Chapter Text
Fred woke with a groan, his body feeling both light and unbearably heavy at the same time. He blinked away the haze of sleep and looked out the window, watching as the vast, otherworldly landscape of the Southern Reaches passed by. The mountains, jagged and towering, were stark black against the sky, their blue snow glowing faintly in the dim morning light. It was a sight both beautiful and ominous, the kind of landscape that whispered of ancient power and secrets buried beneath the ice.
The stagecoach glided smoothly along the mountain road, barely shifting with the terrain. The spectral horses that pulled it were eerily silent, their ghostly hooves never quite touching the ground, their glowing eyes fixed forward. They didn’t need rest, nor food, nor direction—they simply moved, as if obeying a command older than time. The dwarven-built stagecoaches were a marvel, their craftsmanship unmatched. Not only were they built like fortresses, but they were designed for long, relentless journeys, insulated so well that neither the howling wind nor the biting cold could pierce their walls.
Fred had been sleeping for what felt like days—three, maybe four. Time blurred together when the only interruptions were brief awakenings to eat, relieve himself, and fall back into unconsciousness. His body had taken full control, demanding rest, repairing itself in the way only his kind could. The dragon meat had done its job—his muscles felt denser, his skin tougher, his energy slowly returning. But it came at a cost.
His stomach groaned in protest, a deep, twisting discomfort rolling through his gut. He winced, pressing a hand to his abdomen. The dragon meat was potent—richer, heavier, and filled with strange energies that his body struggled to digest. It was fuel, but fuel that burned too hot, too wild. His metabolism was fighting to process it, leaving him caught between recovery and rebellion.
"Ugh… never again," he muttered, then grimaced. "Unless I have to." He reached in the bag of meat inside his coach. He knew he had to.
Fred awkwardly exited the cabin, stretching muscles that still ached from days of recovery, and climbed onto the driver’s seat of his coach, the lead coach of the Weight Train. Normally, he would have been leading the Weight Train, but this time his coach had been placed behind a passenger coach, likely so the others could keep an eye on him while he recovered. It made sense, considering how much time he had spent sleeping.
As he settled in, his eyes drifted to Ardentus, who was perched on the roof of the passenger coach, his quill scratching furiously against the pages of a well-worn journal. Ardentus was diligently making log entries into Fred’s personal travel log, cross-referencing compass bearings, meticulously tracking their position with Fred’s railroad chronometer, and performing careful calculations. Fred felt a mix of emotions—relief that his tools had survived, thanks to the Weight Train’s most valuable items being secured inside a resilient, magically protected, waterproof chest, and mild embarrassment that Ardentus was now nose-deep in his deeply personal travel log. Fred wasn’t sure why it bugged him. He knew Ardentus was just doing his best. Still, that log was his—it wasn’t just numbers and calculations. It was the way his mind worked, his private thoughts turned into maps and routes. Maybe that’s why he’d always been hesitant to share it.
Fred had only shared it out of necessity—navigation in these lands was a literal life-and-death matter. He guessed Ardentus was trying to be the best navigator he could while Fred was out. It was admirable, but Fred would still have to double-check his work later, if only for peace of mind.
As his gaze drifted beyond Ardentus, Fred took in their surroundings. They were nestled in a valley deep within the Southern Reaches, the jagged black mountains looming over them like silent sentinels. Ethereal white trees, their bark shimmering like pale silver in the dim light, formed dense forests on either side of the dwarven road they followed. The road itself, a testament to ancient craftsmanship, remained in impeccable condition—smooth, unyielding, as though it had been laid only yesterday rather than centuries ago.
The scene was hauntingly beautiful, yet Fred couldn’t shake the lingering tension in his gut. This land was old, older than the weight of time itself.
Fred looked around, taking in the quiet hum of activity around the caravan. The five coaches were arranged in a careful order: Bronn and Ardentus’s coach, his own, then the separate coach shared by Betsy and Strange, with the two supply coaches bringing up the rear. The Weight Train consisted of five coaches: Fred’s personal coach, two passenger coaches, and two supply coaches, all fortified with dwarven craftsmanship. Their convoy moved steadily, a fortress on wheels cutting through the eerie wilderness of the Southern Reaches. Doctor Strange was seated in the driver’s seat of one of the supply coaches behind him, his brows furrowed in deep concentration as he meticulously examined the dragon bones they had salvaged. The bones pulsed faintly with residual energy, glowing with an eerie luminescence under the shifting morning light. He traced arcane symbols over their surface, whispering incantations under his breath, testing their latent properties.
Betsy sat beside him on the same supply coach, efficiently packing away the day’s forage with a practiced ease. She moved swiftly, her fingers brushing over dried herbs, freshly gathered roots, and a bundle of medicinal plants she had spent the morning collecting. A sharp wind ruffled her cloak as she worked, but she didn’t seem to notice, too focused on organizing their provisions.
Meanwhile, Bronn stood at the side of the road, stretching his arms before launching himself up onto the driver’s seat beside Fred with an easy hop. He landed with a grin, adjusting his sleeves as he settled in. "Well, Master, you look like death slightly warmed over," he quipped, giving Fred an appraising look. "How’s the gut treating you? Still planning on surviving off that cursed meat?"
Fred groaned, rubbing his stomach. "Like an unholy war between digestion and endurance," he muttered. "But I’m still here, aren’t I?"
Fred gave the young man a wry look, his expression softening with a hint of gratitude beneath his usual gruff exterior. He crossed his arms, tilting his head as he regarded Bronn. "Alright, kid, spill it—where in the world did you get that enchanted steel chair?"
Bronn grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ardentus enchanted it for me. Regular steel chairs just kept bending after a few good hits, so we figured a little reinforcement wouldn’t hurt."
Fred huffed out a short laugh. "Reinforcement, huh? Well, kid, that thing did a hell of a number on that dragon."
Bronn’s grin faltered slightly as Fred’s expression turned serious. The older man placed a firm hand on his shoulder, his grip strong, but steady. "Thank you, Bronn Veldrick. You really saved my life back there."
For once, Bronn didn’t have a quick remark. His usual bravado flickered into something quieter, something more meaningful. He nodded, his voice steady. "Anytime, Master. That’s what we do, right? We lift each other up."
Fred chuckled, shaking his head. "Damn right."
"What happened?" Betsy said. She was looking at Fred and Bronn now.
"“Uhh—” Fred started, his mind racing as he remembered Betsy had been unconscious when the fight truly began. How much should he actually say? He hesitated for just a second, but Bronn beat him to it.
“Tzarkan had him pinned in the floodwaters,” Bronn explained, his voice losing some of its usual lightness. “Had his claw pressing him down, and every time Fred tried to push back, the bastard let out another wave of lightning. The water turned into a damn death trap.”
Doctor Strange, standing nearby, exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was certain he was dead. He had to be underwater for more than ten minutes. That’s… that’s not survivable.” His voice was quieter, more measured, as if he was still trying to process the impossibility of it.
Ardentus adjusted his glasses, shaking his head. “I thought he had bled out. The water was thick with it—every movement he made just sent more red into the current. I didn’t think there was any way he could still be alive.”
The weight of their words hung in the air. Betsy felt something cold settle in her chest as she looked at Fred. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly not liking the attention.
"Blood?" Betsy had lost all control of her mouth, it seemed. She didn't want to know. She really didn't, but she could keep the word inside her mouth.
Ardentus spoke first, his voice carrying the weight of someone still grappling with what he had witnessed. "Our esteemed Master Muscle Wizard—" Doctor Strange's eyebrow twitched at the phrase, but Ardentus pressed on. "—walked headfirst into the dragon's water jet breath, enduring the full force of the blast, until he managed to grab the beast and slam it into the ground with sheer brute force. That finally disabled the rain sheath protecting it, which had nullified all our magical and physical attacks. Without it, we were finally able to land a decisive strike."
He paused, adjusting his glasses. "Unfortunately, that came at a considerable cost. The water jet had been hammering him the entire time, shredding his flesh, wearing him down with pressure and lightning until—well…" He trailed off, glancing at Bronn.
Bronn took a deep breath, running a hand over his face before speaking. "It was the most insane thing I’ve ever seen. Like—Master just kept walking through it. Like the pain didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t tearing him apart. And when he finally got close enough, he didn’t hesitate. He just grabbed that damn dragon and planted it."
He let out a weak chuckle but rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uneasy. "But… after that? Master kinda looked like ground beef afterwards, though."
Betsy swallowed hard, her hands trembling slightly as she forced out a breath. "That's all?" she asked, though she already knew there was more—too much more. Her voice wavered just enough that Fred noticed, and she hated that he did. She clenched her fists, trying to steady them.
She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to smirk. "Didn’t expect a dragon to kick your ass so bad, Fred. Maybe you should stick with beasts you can handle from now on. Like sheep."
She intended to sound playful, sarcastic—a casual jab to lighten the weight hanging in the air—but the humor didn’t quite reach her words. Not even close. Instead, something as hard and unforgiving as sword came out.
Fred did something he never did. He snapped. Every ounce of restraint, every bit of his usual bravado, shattered under the sheer weight of what he'd endured. He had been chewed up, electrocuted, drowned, burned, and butchered from the inside out. He had fought through pain most men would never comprehend, had clawed his way back to his feet when his own body begged him to stay down. And now, after all of it, he had to sit here and listen to snark like he hadn’t suffered enough.
Fred’s jaw clenched. He inhaled sharply, trying—really trying—to swallow it down. But something inside him snapped like a frayed cable. "The dragon kicked my ass even after it died! It burned me with acid, electrocuted me with its own muscles while I butchered it! Do not forget that part! And now my gut is staging a full-blown mutiny, threatening to throw itself off the nearest cliff just so it doesn't have to deal with digesting this cursed meat anymore! But guess what? I have to eat it. Because if I don't, I starve to death."
His voice, already raw, dropped lower, sharper, his exhaustion peeling away to reveal the frustration festering beneath. He leveled his gaze at Betsy, eyes burning with something that was equal parts fury and deep-seated weariness.
"But what about you? Why are you so hard and gloomy? What did you do besides get taken out like a damn chump at the beginning of the fight? I needed Captain Britain at my back, not Ms. Snarky Girl who got folded like Bronn's damn chair! Maybe—just maybe—this all happened because you went down like a house of cards! Did you think about that!?"
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The words hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop, the weight of them unmistakable. Fred, chest heaving, fists clenched, didn't know whether he wanted to keep yelling or if he had already said too much.
Silence.
Betsy almost spoke. Almost let her heart out. Almost made a connection with Fred.
Almost.
"You're right. I'm sorry." She said. Her eyes were cast down yard. She floated off her seat and started flying to the passenger car.
"Betsy, I didn't-"
Clack. The door to the passenger car shut with finality.
Fred sighed explosively, rubbing his temples like a man who had just survived an eldritch horror only to be baffled by something far more complex. "What's with women?"
Ardentus, ever the scholar, adjusted his glasses and said with great solemnity, "That is a question as old as magic itself. Countless sages, mystics, and scholars have devoted their lives to solving this enigma, and yet... it remains unanswered."
Bronn leaned back, arms crossed, nodding sagely. "Yeah. There are books about this, Fred. Whole libraries, and not a single one has cracked the code."
Doctor Strange, sitting atop the second supply coach, exhaled slowly and shook his head. He didn’t even look up from the dragon bones he was examining, tracing his fingers over their arcane markings as though lost in thought. He thought about his ex-wife, Clea. He maybe should have a sit down and talk with Fred when he gets a chance. Though, if he actually understood women, maybe he wouldn't be divorced.
Bronn grinned. "We’re all in the same boat, Master."
-
Night had fallen, draping the Southern Reaches in a cold, silent darkness. The party had made camp at the entrance of a massive tunnel, its stone mouth carved into the side of the mountain by dwarven hands long ago. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of frost and stone, and the only sounds were the crackling fire and the faint, spectral breath of their horses.
Ardentus, seated near the flames with his travel log open, adjusted his glasses and announced, "By my calculations, the elven kingdom of Eldralis lies just on the other side of this tunnel."
Fred, still stretching out his stiff limbs from days of rough travel, blinked. "Already?" He glanced at the towering peaks that had loomed over them for what felt like an eternity. "We really crossed the entire Southern Reaches?"
Ardentus nodded, tapping his quill against the parchment. "The dwarven infrastructure is exceptional. We avoided the worst of the weather by keeping to the valleys, and since we've been moving constantly—sleeping in the coaches on the move, with one person keeping watch—we've made excellent time."
Fred glanced at the supply coaches, their frames still streaked with dried dragon blood. "Guess nothing out here wanted to mess with us either."
Ardentus smirked. "I imagine a convoy carrying the butchered corpse of a dragon sends a pretty clear message to anything that might be hunting. The smell alone probably turned most predators the other way."
Bronn let out a low chuckle from his seat on a nearby rock, tossing a twig into the fire. "Yeah, we probably smell like the worst mix of danger and trouble. Either we’re the hunters, or we’re just too cursed to be worth the risk."
Fred exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he looked toward the tunnel. "Still, you made the right call stopping here. Not smart to roll into an elven kingdom in the middle of the night."
Betsy, leaning against the side of her coach, nodded in agreement. "From what I've gathered, Eldralis isn’t like the human cities we've passed through. Elves don’t take well to unexpected visitors, and they certainly won’t appreciate us showing up looking like we crawled out of a dragon’s stomach."
Fred sighed, settling down onto a log beside the fire. "Guess that means we get one last night of peace before stepping into their world. Might as well enjoy it."
The party sat in comfortable silence, the fire casting long shadows against the tunnel’s entrance, the weight of the journey behind them and the unknown of Eldralis waiting just beyond the mountain.
Bronn scratched his chin. "Will we have to stay at an inn or something once we reached the elven kingdom? I am going to miss sleeping in ol' Ironbook. It's become my home."
Betsy raised a wary eyebrow. "Ironbook?"
"The name we came up with for our stagecoach." replied Ardentus, "It's unlucky to not have a name for your coach. What names do you all have?"
Fred smirked, leaning back against his coach. "Well, mine doesn’t need a name. It’s The Lead Coach. That’s all that matters. It gets me where I need to go, and it carries the weight. Simple. Functional. Like me."
Bronn snorted. "Functional? Master, that thing is basically a mobile fortress. You could at least call it something imposing."
Fred shrugged. He said simply, "Sisyphus, then."
Bronn and Ardentus exchanged glances before Bronn asked, "Who’s Sisyphus? That some kind of monster? Sounds like something we’d have to fight."
Ardentus, being from Avalon, looked just as puzzled. "I assume this is another one of your Earth references, Master."
Fred exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. Sisyphus was a king from ancient myths. He pissed off the gods—big time—so they cursed him. Made him roll a massive boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down every time he got near the top. He had to do it forever. No breaks, no escape. Just endless struggle."
Ardentus frowned, processing the tale. "So... you named your coach after a man condemned to an eternity of futile labor?"
Fred smirked, but there was no humor in it. He leaned back, giving the sturdy frame of his stagecoach an absent pat. "It fits, doesn’t it? This thing carries all my weight. It keeps moving, no matter what. And me? I push that damn rock every day. Doesn't matter how strong I get, how much I eat, how much magic I use—I'm still me. Still gotta carry the weight." He patted his enormous belly for emphasis.
Bronn let out a low whistle. "Damn, Master. That’s... heavy."
Fred chuckled, though it lacked any real mirth. "Yeah. But it keeps rolling, just like me."
Betsy, still leaning against her own coach, crossed her arms. "Well, mine and Strange’s has private quarters, arcane wards, and everything a refined traveler needs. If you must know, I call it Moonveil."
Strange glanced up from his study of the dragon bones, one brow arching slightly. "We call it Moonveil? I don’t recall having a say in this."
Betsy smirked. "You were too busy scowling to argue."
Strange exhaled, shaking his head. "Fine. I suppose Moonveil is acceptable."
Ardentus, pleased, made a note in his log. "And the supply coaches?"
Fred cracked a grin. "Supply coaches don’t need names. They just need to carry our stuff. But if you insist... let’s go with The Vault and The Arsenal."
Bronn chuckled. "I like it. Feels right. The Weight Train wouldn’t be the same without ‘em."
Doctor Strange was staring at the tunnel in front of him thoughtfully. "'Naming coaches because if you didn't it would be unlucky'? I didn't take you for a superstitious man, Ardentus."
Ardentus adjusted his glasses, looking thoughtful rather than offended. "Superstition and wisdom often overlap, Doctor. Dwarves believe that a vessel without a name lacks an identity, and things without identity are more easily lost to fate. The Weight Train has become more than just transportation—it’s a part of our survival, our home. Naming it is not just tradition; it’s acknowledgment."
Strange arched an eyebrow. "A poetic way of saying you don’t want bad luck."
Ardentus smirked. "A wise man accounts for every possibility, including those he cannot measure. Besides, even you have to admit—after everything we’ve been through, it doesn’t hurt to hedge our bets."
The company carried on in easy conversation, but Betsy didn’t follow it. The words drifted past her, meaningless echoes against the steady crackle of the fire. She stared into the flames, losing herself in their flickering dance, their restless hunger.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Heavy footsteps. Betsy startled, blinking back into awareness. She was alone by the fire. When had that happened? She looked up just as Fred sat down beside her, his movements slow and deliberate, like a man carrying more weight than just his own. In his hands, he held a plate. A roasted rabbit, perfectly cooked and seasoned, its scent rich and warm against the chill of the night air. He held it toward her without a word as he sat on a log next to her.
She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. "The reconciliation gift?"
Fred gave a short nod. "Yeah."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the distant whinny of Emily somewhere near the wagons. Finally, he sighed, shifting his weight. "I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It isn’t your fault. We’ve both been in a lot of scraps. Sometimes you just get a bad draw. It is what it is."
For a moment, Betsy thought about saying something sharp—something to remind him that an apology couldn’t just erase words. But the look in his eyes stopped her. He meant it. The weight of the past days had finally settled on him, and in that moment, he was just as exhausted as she was.
The fire popped, sending embers spiraling into the night sky.
Fred grimaced suddenly, his hand clenching against his stomach. His face twisted in discomfort, and for a moment, Betsy thought he might actually throw up. He groaned, gripping his side. "Look, Bets. I wish I could stay here and have a heart-to-heart, but I need to lay down."
He started to push himself up, his movements sluggish but determined.
Betsy tensed. No. She needed this moment. Needed to bridge whatever gap had cracked between them.
Without thinking, she reached out—her fingers brushing toward his wrist.
Fred stepped away at the same time.
Just out of reach.
Her hand hovered in the empty space he had just occupied. A breath caught in her throat. She felt her muscles tense as she prepared to stand up.
"EMMMMMMMMMMMMMMIILLLLLY!!!" Fred THUNDERED.
Betsy turned. She beyond the wagons Emily was chewing on Fred's logbook.
"I WILL MAKE YOU EAT DRAGON MEAT UNTIL YOU DIE!" Fred bolted after the Traitor Horse.
Betsy smiled weakly, watching as Fred disappeared into the night, bellowing threats at the traitorous spectral horse. Emily, utterly unfazed, pranced just out of his reach, his logbook dangling mockingly from her mouth. The absurdity of it all almost made her laugh.
Almost.
Instead, she exhaled, wrapping her arms around herself as she turned back to the fire. The warmth barely touched the lingering chill in her chest. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something else.
It's for the best, she told herself. Let him chase Emily. Let him vent. They both needed time to breathe—to rest, to heal, to recover from everything that had been left unsaid.
She gazed toward the tunnel’s dark entrance, the passage that would lead them into Eldralis. One step closer to civilization, to safety, to something that wasn’t endless fights and cold nights in the wilderness.
One step closer to the conversation they couldn’t avoid forever.