Dreogan could see it clearly.  Topuluk, his captors for the past 9 months, had been growing anxious. 

The restlessness--the sort that had at first manifested itself in a bruised ribcages--was mounting to a frustration which now led to harsh words, screams, and missing fingernails.  It had been growing for months now, but it was reaching levels so high and so thin, so hot and broiled that Dreogan could practically hear the screech of a boiling kettle. 

In their eyes, the fruitless imprisonment of a weak-willed Seer had profited them nothing.  They could force his hand into the vault, but they'd learned with Dreogan's father that they could not force the man back out of it.  And what was more, the item inside--the Seerstone that they desired--could likely only be worked by their captive.  Sight could not be forced.  That would need to be willing.

Thus far, Dreogan had given them no indication that he'd be willing.  He knew that this risked them doing away with him altogether.

Dreogan had had his own hopes of how he'd want this to go, but those seemed to be thinning out in recent days.  He could not account for the particular reason for this change.  Perhaps just patience starting to fray around the edges.

Dreogan shifted on the crude cot where he lay, looking up at the rough ceiling of the cave hideout, where he’d been secreted away some months ago.  The location was well-known, but well-fortified.  Dreogan knew, at least, that Adnan Musallam and the Jerusalem’s Auror office were well aware of the goings-on in here.  They even had a man inside.  Dreogan had only talked to the man three times—the one who had passed him a note, and salvaged the fractured hopes that Dreogan had of a return to his family. 

Dreogan had not even caught his name.  He’d taken a special interest in the man, after the note, of course—and Dreogan passed the idling hours in guessing his story.  Where he was from, if he was an Auror on a long-term undercover assignment—or if he was one of Godze’s men who’d had enough.  If he had any family.  If he would ever get back to them.

Once—one of those three face-to-face encounters—the man had been tasked with retrieving information.  At first, Dreogan had been willing enough to give it to this man.  But the man had made it clear—perhaps saving them both—that they were not friends.

He had been the man who had taken Dree’s first fingernail.  It had not been easy for either of them.

But even with that reminder, Dreogan could not help but feel fondly of the man.  Perhaps because he was the only one who could bring about Dreogan’s salvation.  Or perhaps because, above all else, Dreogan was interested in this man’s salvation.  Whatever his story, Dreogan knew what it felt like to be compelled into activities he was morally repelled by.  Every sentiment revolted against the work that Topuluk did.

But, in the silence of the cave, Dreogan decided that following the man’s advice—and going along with their plans, when it was time—was his only option to keep everyone safe.  Himself, of course—and the man, who had risked so much.  But primarily, all of this was to keep a 9-month old little boy, and the mother Dreogan loved, safe in London.

Topuluk had been after the Eleor’s inheritance—its treasures and its gifts—for generations.  It had destroyed his father, and it had hounded him.  If he left now, without destroying the group’s core, it would come to his doorstep once more, for his son.  And Akiva, his dear wife, who loved so gently and believed so fiercely, would not be safe, either, until Gabriel was safe.  Until they were all safe. She was an Eleor, now, and that was how they did things.  She was as much of the family--and the family curse--as anyone, and more than anyone else, Dreogan wanted her free of it.  Instead, he seemed to have dragged her and their son in.

Dreogan wanted nothing more than to succeed where his father had failed.  To keep the family safe.  To clear the air, open up their future. And, if he could, he would like to do what his father could not--to come back to them, alive.  But that was not as important as keeping his wife and child safe.  As providing Adnan with the opportunity and information to stop Godze and Topuluk forever.

Yes, Topuluk was growing restless—and if he did not act soon, the game would be lost.  He stretching his legs on the cot, flexing his toes.  He had been underground in the Turkish gang’s hideout for months.  He very much doubted he’d be up for an expedition, if it came to that. And it probably would. And soon.

[1]

1.	Title taken from William Blake's Jerusalem

Dreogan had been sitting on the floor of his cell, idly drawing patterns in the soft dirt that lined the room when the door opened.  He rose quickly to his feet, knowing what followed.  But no guard entered to grasp his arms.  Godze did not come in to leer at him.

The person standing in the doorway was Adon.

Instantly, the color drained from his face.  Adon was badly beaten--blood seemed to have seeped into his eye from a heavy gash through the brow, and his arm dangled oddly from his shoulder.  That was when the guard came in, hitting Adon heavily across the ribcage with a staff.

For all the Topuluk was a gang of mages, they certainly preferred pure, brutal force, and the sound of Adon's breath leaving him ran a ice-hot chill through Dreogan's body.  The sweat on his face was cold.  Adon buckled to his knees, and no force in the world could have kept Dreogan away from him any longer.  Kneeling beside Adon, he drew a protective arm around him: "What do you want?" he asked in Arabic.

The guard was retreating.  "For you to consider  what you've done."

Adon's breathing had evened, but he still gulped for breath.  Dreogan waited, inspecting each of the wounds with care.  His brother winced.

Except Dreogan was not certain that this was his brother.  That had been Dreogan's one condition--that Adnan keep Adon entirely out of Topuluk, completely away, no matter how much he tried to intervene.  Adnan had promised that he would--and would even keep Adon behind bars, if it came to it.  Both of them knew what would happen if Adon did step in to save his brother.  Dreogan had seen it over and over and over again.  And in return, Dreogan would give Adnan what he needed: plans, moves, information.

Dreogan was searching for a still-unknown source of blood that was running down Adon's neck--parting the hair and coming across another gash.  Maybe from being thrown against a wall. 

It seemed difficult to believe that this man in front of him was Adon.  The wounds, he noted, were superficial.  It could easily be one of Topuluk's members, meant to trick him into--

"Dree," Adon managed to gasp.

Dreogan froze at the familiar nickname.  His fingers shook and retreated from this person--his brother.  With what little presence of mind was possible, he wiped the smears of blood off on his pants.  He would not betray himself--not until he knew more.

"Yeh?" he managed, shakily.

"This is important," he said desperately in clear, perfect Hebrew.  Most of the members of Godze's gang spoke a smattering of Hebrew--mostly Arabic or Turkish.  Some Ladino.  He had not heard this clear, educated Hebrew from anyone in Topuluk except one person--that man, his questioner and sole partner in this.  The image of Adon's bleeding face still felt like a knife in his gut--but Dreogan felt more sure now, who it was who spoke.  "You need to do this now, or they will kill me. They will kill us both."

Dreogan's head was spinning.  He wasn't certain if this was Godze's words--sent to convince him to finally yield, or Adnan's--sent to tell him the time was right, or the man's own--but either way, he did not doubt them.  He had no choice.  He gave a silent nod of assent.  Had they found out, somehow?  Had the man slipped up, and now was suffering, slowly, their revenge?  And, most importantly, did this man know what would happen to Adon--what would happen to him if he stayed in this form for  much longer?

The iron door swung open again, heavy on its hinges, and Dreogan spun to face it--coming between the man and the door, but the man was summoned--wrenched up.  There were two guards at the door. Between them stood the solid, squat form of Godze.

There was no ceremony--within moments, before anyone had time to react, red sparks threw the room into a ghastly contrast, and Adon--or the man--had fallen heavily to the ground and was clawing at the floor, writhing in terrible pain.  Dreogan steadied him--brushing hair back from his face and soothing his intermittent whimpering. 

Godze watched. "Have you had time to decide?"

"Yes.  Yes.  Please, please stop. I will do it. Please--just don't hurt him."

Godze raised his wand again, training it on Adon's terrified face.  "And what will you do?"

"I will go to Gringotts and get what you want." Godze took a breath, preparing another curse. "And!" Dreogan followed, desperately, "I will--I will use the stones to find the other artifacts from the Temple that you seek. Please. I promise."

Godze gave a predatory smile, looking at their faces.  "Good."  He trained his eyes again on his victim, who attempted to lurch back, too late.  "Crucio."

Dreogan wrapped his arms around the trembling man on the floor, who was reduced to sobs.  "I gave you my word!" he yelled, indignantly and repeatedly, even after the three aggressors had closed the door on them.