "What are you doing here?"

Aela bit her lip, then shrugged. "Ah couldnae sleep," she murmured.

She watched quietly as Martimeos turned about the chamber, drinking in the walls. Not a bare inch of stone was not marked by the hands. "What is this?" he asked, turning back to her.

"Et's...nae much," Aela replied softly. She turned from him to gaze sadly at the walls, staring long at the hands there, mesmerized. "Every Ironclaw that ever lived, they marked this stone wit' their hands. Generation after generation. Mah own hand might be up there, ef Ah had taken Tomag as a husband, an' joined his clan. Or th' hands o' th' children we might've had." She reached out, to place her own hand against the cool stone, as if wondering what it would have looked like. "Et seems strange tae think they're all gone now. Never again will another hand be added tae this wall."

Martimeos did not answer her. He merely stood, looking at the wall as well. The bright blue of the hands was the most colorful thing he had seen, since entering the Killing Grounds. An endless advance of hands through the ages, one on top of the other, for fortune only knew how long. Endless, that was, until the Bogge-King stopped it forever. "All things end, I suppose," he said quietly.

Aela sighed, taking her hand away from the wall, and stepping back from it. "Ah suppose," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. She glanced at Martim, biting her lip. "Ah...Ah'm sorry," she stammered. "Fer bletherin' on so much, earlier tonight. Ah suppose jest...seein' all th' things we've seen, it bought back memories."

"No need to apologize," Martimeos muttered, not looking at her. His eyes remained fixated upon the wall. "It bought back memories for me, as well. Put some thoughts in my mind."

"Ah s'pose et must hae," Aela replied, turning away from him to hide her burning face. "Mah folk must always bring ye painful memories."

"'Tis not that," Martim answered softly. "Not at all. It makde me think of something else entirely. Of a time before I had met Elyse, or Kells. Before I traveled with anyone, I traveled alone. Looking for my brother, in the lands that the Queen's War had scarred."

"What were et like?" Aela interrupted him. The Crosscraw woman woman wound her free hand in her hair, tugging at it. Her voice was little more than a whisper. "The lands th' Queen ravaged. What were they like?"

Martimeos was quiet for a long moment, before answering. He swung his torch about the room, eyes still caught by the hands. "Grim," he said finally. "The towns there - they were not strangers to war with each other. But the Queen's War was different. Larger. More brutal. Some towns, nearly the size of Twin Lamps, lay entirely in ruin. Others had lost the greater part of their folk to war. Others had only the old folk and women living in them, all their sons lying dead on some distant battlefield. Even years later, the folk still thick in their grief. And..." He blinked, and shook his head, finally looking back at Aela, dark green eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "I always thought, walking those lands, thank sweet Fortune it's all over. Blessed mercy, that something so terrible should finally be finished, and we should never have to see its like again." He paused, and swung his torch, to gesture at the walls. "Only it wasn't over, was it. Not here. Hadley might have been changed by something foul into the Bogge-King, but it was the war that gave his twisted mind the reason all the same. The bogge-men, they are the shadows cast by the Queen's War."

Aela absorbed this quietly, her hand twirling, tugging, knotting her hair. "Ah s'pose et's as th' Chief said," she answered, voice hoarse. "Ef there ent forgiveness after a war, every battle spawns a hundred more." She paused for a moment, and then, in a voice very small, continued, "Et's a fine enough sayin'. But et says nothin' about what happens when there can be nae forgiveness."

There was a long silence between them, as they stood in the darkness. The hands on the walls swam up out of the shadows cast by their torchlight, grasping and reaching through the dark. "And so, Aela," Martimeos said softly, "I can't help but wonder. Seeing the ruin of your folk, and knowing it was one of mine that did it, in revenge. Is this just going to continue? Is this just to be what life is, between your folk and mine? Until, at bitter last, all of us lie dead?"

Aela looked up sharply at this; her green eyes blazing with a sudden intensity. "Ancestors, nae," she breathed, "Oh, wizard, nae. Never. Ah...Ah dinnae want revenge on yer folk fer this." She spread her shaking hands, gesturing around her, her voice wavering. "Ah jest want this tae end."

Martimeos stared at her long, green eyes fierce and dancing with shadow. "I wonder," he said, and his voice seemed to carry some dark hint of threat, "If all your folk would feel the same, if they knew who the Bogge-King was." And then he gave a start, as if surprised at himself, and lowered his eyes to the ground, the locks of his dark, shaggy hair hiding his face. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I'm sorry for what has been done to your folk. Hadley...something has changed him. But I am sorry that it was one of mine to visit this horror upon you all the same."

Aela was aghast, at this. "Ye shouldnae feel sorry," she cried, then clapped a hand to her mouth, and continued in a softer tone. "Et's one o' mah blood who did much th' same tae yer people. Ah'm the one wit' rotten blood. Ah should be sorry tae ye. An' Ah am, an-"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Martim replied, and then he stopped, and sighed, and gave a small chuckle. "Perhaps we should both be sorry to each other. Or neither of us should be sorry at all. I do not know. But I do know one thing." And suddenly, in the dark, his eyes blazed so fiercely that Aela took a step back from him. "This has to be the last of it. It must end here. What I have seen in a week is more horror than this world should suffer in a thousand years. I never wanted this; I only ever wanted those responsible to pay the price for their crimes. Life cannot be an endless recrimination between your folk and mine. This must never happen again." He paused, catching his breath; and strained his ears. His voice had grown to a near shout in his conviction, and he wondered whether he had woken the others. With a sigh, he turned back to Aela. "Do you agree?" he asked her. "No matter what has to be done - this - all of this - it must stop." He could not prevent a note of desperation from entering his voice.

Aela gazed back at him for a long time. "Aye," she replied softly, "Ah agree. Never again, between yours and mine."

Martimeos held out his hand, and Aela stared at it, as if not knowing what to do with it. But after a moment she took it, and they shook. And then they left together, back to the main chamber, leaving behind the final memories of the Ironclaw clan to be swallowed up by the dark, the hand-marked walls fading into shadow.