Two weeks holed up in a fancy hotel with a beautiful girl. Okay, so it's not exactly torture, but two weeks and we're no closer to finding out where the sword is than when we were in Paris. The language on the scabbard is definitely Latin, but it's so old and archaic we can't seem to find a translation. It's times like this that I really miss Dylan and David. And John. John would have known what to do. He would have worked some spell or something, but without their help, I feel useless.

Adam's been working on things from his side of the pond. He's been digging through every old tome he can get his hands on, but everything just seems to lead to another dead end. Last time we spoke, he was talking to someone in Rome. He's got some kind of contact or other at the Vatican, and he seems to think it's time to bring in the big guns. If it was up to me, I'd go straight to Heaven and ask Michael himself, but I've tried calling, and no one is picking up. They're either not listening or don't care. I'm not sure which.

Nat's getting restless. She doesn't complain. Hell, just the opposite. She's been more than patient, but she wants this thing to be over as much as I do. I know she's in love with me. She doesn't have to say the words. I can see it in her eyes, in the way she looks at me. As much as I've tried to fight it, I know I'm in deep myself, but it's not going to work. In the end, she's only going to get hurt, and I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen. This is my fight, and I'm the only one who can finish it. Not Kellie, not Adam, not Natalya. Me. I just have to figure out how.

Rhys Bristol Rouen, France February 2012

~~~~~

The phone rang waking Rhys from sleep. He'd been awake for nearly three days, until he'd finally surrendered to sleep, head resting on folded arms upon the smooth glass of the table in their hotel room, surrounded by a pile of books, empty coffee cups and take out containers, and the scabbard. Not just any scabbard, but the scabbard that had once held the sword of Charlemagne, or so it seemed. The French called the sword Joyeuse - Joyful. Rhys found it an absurd name for a sword, but that was the French for you, always romanticizing everything, even war and death.

Rhys lifted his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand, while groping around on the table for his cell phone with the other. He already knew without asking who it was that was calling. There was only one person who'd call him at this time of night.

"Yeah," Rhys muttered groggily into the phone, moving to his feet and stepping out onto the veranda so as not to wake Natalya, who was sleeping peacefully in the bed. At least, someone's getting some sleep, he thought.

"It's me," the voice on the other end replied, and Rhys recognized the voice as belonging to his old friend Adam.

"No sh*t, Sherlock," Rhys replied, exhausted and annoyed. "I thought maybe it was the Pope. What did you find out?"

Adam chuckled on the other end, refusing to allow his friend's cantankerous mood bother him. "Next time you see me, you can kiss my ring. I've got good news."

"Next time you see me, you can kiss my *ss," Rhys bantered back. "What is it?" he asked, as he glanced back at the young woman who appeared to be blissfully asleep in the hotel bed and slid the door closed behind him, so as not to wake her.

"It was buried pretty deep," Adam continued, "but I think I've got it."

Rhys felt a rush of adrenalin at his friend's good news, but he didn't want to get his hopes up just yet. "Okay, genius. Care to share what exactly it is that you've got' Not the clap, is it' Because if it is, you can keep it to yourself."

"No, smart *ss. It's a translation." Adam paused a moment before continuing. "But you're not gonna like it."

"Why doesn't that surprise me" Lay it on me, brother. Give me the bad news."

"It's not exactly bad news, Rhys. It's just not very specific. It's like a riddle or something."

"Okay, Bilbo. What's the riddle?"

"I'm not sure if it's a perfect translation, but?" There was another short pause on the other end of the phone, as Rhys heard the sound of paper rustling.

"I don't have to yank this thing from a stone or something, do I?" he asked, a little sarcastically.

"No, nothing like that. It just says, "Joy found peace in Cecilia's hands when Judgment came to Rex Mundi's fortress.?"

"The hell does that mean"!" Rhys exclaimed. "Are we talking Saint Cecilia?" he asked after a moment's consideration. "Wasn't she martyred or something??

Rhys felt a pair of familiar arms go around him unexpectedly, familiar lips brushing against his back, a familiar voice asking a question he wasn't sure he knew how to answer. He turned his head toward her a moment to look at her over his shoulder before turning forward again. "I don't know why I bother praying. I never seem to get any answers." Or maybe he just got answers in ways he wasn't expecting.

Natalya's head tilted as he looked back at her, warm eyes still unfocused from sleep caressing over the sight of his profile as he looked away again. "Perhaps you are not hearing the answers because they come from places you are unwilling to admit you need," she suggested softly, easing her palms over his chest in a warm embrace.

He sighed a little and closed his eyes at her embrace. She was definitely a distraction, and a very pleasant one. She had a point, however, but one he wasn't really ready to admit to. He covered her hands with his own, opening his eyes again and glancing briefly at the sky. He felt a connection with the heavens and always had, for some reason. Watching the stars or even the clouds always gave him some semblance of peace. "You ever feel like a pawn in a game of chess?"

Her smile was discernible against his skin as she chuckled softly, the sound a little hoarse thanks to her very recent awakening. Rising onto her toes, she brushed a kiss to the sensitive skin just behind his ear. "Dusha moya, you are no pawn," she promised him quietly. "You are the queen of any chessboard." It was, perhaps, unfortunate that her grasp of English had not yet wrapped itself around colloquialisms and slang.

Okay, that made him chuckle. "A queen" If I'm not a pawn, then maybe I'm a knight, but a queen" If I didn't know better, I'd ask if you were calling me gay." Which was absurd. He was about as far from gay as one could get. He turned to face her with a smirk on his face. At least, she'd managed to get him to laugh.

Natalya didn't know what was wrong with what she'd said, but anything that brought a smile to Rhys' face was worth a little confusion. As he turned to face her, her hands smoothed about him, coming to rest at the small of his back as she looked up at him. "I think we have established that you are not gay," she smiled teasingly. "Unless you are a very good actor."

He chuckled, his arms going around her waist. It was a little chilly out there at night, and neither was really dressed for the cold. "Not that good. Do you want me to prove to you just how not gay I am?"

The chill factor was a decider in her answer. She was shivering just a little as she stepped closer into the circle of his arms. February in France was not the most congenial of months when it came to weather, though it was a vast improvement on Russia. "In order to do that, I would have to be warm," she smiled, nestling close. "Come back to bed, Rhys, and tell me what Adam had to say."

Back to bed. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks, and he'd spent most of the last three nights searching books and texts and looking for some clue in the mystery that was the scabbard, only to have Adam figure it out for him. "How much did you hear?" he asked, making no move just yet to go back inside, reluctant to release her from his embrace.

"Not much," she admitted with a faint smile, stepping backward to draw him slowly with her from the veranda and into the warmer atmosphere of their hired room. "That you don't want to get me involved, and that you don't like the calm." One shoulder rose and fell in a gentle shrug. "I can imagine what your friend told you."

"Told me I'm being an *ss." That was paraphrased, but it was basically what Adam's comments had boiled down to. He let her draw him back inside, back to the warmth of the room, the bed, and her arms. "It's been too quiet, Nat. They're up to something." The quiet worried him. He knew they wouldn't be quiet forever. They were up to something, watching maybe, waiting to see what their next move would be.

"Then we should take advantage of the quiet," she said softly. She didn't know much about combatting demons and their ilk, trusting Rhys to teach her what she would need when the time came. Drawing him back down onto the bed, she drew the covers over them both, nestling close to look into his eyes. "Has Adam found something about the Latin you asked him to translate?"

The quiet before the storm. Somehow he knew the quiet wouldn't last, and once it was over, all Hell was gonna break loose. He settled back onto the bed, drawing her close, meeting her gaze, feeling useless once again, for all the effort he'd made. Adam had the resources, the contacts. He was a valuable ally and more importantly, a good friend. "Yeah, he found a translation, but it doesn't make any sense."

She waited for a long moment, expecting him to elaborate on that comment. When he didn't, Nat couldn't help the small laugh that escaped, pushing herself up to lean over him with teasing eyes. "And?"

He was mulling it over a moment, trying to sort it out in his head, but only parts of it made sense. He blinked as she drew him back out of his thoughts. "He seems to think you might be able to figure it out."

Nat's smile deepened as again he failed to actually tell her what she needed to know in order to help. Her fingertips stroked over the pentacle inked on his chest as she chuckled down at him. "Well, my darling love," she murmured in a gently mocking tone, "if you wish me to try, you might think about telling me the translation itself."

Oh, he intended to tell her, he just felt a little silly doing so. "It doesn't make much sense, but..." He licked his lips, a little nervously, her touch distracting him again. "It says 'Joy found peace in Cecilia's hands when Judgement came to Rex Mundi's fortress.?" He paused to see how she'd react to that. "Any ideas?"

Her brow furrowed as he handed over the clue, her body dropping to lean on her elbow as her hand dug into her hair. "Rex Mundi?" she asked in a thoughtful tone. "He's sure it is Rex Mundi?"

"Yeah..." He watched her from his back, wondering what she was thinking. He was fluent in Latin and knew the literal meaning, but it still made little sense to him in context. "Yeah, he's sure. I'm thinking it means King of the World, but what king" What world?"

Natalya's frown smoothed into a knowing grin. "This world," she told him confidently. "Rex Mundi's fortress ....Judgement came to Rex Mundi's fortress ..." She sat up, searching her ridiculously wide-ranging memory of trivia for the details of the idea spinning through her mind. "It has something to do with the Cathars. It has to."

He watched as she searched her memory, almost seeing the gears turning in her head. He knew she was a font of knowledge when it came to things like this, but he had no idea what she was talking about. "The Cathars" You've lost me."

It took a moment for her realise he had spoken, her barely focused gaze flickering to him with a faint smile as she gestured with one hand. "They were a heretical cult, sect, whatever you would like to call them, here in France in the medieval period." Twisting to face him, Nat bounced her fingertips off his abdomen as she explained, trying to rein in her excitement. "They held a vastly wide-ranging set of beliefs, but the core of every group was that there were two Gods - a God of love and good, who was completely disincarnate; and a God of material things and evil, who had usurped power and created the world. They called the usurper Rex Mundi. It was the basis for the Catholic Church's Pope Innocent the Third to call a crusade against them."