The streets of London had not changed, not to his distinctive eye. He had watched the city be built, and now he watched as it grew too large for its own power to handle. Parliament and the judiciary system were being publically mocked around the world on the new instruments of hate and disease, television and radio. He abhorred them, but his companion deemed it necessary to sit on the couch in what had once been a beautiful living area, and sit in front of the desecration, the seventeen-inch flat-screen television, and watch nature shows while doing his course work for university.

All the necessary information in those shows could be found in a book, or by walking fifty feet outside their front door and out in to the meadow where his home’s name and his own originated. The unecessariness of the necessity known as a television for the past fifty years astounded him. Leaning on his cane, Lord Elijah Meadows shook his head, putting his bowler hat back on. Years had passed, and the carriages had faded in to automobiles, but the people and the spirit and the underbelly of London had yet to change shape.

He was startled – or, perhaps not startled, as he would never be startled himself; a better term, in his own eyes, would be pulled back, though most on the street saw him start with the grace of a cartoon crane – by a short, balding man. Elijah glared at him in disgust as he backed away. The man was most certainly a tourist of sorts. He observed him, from the little hair he had left on his head, to the gut bulging out under his Disneyland Paris t-shirt and his white Merhyr Tydfil jacket and only supported up in such a perfect mimicry of pregnancy by his tight blue jeans. Elijah bit back a disgusted noise as he tried to walk around the man.

“Lord Elijah Meadows?” The lord stopped, turning to the man. He stared at him. The accent was not what he had been expecting. He assumed that there would be a hint of the French, perhaps the thick lilt of the Welsh, or the harshness of the American. None of those were present in the man’s accent. It was the distinct, easy accent of the Norse. Elijah felt his blood rise slightly, as old thoughts and hatreds of Harald Hardråde moved steadily through his veins. The man grinned, nodding to himself.

“Yes, yes, your description matches perfectly, a little Saxon whelp still under the assumption he is English.” He chuckled. “Too bad Harald did not succeed or you would have to claim your association with us.”

“If Harald had succeeded I would have fled to France. To live with William was to live in far better life than with a Norseman running the country.” Elijah hissed out. The tourist laughed heartily as he pulled an envelope out of his jacket’s pocket.

“I have this for you.” He explained as he handed it to him. Elijah tore it open, reading it quickly.

“And who is this from?”

“My sources; I’m not allowed to reveal them until we are safely at that destination. Don’t you ever go to the movies?” He cajoled, before turning on his heel and hollering for a taxi. When the taxi pulled up to the curb, the man got in to it.

“You can read the letter while you’re in the taxi, on the way to our destination.” The Norwegian told him as he slipped in to the backseat. Gripping the silver handle of his cane, he moved in to the taxi and slammed the door shut. He winced, wiping his hand off on his pleated trousers in disgust.

“Well, you gonna open it?” The man asked, piggish eyes twinkling at him.

“I will when I please.” Elijah sniffed, glaring at the man. “What are you?”

“Excuse me?” He asked, frowning hard.

“You heard me, what are you; no human could be that ugly.”

“You do not know humans that well then, sir.” He chuckled, wheezing. “I am a dwarf.”

“You have no beard or hair.” Elijah said, making a face. The other grinned more, revealing missing teeth and slimy saliva.

“Ah, when they are as young and virile as me, they tend to not.” Elijah gagged delicately in to his handkerchief, before turning to the letter, opening it.

He wondered if, perhaps, the letter was simply a horrible joke. It made his hands shake to even think of something like that. The letter smelled distinctly of danger to his territory, with a hint of Jacob’s cologne.

“What is this?” He asked, turning to the other.

“Just a letter, sir.” He said, grinning far too tightly for Elijah to believe him. Growling softly, he opened the folded paper carefully, hissing out curses under his breath. Opening the piece of paper, Elijah let out a soft hiss of annoyance; the letter had a singular word on it, one that raised his hackles and forced an animalistic growl out of him – Pater.