By the time Rhys reached Lourdes, the buses to Gavarnie were no longer running. As much as he wanted to be finished with his quest, he had no choice but to take a room for the night and wait until morning for a bus. The room was a simple one, nothing fancy - a room with a bed and a shared bath, easy enough to defend against demons, but Abaddon was another matter entirely. A line of salt across the windows and doors would keep the demons at bay, a hex bag on his nightstand to hopefully keep himself hidden from the prying eyes of both demons and angels.

One good night's sleep was all he needed to finish the task, one good night's sleep uninterrupted by nightmares and visions, but he'd given Aurelia's stone away to someone he thought needed it more; hence, surrendering to sleep was a tricky business - walking through dreams that could sometimes be mistaken for reality. The human part of him needed rest, and there was only so much he could do to protect himself against those who might wish him harm. The sword was safely tucked beneath his pillow where no one could touch it without him knowing it, and as much as he tried to stay awake, he knew he needed some rest in order to face what lay ahead.

He'd been asleep for what seemed only moments when small hands started to shake at his shoulder, rough in the way of impatient children. "Dad! Dad, you fell asleep!" The voice was that of a young girl, but it was not the only thing out of place in his hotel room. A wash of heat heralded by the crackle of a hearth fire, the smell of meat roasting with vegetables in another room, an awareness of space and comfort, and people close by. Another small voice joined the first, male and younger, smaller hands protecting him from being woken. "Mama said no, Anya." The older girl mocked the boy in an affectionate tone. "Mama said no, Mama said no!"

Rhys stirred from sleep, groaning a little at the hands that were shaking him awake, feeling disoriented, confused. The voices weren't familiar to him at all, nor were his surroundings. Wasn't he asleep in a lodge in Lourdes waiting on a bus to Gavarnie" The voices were those of children, and they seemed to be talking to or about him. Green eyes were slow to open, betraying his confusion. "What the hell-" he muttered, looking up into the bright, shining faces of a young boy and girl who seemed strangely familiar and yet he knew he'd never seen them before.

Comical guilt flared on the faces of both children as he stirred and opened his eyes, leaping back with badly stifled giggles. The elder, a girl possessed of wildly curling brown hair and eyes a familiar shade of green, dragged her little brother in front of her, grinning at Rhys cheekily. "You said you'd show me how to make a hex bag," she informed him with a familiarity that screamed some kind of close relationship. "And then you fell asleep." The little boy, also possessed of brown curls but bearing brown eyes to match, jabbed his elbow back against his sister's stomach. "Mama said Anya shouldn't wake you up but she did and now you're awake, you said you'd tell me a story." The aforementioned Anya looked down at her brother in outrage. "That's not fair, Micah, you had Dad all morning!"

Dad" They couldn't possibly be talking about him, could they' There was no mistaking the familiarity about the bright, happy faces that looked back at him. He saw himself in those faces, but someone else, as well, though he couldn't quite put his finger on whom. They were both looking at him so expectantly, with such love and devotion that there was no mistaking they were his, but he had no children, nor was he married, or so he thought, his mind muddled and confused by the conflict of the dream world versus reality.

He pushed himself up, feeling oddly rested and at peace, as if nothing could possibly be wrong with the world ever again. "Where's your mother?" he heard himself ask, almost without thinking. He looked around again and realized something else as he noticed the Christmas tree and the plate of cookies nearby. He glanced to the windows and saw it was snowing, a fresh blanket of snow turning the landscape a sparkling white. He looked back at the two young faces before him, looking harder at them. Micah and Anya" Those were Russian names. Why were they Russian' His heart lurched in his chest when he realized the only possible answer to that question: Natalya.

"In the kitchen," Anya informed him with a bright sparkle to her eyes, rubbing her stomach where her brother had poked her. "She says we're not allowed in yet." Little Micah's face screwed up as he wrapped his arms around Rhys' leg. "Only 'cos you made her spill the pottie-ohs," he accused his sister, who leaned down to pull a grimace right in his face. "Po-tay-toes, Micah." A familiar voice called from another room, seemingly reached via the open door beside the crackling hearth, filled with the warm burr of the Russian accent Rhys had slowly been learning over the past weeks. "Leave your father alone, he's trying to sleep!"

He rubbed a finger against a temple, trying to sort all this out. Was he dreaming or was the other thing a dream, and this was reality' Oh, God, if only this was real. He felt his heart lurch again at the sound of the all-too-familiar voice that came from what he assumed must be the kitchen. So, if he was married to Natalya, then these must be their children. He looked back at the pair, so different from the children he'd dreamed of once before, and yet not that different. What if this was real and the other life was just a nightmare of sorts"

Instinct took over, his most heartfelt desires filling him with happiness at the prospect of this particular reality, and he plucked the boy up off the floor and set him on his lap. "It's all right, Nat!" he called from the couch. "I'm already awake." All right, if this was a dream, he was going to go along with it to see where it went, and if it was reality, well, that was even better.

"We didn't wake him up!" Anya bawled back toward the kitchen, scrambling up onto the couch beside Rhys to tuck herself under his arm. Micah crowed triumphantly as he settled in his father's lap, sticking his tongue out at his sister. "Said you'd tell me a story," he repeated himself, kicking his feet at his sister until she caught him by the ankles.

He wasn't sure where they were, but wherever it was, it was winter outside, and close to Christmas. There were no presents under the tree, which seemed to hint that St. Nicholas hadn't visited the Bristol home just yet. He could use that to his advantage with these two little imps that looked so much like himself and Natalya that it plucked at his heartstrings. A smile crossed his face finally as he surrendered himself to the dreaming, too pleasant a scene to resist.

"Should I tell you how Saint Nicholas doesn't bring presents to little boys and girls who disobey their mother and wake their father from a nap?" There was nothing in his expression that would make that question seem stern, more of a joyful gleam to his eyes that the children would more than likely recognize as good-natured teasing.

Evidently the two little mischief makers cuddled up to him were well used to their father's teasing, giggling at the look on his face even as they fought one another for the best position beside him and on his lap. "Do they get cola?" Micah asked with engaging innocence, erupting with piercing giggles as his sister poked at his stomach. "They get stinky fish!" she countered with her own higher-pitched giggles. A huskier laugh joined theirs from the doorway, announcing that Natalya had decided to come and see what was going on.

"Carve?" Rhys echoed, questioningly. Was this an ordinary evening meal or a special occasion, he wondered, looking for something that might give him some clue. He looked down at himself and found he was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a cream-colored Fisherman's sweater over a plain white t-shirt, socks but no shoes, casual but not the kind of clothing he was accustomed to wearing, at least not when he was hunting. He glanced back at her and then over to the roast that seemed to be awaiting his attention. "Does it matter?" he asked, unsure what the correct answer was to her question.

"Well, it does depend if you think you can keep Micah from trying to help you at the table," she chuckled, turning away to rummage in a drawer. "He almost sliced his own wrist open the last time he tried." She stepped back from the drawer, a metallic zing declaring itself before she turned around. In her hands was Joyeuse, Charlemagne's sword, held as though it was nothing more than a carving knife. "So here, or at the table" Or should we wait for Abaddon to join us?" She smiled warmly, her eyes seemingly lit up at the promise of their guest. "He's been talking about spending some time with you for months now."

Dream or no dream, he laughed at the remark about Micah wanting to help, and then she was suddenly holding Joyeuse and talking about Abaddon as though he were a friend of the family, and his heart sank. So, it was just a dream, after all. The expression on his face mirrored the feeling of dismay in his heart, the grief and the sadness at the knowledge that this was just some figment of his imagination, the dream starting to go horribly wrong.

He backed away from the sword, suddenly not wanting to touch it, even if it was rightfully his, head jerking up at the mention of Abaddon. "What do you know about Abaddon?" he asked, his tone changing, sounding harsher than he intended. Oh, God, he thought. Just let it be real. Give me back my sweet Natalya and our children.

This false, lovely dream of the woman he loved enough to abandon in reality smiled, seemingly unphased by the harshness in his tone, apparently unaware of the pain in his eyes. "He's your uncle, Rhys," she laughed incredulously. "He bought us this house, don't you remember" He was there when Anya was born, and Micah, too. And all because you promised to give him this silly carving knife." She gestured with the sword, innocent of anything wrong in what she had been saying.

Green eyes widened as realization settled in. So, that was what this was all about. This was Abaddon's way of taunting him, bribing him. Give me this, and I'll give you that. "Don't be ridiculous, Nat. It's just a knife." He eyed the sword, knowing it was so much more than that, knowing it was the key to his own destiny. He had to resist the temptation somehow. No matter how beautiful she was or how wonderful the dream, if it was going to be his, he was going to earn it himself, not be bribed into living it by a demon who might or might not keep his word. "Why don't you call him and tell him to come over, so I can thank him myself?" he asked, tempting Fate, tempting Abaddon's hand or whoever it was that had set all of this into motion.

"But Rhys, you promised," she insisted, stepping closer. One hand reached for his, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of the blade. "To keep all this, all you have to do is give your uncle the knife. That's all. Call him yourself - he always comes for you." She stepped back, seemingly unaware of how painful, how cruel her words and actions were. She was just a dream, a promise of something a demon could not bestow in return for the end of the world.

Anger flared, rage at the audacity of the demon - no, fallen angel - to use his own dreams, his own desires against him, to think he would cave in to such a thing, turn away from his destiny, turn his back on humanity, to selfishly agree to what amounted to nothing more than a dream, a dream that Rhys knew could only become reality if he did exactly the opposite of what Abaddon wanted. But it wasn't this Natalya's fault. This Natalya wasn't his Natalya, not really, and she was innocent of any wrong doing and ignorant of reality.

His anger ebbed away at this thought, leaving him feeling empty inside, a gaping hole in his heart that only she could fill. He wrapped his hand around the sword, accepting it finally, but not the way Abaddon wished him to, no intention of giving the sword up until he ran it through Abaddon's cold and lifeless heart. "I love you, Nat, but none of this is real. You're not real. You're just a dream, nothing more. The children in the other room....They're not real. They're just hopes and dreams. They're what I want, not what I have, but I promise you....I will fight for you, I will fight for this, for us."

"Reality is the dream you'll never wake from." The voice that spoke was harsh, cruel, guttural tones that suddenly rang through the little house. Natalya gasped, terror blossoming to life in her face, so unlike the real, living Nat Rhys had left behind him in the real world. The real Nat would have been angered, not frightened, by an unknown voice in her home. Yet this Nat was all the things a good wife should be - sweet, vulnerable, in need of protection. And ultimately not what anyone could possibly want. Screams suddenly erupted from the other room, the two small children who looked so much like Rhys and Nat howling in pain as Natalya plunged to her knees, her face pale, her hands pressing to her grotesquely misshapen belly. "Rhys" Rhys, what?s happening?"

But Rhys was seeing through Abaddon's tricks now, and though the thought of his children - their children - in pain was tearing him apart, more painful than the most hideous torture, it only made him angrier, his hatred for Abaddon and his cruelty pushing aside the love and devotion he felt for this dream family of his and replacing it with grim determination.

"Abaddon!" he turned his head away, calling the demon to him, closing his heart and his ears to the cries of pain from his loved ones, knowing now that, as much as he wanted them to be, they weren't real. "If you want the sword, come and get it."

Rhys" challenge, as brave and as determined as it sounded, was met with the chilling sound of demonic laughter vibrating through the walls of the house, cold and cruel enough to strike fear in the most courageous heart. To his credit, Rhys didn't buckle beneath that sound, but moved to his knees, an arm wrapping protectively around the Natalya of his dreams, who was sobbing hysterically in fear, so unlike the Natalya he knew. And then, there was a deafening roar, the unmistakable sound of fire reverberating through the house, screams of agony from the children in the next room, crying out for help, crying out for their father to save them. Rhys squeezed his eyes shut, his throat closing at the helpless cries of his children succumbing to flames, knowing there was nothing he could do to save them, and then suddenly the entire house was engulfed, and he watched helplessly as Natalya cried out, screaming in pain and terror.

"Nat!" Rhys called, reaching for her, but unable to touch her, unable to save her, watching helplessly as she disappeared with a scream amidst the fiery nightmare that haunted his sleep. "Please!" he cried, heart pounding in terror as he was engulfed in flames, searing pain like he'd never known threatening to consume him, causing him to scream in horrified agony.

"Eternal damnation," he heard Abaddon's voice in his head. "That will be your reality, if you do not surrender. Eternal damnation for you and for all those you love, unless you give me the sword. That is my promise to you, Rathanael. No more games, no more tricks. If you want to save her, then give me the sword, or she dies, like all the rest."

"No!" Rhys cried, both refusing Abaddon's demand and pleading with him to spare Natalya, but it was no use. It seemed no one heard, and no cared. He'd been abandoned and cast into the fiery pit of Hell, like all those who'd fallen before him. The flames grew higher and hotter, threatening to devour him and send him to a fiery death, and then it was over.

Rhys opened his eyes with a start, heart pounding in his chest, crying out to shatter the silence of the night as he bolted upright in bed, fear gripping him in its cold, icy grasp. There was no fire, no children, no Natalya, no Abaddon, only himself and the sword tucked safely beneath his pillow - the sword of Charlemagne, rightfully his " ever at his side.

"F*ck you," he told the demon of his dreams and of his reality, taunting him in return. "If you want me, come and get me. I'll be at Gavarnie, you son of a bitch.?

((Many thanks to Nat's player for this scene. We are nearing a conclusion to the story, slowly but surely.))