Taylor

The door opened, and a short, red-haired woman stood there. She was in her late forties, but it was obvious she had been quite a beauty in her youth. She wore a burgundy skirt, covered with a white linen apron. She looked up at Taylor with hazel eyes, waiting for him to say something. He stood silently for a moment as people, carts, and horses passed by behind him. Even Bensons recognized the awkwardness, and nudged his rider forcefully in the shoulder. Taylor stumbled, then came forward half a step.
    "Ma'am, my name is Taylor Santorn..." he began.
    "I know who ye are," she interrupted him. "I suppose yer here for the girl."
    "Well.... yes." Taylor couldn't for the life of him think how this woman could know him.
    "Come in. S'almost lunch, ye might as well have somethin' t'eat."

    They had finished eating, and retired to a private room to converse. The cook, who Taylor could only assume was the woman's husband, joined them. He was a thin, blonde-haired elf, and Taylor thought that he looked familiar, but he couldn't place it, and didn't want to say anything. He still had not seen the child, nor had the two spoken of her. He was about to ask, when the woman spoke up again.
    "Anna told us ye would be comin' for 'er sometime, tho' she didn'a say t'would be this long." She settled on the arm of the large, wingbacked chair her husband occupied.
    "Anna is here?" Taylor asked, not at all unsuprised. "I thought she left the city."
    "She did. This'd be... four years ago, summer. She told us all 'bout you an' her sister afore she left." Taylor sighed at himself and looked down.
    "I hope you can forgive my delay. I've been busy the past few years... I had hoped to come sooner, but there was never enough money. I'm free to leave the Patrol now, I've served my contracted time. I'll be doing mercenary work, so as I can look after the girl." He remembered something suddenly, and looked up. "What was she named?"
    The woman looked at him in suprise.
    "Kaitlyn."
    Taylor took a deep breath, reassuring himself as he exhaled slowly.
    "I'd like to see her."

    The woman returned, towing something behind her. Taylor stood expectantly as she stepped aside to reveal a small figure. She looked like a doll fashioned after her mother, though her hair and eyes were dark, like his own.
    "Kaitlyn, this is Taylor Santorn," she said as she nuged the girl into the room.
    Kaitlyn stepped forward hesitantly, clenching her fists at her sides. She looked from the floor to the woman, and then up at Taylor. Her eyes were dark brown, and her sandy-brown hair had escaped it's attempted pinning. She wore a simple dress of tawny linen--probably made from someone's old tunic--with a broad, black ribbon about her waist. She was thin, but fed, and her stubborn chin said she had a firey disposition.
    Taylor rested on one knee in front of her, not wanting to talk down to her. He extended one hand to her, which she accepted and shook firmly. It only took her moments to work up the courage to speak.
    "You're my father." Her statement was plain, not accusatory, but she said it with an earnestness that shocked him.
    "I..." was all he could manage in reply.
    "That's what Anna told me. She said that my father was a soldier named Taylor. That he was going to come someday." She looked at him with a sureness that Taylor didn't think was possible in a six-year old. "You are a soldier, aren't you? You're wearing a uniform."
    "Yes, I am. Well, I was," Taylor corrected himself. "I just came from the dismissal office. They let me keep the uniform." He smiled, hoping to make some crack in her seemingly solid exterior.
    "Were you fired?"
    "No. I left. Ten years is plenty long enough." He stood again, seeing that there was no reason to worry about damaging this girl's self esteem.
    "Then you are my father." Now it was an accusatory statement.
    "I don't know that." He glanced at the floor. "There's no way I ever could." Looking back to her, he continued. "I can only hope--and ask that you would think of coming with me." She put her hands on her hips.
    "Well, then..." she began. "I'd better go get my things." She turned and marched out the door.


==================================


    The door finally gave, splintering at the hinges and latch, sending shards of wood everywhere. Taylor's momentum threw him to the floor, landing on top of the pine door. Looking around, he realized that that was a good thing. The floor was only dirt, made to mud by the leaking roof and glassless windows. A few rats disappeared into burrows near the wall.
    Taylor rose to his feet, looking around again. The room was dark, and smelled of decay. In the center of the small space was a pile of straw. Kaitlyn was bound there, her arms tied above her head to a rope suspended from the ceiling. She was unclothed, bruised, and bleeding from cuts and gashes all over. The short length of the line forced her to kneel, and her muscles were trembling.
    They would have bound her here, in such a position, for only one reason. She had been forced to be a concubine, ravaged and used for the last week as Lars's way of settling debts. Taylor drew his sword and cut her loose. She toppled to the floor, unable to hold herself up. Taylor stripped off his tunic and wrapped it around her, smoothing her hair as she lay shivering. He then turned back to face the men who had gathred in the doorway.
    None of them looked at him, a few stared in shock at Kaitlyn, curled in a ball on the floor.
    "Lars," he growled. Someone pushed the teen forward. Taylor stepped toward him, sword bared in his right hand. He eyed the boy.
    Lars looked back at him for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Kaitlyn. Finally, he looked away, his jaw twisted in cool disdain. There was no question he had been the one to do it. He stood stilly, staring at the mud floor. He seemed more upset that he had been bothered than he seemed remorseful for what he had done.
    The nonchalant attitude burned at Taylor, sparking a fire in the back of his mind. He grabbed Lars by the hair, wrenching his head around to look him in the eye. Lars's eyes widened. Taylor paused a moment, relishing the fact that the adolescent, thought taller than him by two inches, was shaking in terror. He crooked his arm, leveling the sword and resting the point on Lars's chest.
    "Taylor..." Issam began, but no one moved to stop him. Taylor thrust through the boy's throat, twisting the blade as he did to rip a gaping wound just under his jaw. Blood ran down the steel, over the silver hilt, and onto his hand. The torrent of warm rivulets flowed in waves from the youth's struggling pulse, continuing until it dripped off of Taylor's elbow. Lars's throat wheezed as the air empited from his lungs. A crimson bubble of blood swelled between his lips and popped, spattering both his and Taylor's faces.
    He pushed his foot into Lars's abdomen, ripping the blade out of his body and letting him fall to the floor. Tearing the boy's patched jacket off, he used it to clean his arm and then his sword. He dropped the stained cloth onto the corpse and turned back to Kaitlyn.
    She hadn't moved, clutching Taylor's tunic around her. He knelt and scooped her up, cradling her gently, stroking her hair as she cried.
    "Hush. It's alright." He pulled her closer, but she resisted, and he did not persist. He stood again, lifting her, and moved to the door. The men standing there parted, looking away as he stepped over Lars's still figure.

    Two days later, and Kaitlyn was still bedridden. The beatings she had faced, and the week without food had weakened her nearly to her death. Taylor brought bread and milk in to her. She would not eat. She'd barely spoken. She lay curled on the soft mattress, on her side, either sleeping or staring at the wall. Taylor had slept on the floor. Though the mat had always been more than enough to accomodate the two of them, she had asked him not to be so close. He sat next to her on the floor now as she once again refused a meal and rolled over to face the wall.
    "Kait... please." He felt as though someone was strangling him. "You--you haven't eaten in so long... some milk, at least?"
    She was silent.
    "Miriam sent you hot apple cakes. She knows you like them so much..." he trailed off, picking up one of the cakes and breaking it in half, watching as a ploof of steam rolled out of the middle. She still said nothing. He set the plate of food on the floor and stood, looking down on her. For only an instant he contemplated picking her up and making her eat, but he quickly dismissed it. The very last thing he would do was impose force upon her. He began pacing instead, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, watching his feet. After a little while he halted and looked back at the girl.
    Kaitlyn had turned over again, and was watching him. Tears were streaming from her eyes, and her frail body was wracked with the sobs she tried to hold back. In a single stride he was next to her, reaching to wipe her eyes. At first she shied away from his touch, but then reached up and pulled his hand away. She held it, his large palm dwarfing her small, slim fingers.
    "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have listened." He tried to hold her then, but she squirmed away from him. "No--please." She wiped her eyes quickly, and shifted to curl up against the wall again.
    It was then he knew that she would never again be the little porcelain doll of her mother she had been. He was instantly bombarded with loss. Losing Diane, and losing her again now that Kaitlyn had been shattered. He had failed her. The one thing on earth that meant anything to him, and he had stood by while she was broken. He'd allowed her to slip away, just as he had allowed her mother to--and he knew he would never get her back.
    She would never curl in his arms to be protected from nightmare haunts, or to fight off the winter cold. She would not be waiting on the docks for him to return, or walk with him to the ship when he was to leave. No longer would she hold a mirror for him to shave, or ask him to comb stubborn tangles from her hair. No more good night kisses that interrupted his reading. No ghost stories to be made up on stormy nights.
    He'd lost her forever.



==========================




    There were footsteps in the hall, and the sound of something being dragged. The door creaked open, and the sounds came inside.
    Taylor opened his eyes, trying to adjust to the harsh sunlight pouring in through the barred window. As the spots in his vision cleared, the havy door slammed closed, leaving behind a blanket-wrapped lump. It shifted slightly, then stilled again.
    He tried to move, to push himself away from the stone floor, but his muscles uivered and the pain at his waist pulsed. He took a deep breath and twisted until he could see the other half of him, the equine half. Concentrating, he found the muscles in this new body, flexing first one hock, the the other. He lifted a foreleg, pulling it under him, and then found the other, too, was under his body.
    He again pushed away from the stones, this time using as many of his appendages as he could control at once. His barrel rose, and he was foced to hold his human half upright, his arms no longer able to reach the floor. Instead, he braced himself on the wall, trying to find finger-holds in the mortar and stone. he forced his other two legs below him, and pushed himself up.
    he managed to lift his body a few inches befor ehis muscles failed, and he crashed into the rock. It took a few moments befor ehe could orentate himself again, remembering where his muscles were. After another two attempts to stand, he concluded that he wouldn't be able to any time soon. Instead, he coordinated his movements enough that he could push himself across the floor.
    Slowly, he made his way across the room, creeping only inches closer with each straining movement. After what seemed hours, he was beside the mass, and could now see that is rose and fell--breathing. When he pulled the blankets away, the sight made his throat squeeze shut.
    Kaitlyn lay with her face pressed to the floor, her eyes clamped tightly shut, fringed with her tear-soaked lashes. One hand lay in front of her face, slim fingers digging at the stone white-knuckled until they bled. Her whole body trembled with each ragged breath. He reached down and touched her bare shoulder. Her breath came sharply but she simply didnt have the strength to flinch or pull away.
    "Its all right," he soothed quietly. "It's just me."
    Her eyes fluttered open.
    "Taylor?" Her voice was was nothing but a painful rasp, her throat hoarse form screaming, barely audible even in such deafening silence.
    "Yes, I'm here." he could see her trying to lift her head. "Lay still... You won't be able to move for some time." He tore the blanket in half, then into strips he could use to bind her waist, to stem the bleeding. He had to stop and calm himself several times, his stomach rolling more violently at the sight of her bloodied, mutilated frame that it had when he had bandaged his own.
    "I can't feel my legs anymore..." she confided quietly. "What's happening?" Her voice wavered, catching in her throat.
    He didn't know what to tell her. He wrapped one arm around the girth of the immature filly she was now part of, and pulled her to him.
    "I'm not sure, sweetling." He linked both arms around her frail, quivering body.
    "What are they going to do with us?" She caught the end of a tendril of his hair with the fingertip, tugging on it gently. It was the only part of her body that she had the strength to move.
    "I don't know... Maybe they've done all they intend to." He smoothed her hair, clutching her chilly body against him, trying to warm her. It was the first time since her abduction that she had let him be so close. Tears stung at his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He had to stay calm, not let her know how terrified he was. His belly was warm and slippery with her precious blood seeping through the bandaging, draining away with her strength.
    "I made another mistake, Kaitie. Please forgive me." He felt her fingertips twining into his hair. Her body relaxed in his arms, and she sighed almost peacefully.
    "Of course I do. I love you, papa."



=====================


    From where Charlie stood in the tower, she heard the centaurian bowstrings stretch tight. Each of the seven surrounding the captive had their arrows pointed directly at his neck. He stopped struggling, and bowed his head submissively.
    "Halt!"
    Charlie looked to see who had spoken. From around the curtain wall, another centaur appeared. He wore an oiled cloak that covered both his human and horse body, shedding rain. A hood that hung down over his eyes shaded the rest of his features. He was larger than Bandix, and seemed healthy. This was strange to her, because in centaurian society, the strongest male was usually the leader.
    He gestured, and the archers lowered their bows.
    "Tekaulq!" Bandix boomed near Charlie's ear. "I trust you have an explaination for this?" He gripped the rail irritatedly, but did not reverse the order to the guards. On Charlie's other side, Jeremy stepped forward to look down on the scene.
    "What do you see?" Charlie inquired of him quietly. Through the rain, darkness, and distance, his elven eyes would be clearer than hers.
    "Feathers."
    "What?"
    He did not reply, and instead listened as the other centaur spoke.
    "This man may have information we can use. It will be hard to obtain if he is full of arrows." He leaned forward on his staff. "I will take him."
    Bandix clenched his jaw so tightly Charlie thought it might snap in half. He was obviously angered by this display of insubordination, and she wondered why he did not challenge it.
    "As you wish, Tekaulq." Bandix waved a hand, and the guards quivered their arrows.
    Tekaulq came forward, picking the man up by the collar of his tunic as one might a kitten by the scruff of the neck. He paused squinting up into the tower. With his head lifted, Charlie could see his jaw, but nothing else of his face.
    "The woman. And the elf." He motioned toward them with his staff. Charlie blinked, suprised. "I will speak to them as well. Bring them to my den."

    Two centaurs escorted them back through the village. Their hosts carried them across a stream that had swelled in the storm. The other side offered little more than a dirt path, leading back through the trees toward the bluff.
    "Who is this Tekaulq?" Charlie asked. "And why should he be interested in what the prisoner has to say, when the rest of you obviously are not?"
    "Tek is not like the rest of us," offered the centaur who carried Jeremy. "He don't care nothin' much for fightin'. Just what he got written in them books of his. He's always at them books. Prolly dun even KNOW how to fight 'nymore. He's a pacifist..."
    "He ain't no pacifist, Greigon! He can fight if he wants to. He saved your life from them wolves, when you was nothin' but a colt. Remember?" This was the centaur Charlie sat atop. He waved the torch he carried at the other centaur's face. "You would'a been dog meat fer sure! He ain't no pacifist, I say. He just likes bein' smarter than all'a you." He arched his spine proudly, the way Thrasher did to make himself look bigger. Charlie rolled her eyes. "Think maybe someday, I'll be the same."
    The other centaur only snickered. Then they both stopped. Before them stood a stone and mortar wall, leading back to blend into the rock cliff. Lamps were burning inside, making the oiled hides that covered the windows glow.
    "End of the ride, two-legs," Greigon said. As soon as Jeremy and Charlie were on their own feet, the two centaurs left without another word.
    Charlie looked at Jeremy.
    "I suppose we go inside..." He moved toward the large, centaur-sized door. As he stepped up onto the stoop, it opened.
    Tekaulq looked them over. Having removed his cloak, his body was uncovered. There was one blaring difference between him and the other centaurs. Wings of dark ebony bloomed from his withers, just like those of a pegasus. They were folded neatly against his barrel, but it was plain that the wingspan would be immense, were they spread.
    Charlie blinked. She had never heard tell of a winged centaur. Was it possible, even, for him to fly? She could not imagine that any amount of feathers could hold such a large creature aloft. She knew it would be rude to question him now, while he was waiting on them, or to stare more. She moved on, into the room.
    The room was much larger than it appeared from outside, but, looking around, she saw only books. Every inch of wall was lined with shelves, all the way up to the ceiling some fifteen feet above. She supposed that a centaur, rearing, could reach them there. There were books set out on the few tables that dotted the room, and stacked on top of the other books on the shelves until every nook and cranny was filled. There was no disorder to it, however. Even the rack of scrolls in one corner was neat, however overcluttered it was.
    Charlie sat, Jeremy next to her. There were no chairs here; centaurs had little use for them. Instead, large cushions were placed around tables that would be at writing height for any centaur settled next to them.
    The prisoner was sitting here, his arms bound behind his back, on one of the cushions. He looked very uninterested in anything that could possibly happen to him, wet and muddy from being forced to the ground. He glowered at Charlie, and she returned the gesture.


==================================



    "The Argothians first settled near here about 50 years ago... One of these has notes about them." Tek cast through a few books, searching for the right one. "I just came across it this morning. Check those over there?" he asked, gesturing to a stack near her.
    She did as he asked, opening one and reading a few sentences before moving on to the next. One of the many volumes that held the history of the Sparran village; a leger holding figures for supplying different numbers of soldiers and thier mounts. A simple brown book, slightly smaller than the others, and much older-looking, was in the middle of the pile. When she opened it, several folded pieces of paper fell to the floor. She picked one up, unfolding it. It was a letter, addressed to somone named Taylor, in a young woman's delicate handwriting.
    "What is this?" she asked, holding it out to him.
    "Hmm?" he mumbled, still searching through volume after volume and not looking up.
    "This letter. There are dozens more. They fell out of this... diary, it looks like." She gathered them up, then looked at him once more.
    He sat stilly, his face emotionless, staring at the diary where it lay ovr her knee. She was suprised, as only a moment ago, he had been cheerful and talkative. The diary, wherever it was from and whatever it was, was of significance. He leaned over and lifted it from her leg, and she saw his fingertips tremble as he touched the leather binding. He turned it over in his hands, thumbing through the pages carefully. They were almost brittle with age.
    "Tek?" she murmured.
    "Tekaulq was a name given to me by the Sparran people... My real name--my birth name--is Taylor. Taylor Santorn." He reached for the letters she held, and she handed them to him. "These were sent to me a very long time ago. Before I ever came here." He pushed aside some books, and with some effort, rose to his feet without disturbing any of the neatly stacked volumes. He closed the door to the study, then leaned against the frame, resting his weight on three legs.
    "There is no one alive in this village who knows about my past. I should like to keep it that way."
    "I understand. Of course." He turned and looked at her, and she felt uncomfortable under his icy blue stare. He was silent, thinking. "You don't have to tell me," she offered. He simply shook his head.
    "I've been hiding from my past for too long." He walked over to the table on which he had left the letters and diary, and tucked the folded notes into the pages of the book. He stepped into his room and left them there. The sound of his hooves on the slate floor resonated loudly through the room. He walked slowly, going to settle on one of the hammock-like centaurian benches. She rose and took her own seat, awkwardly, on another.
    "Are you comfortable?" he asked. She nodded, not entirely a lie. "Good. This will take some telling."
    She listened for a long time, how long exactly, she didn't know. Five hundred years earlier, he had been born Taylor Santorn, on a farm that was now part of Ashcroft Proper. He joined the Sennan Army during the final yers of the Great Civil War, which tore Senna in two against itself. The eastern half allied with Tolth to defeat the West, completely destroying every city, most of the people killed or lost in the recession.
    "Almost all the known history from that time is gone... Save for what the elvish tomes record, and they aren't interested in sharing, not that they have reason to." Roc said quietly during a pause.
    "Gone? Why?" She sighed, scratching the back of her head.
    "Well, your king Dillon was killed by revolters, and his brother took power. His great-grandson, Jason, began losing favor, because even his advisors thought he was heading down the same path as his old uncle. He didn't like the idea that his entire line would be plagued by doubts because of what had happened. There's no proof, but its common belief that he hired arsons to burn down that wing of the Gallery of Records. All the written history for the three hundred years leading up to his father's reign were destoryed." She shook her head, "Pity for him, it didn't work." Her thoughts rested there for a moment. "Anyways, please continue."
    Tek picked up again, telling her of a barmaid he had planned to marry. She had a child while he was away, unbeknownst to him, and died in childbed. He never thought about whether the girl was his, but took her in as soon as he was able to leave the army, and brought her to live near the waterfront. He had hard times finding work, because there were so many young ex-soldiers at the time. They scraped to get by, and as Kaitlyn got old enough, she took it upon herself to make money.
    He had not known that she had left her job assiting the baker to make dirty money being lookout for a back-alley theif. A drug-smuggler that he owed money kidnapped her when she was twelve,  while Taylor was working at sea. He found her, and killed her captors in a rage, but not before they and several of their customers had had their way with her.
    "She was never the same... after that." Tek's eyes had paled. "She was afraid of me. After a while I leanred not to touch her, not to get too near her..." Roc wanted to apologize then, for even finding the notes, but he continued on. "I took the first job I could find away from that place, the first that would get her away from them. I didn't know that... Well, there was a lot I didn't know." He frowned painfully. "Escorting mages out this way seemed well enough." He stood, going over to the map she had hung on the wall.
    "We came this way--the pass isn't there anymore--and ended up here." He pointed to a place north of Sparra, near the border, and a good way into the foothills. "It wasn't long. They did it to all of us."
    "Did what?"
    "This." He waved a hand along his waist and wither. "The experiment." He paused a moment, and when he spoke again, it was very quiet. "The pain was like nothing else... It was crippling for days. For Kait... It killed her." He looked sickly, blinking several times. "I was the only one who did survive. A fluke. The experiment was a failure, so they left me there." He looked around. "Gods only know how I managed to find my way to this place. I've been here since."
    She didn't know what to say, and the silence was awkward. Finally, his soft voice broke the quiet.
    "Let's get back to work."
    "Are you certain?" she asked quietly. He looked weary.
    "Yes," he said, picking up a book. "It's alright." As he opened it, a cascade of folded papers fluttered through the air like snowflakes, covering the floor around him and the table he stood at. "I--oh, gods," he murmured, and his knees faltered. He fought to hold himself up, leaning on the table. "She died in my arms, Roc. And I couldn't stop it."
    Roc looked at him, trying to see his face. The shirt he had worn to the banquet that night had been borrowed from one of the soldiers. He still wore it, though it was too small, and stretched tightly over his back and shoulders. She thought she caught a glimpse of something, and when she looked closer realized that there were, in fact, tears in his eyes. She slid from the seat swiftly, standing at his side, and brushed his hand with her own. Seeming almost suprised by her presence, he glanced over. She invited herself to wrap her arms around his human waist, holding him tightly. Her head barely reached his chest, but she rested it against his abdomen.
    Tek slid his hand under her chin, tilting her face up toward his. He bent to kiss her. He meant it only to be warm, friendly. He kissed her cheek softly. She was the only being--human or otherwise--who accepted him. Before he could react, he felt her lips wandering over his, and her hand tangling its way through his hair. A heat flooded his body. It surged from his waist up through his chest and stopped in the curve of his neck. His heart pounded.
    Roc let one hand slip to his side, to the place where his scars were the most tender. She stroked him there as her other hand dug even more deeply into his hair. She pulled her mouth away from his for only a moment to catch her breath, then redoubled her attention, pulling him down closer.
    After his suprise at her return to lip his mouth subsided, he found himself reaching around her to slide his hands behind her thighs, lifting her easily onto the high table behind her. He took a step closer, pulling his wings forward to her sides, brushing a feathertip against the side of her face.
    Even here, where her feet dangled above the floor, she only came to the top of his shoulder. The hand he rested on her thigh was warm, even through the thick of her breeches. The feather tickling her ear was almost too much. When she slipped her hand under the bottom of his shirt, she could feel the muscles in his stomach flinch, and that he was trembling. He took a deep breath, and his chest heaved.
    The strain was too much for the silk. Three buttons--two on the bottom and the one over the fullest part of his chest--popped. Suddenly, Roc realized that her own clothes were no longer as snug. Her dress shirt was open five buttons, and Tek's hand was moving from her shoulder over her breast to her ribs. She fumbled to undo the rest of his shirt.
    Roc slid her own palm over his shoulder, pushing aside his shirt. She let her lips wander away from his, over his face and down his neck to his chest. He pulled her closer, bending over her shoulder to kiss the back of her neck. She let her hands drop to his sides again, stroking him as she mouthed his collarbone. His breath made goosebumps glide down her spine.
    Tek was not shaking of anticipation now, but his heart pounded in his ears. He could not catch his breath, but he didn't want to stop long enough to do so. He slid his hand along the bottom edge of her breast band, his thumb slipping under it and tracing the flesh underneath. She inhaled sharply, and the sound sent a new wave of fire through him.
    She inched even closer to him, now more hanging from her arms draped around his neck than sitting on the table. She pulled her knees up to his sides, gripping him frimly. A feather brushed her bare shoulder, and she realized he was stroking her back with his wings even as his hands wandered over her front. Before the thought even left her mind, his hands were on the rounds of her hips, tucked in the sides of her breeches. She nibbled his throat, and her lips brushed his larynx.
    Tek pulled away from her, hurriedly, pushing her back on the table.
    "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "We can't... I shouldn't have done that." He swallowed hard, and stooped, with some effort, to retrieve her shirt. He handed it to her, but she grabbed his hand instead. He would not look at her, staring at their hands and the shirt, but did not move away when she slid down from the table.
    Roc reached toward him, beginning to wrap her arms around him again, but then stopped, and rested her hand on his belly instead, just above where his golden skin-tone became darker scars, then disappeared under the coat. She leaned forward until her head bumped against him, looking down past her hand to his forelegs. A large hand moved into her vision to cover her own, his thumb slipping back and forth over her fingers.
    "You know this would do no good." He looked down at her, blue eyes fixated on the green ones staring back at him. She wasn't upset, but there was worry there. He didn't know if that was better or not. He let her hand go, turning away, leaning with one hand on the bookshelf to frown at the floor.
    She watched him, thinking. His wings were slack, almost touching the floor. The way he hung his head, it looked as though it hurt for him to stand upright. She lifted her hand half-heartedly from her side, combing it through the full of his tail. He still did not look at her, but tilted his head to the side so he could speak to her over his shoulder.
    "Please believe me when I say I am sorry. I didn't mean to be... I'm sorry." He turned his head away again. "You do realize that what we were leading into would be physically impossible..." She heard him sigh again. "Of course you do... Which is why I don't understand--why would you even start it?" He turned and looked at her now, examining her face, looking for an answer there.
    "You kissed me," was all she could manage. His expression changed from one of confusion to exasperation.
    "Not like that... I would never--Do you know how long it has been since..." He ran a hand through his hair, and clenched his teeth, making his jaw muscles bulge slightly. He did not know where to begin, continue, or end. "Since I have... been touched like that?" He turned away, fidgeting. Were he only on two legs, he would have been pacing. On four, his body pivoted around his hindlegs. He rubbed the back of his neck. Roc noticed that he was turning slightly crimson under his swarthy tone. In hindsight, what he had said did not seem as wise. "It's a cruel thing to do," he muttered. He was beginning to think his way into being angry. "If you were leading me on..."
    "Tek..." she began, but he did not hear her.
    "It's simply unkind. I don't... You know--now more than anyone else--how alone I've been..."
    "Tek..."
    "It's not something I would expect of you. I thought I could trust you, Roc..."
    "Taylor! Will you stop babbling, and listen to me?" she yelled. It barely broke his train of thought, but it was enough that he did silence. She stepped toward him, stopping when she had to strain her neck to meet his eyes. "I had no intention of leading you on. And you can trust me." He frowned, and his eyes flicked back and forth between hers. "I... I really think I'm in love with you."
    His frown dissolved for a moment, replaced with shock, but it quickly returned.
    "Don't say that." He grabbed her arms, shaking her for emphasis, and his wings flared behind him. "For the love of all gods, do you hear youself? You know its not possible! No matter how much we want it not to be true, it could never happen..." He let go of her suddenly, realizing he was losing his temper. But she was looking at him strangely. "What?"
    "You said 'we'..."
    "What?"
    "You said... 'no matter how much we want it not to be true'... " She watched him carefully. He only looked away, frowning even more deeply.
    "So I did," he said at last.
    "Then..." She could not finish the sentence. It had been news to her, when she said what she did. This was almost too much to handle.
    "Yes," he replied to the question she had not asked. He looked down at her, his expression softened, and suddenly he was very close, his hand on the side of her face. "I love you. I don't know what there is that we could possibly do about it... but I do love you." She blinked, frowning a little herself.
    "You make it sound so terrible. Where's the harm in it, really?"
    "Nothing can come of it... of us being together." His hand slipped away, and his eyes were distant. "In the end, we would only both be alone." He bent, kissing the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. "I hope you can understand that. That it is for the better."
    Before she could utter a word, he was gone.





=====================







    "Commander, there's a man outside. Beggin' yer pardon, but seems awful needin' to talk to you." Carra stepped back, as though she expected to be struck. Charlie placed a hand on her shoulder instead.
    "Send him in." Charlie waited for her to leave, then turned to Tek. "Don't forget what I said. You can do something about this."
    Grayton stumbled into the room, sweat and mud-soaked. He heaved, trying to catch his breath, and Charlie pushed him toward a chair. He leaned forward, his head between his knees. He was trying to speak but his voice was inaudible, his throat too dry to make a sound. Charlie crouched next to him, trying to hear.
    "Wait," she murmered, but he ignored her, continuing to speak voicelessly.
    Tek came forward with a cup of water, holding it while Gray drank hastily from it. Charlie helped him sit up long enough to drink, and when she touched his side realized that what stained his uniform was warm. She pulled her hand away to see it shaded crimson. Blood. An arrow shaft protruded from his side, just under his right arm, and had been snapped off not an inch from the skin. Tek saw as well, and called Carra back.
    "The camp." Gray had found his words again. Charlie listened while Tek and Carra saw to his wounds. "Some one surrounded us. They attacked. Targeting officers. Officers, Marm." He swallowed hard, flinching as Tek prodded his side, trying to get the arrow out. He was beginning to look pale. "No one was ready. We had to scatter. Jem--" He twitched again. "He was right behind me..." He trailed off. Charlie saw the color drain from his face. When it reached the edges of his lips, he slumped forward onto her. She caught him just before he hit the floor.
    Tek held up the arrow as Carra made quick use of a roll of bandages. It was mean looking, hook-toothed on one edge like a fishing harpoon. It looked familiar.
    "Poisoned," he said bluntly. "Carra, fetch water and charcoal. We'll need to flush his wound and absorb as much as we can." As the girl disappeared, Tek plucked Gray from Charlie's hold, lifting him as though he were nothing more than a sack of grain, and silently carried him into his bedroom.
    Charlie immediately went to Dance. Him and not Thrasher because, although she may have been riding into an ambush, she wanted speed more than anything else. She had to find Jem. She could feel a cold sweat running down her back. Poison. Even with his magic, Jem would not be able to tend to his own injuries. Not only that, but he was wounded and alone, with people hunting him.
    Carra came back, slipping inside. She did not notice Charlie throwing her saddle over Dance's back. Charlie fastened her cinch tightly,
    "Do you know where he is?"
    Charlie did not expect her absence to go unnoticed long, and Tek did not dissapoint her.
    "I will find him." For safety's sake, she strapped her peytral to Dance. "If I have to ride through the Caverns myself, I will find him." She reached for her broadsword, but it was not where she had left it earlier. Tek held it.
    "Leave Dance be. I'll take you." He began to undo all of the buckles she had just fastened. "Go and get my swords, please."
    She nodded stiffly, suprised, and went to the cabinet in his den. There were pikes, spears, and other polearms she had never seen before, presumably of centaur origin, judging by their immense length. Three longbow staves were here, carefully set on pegs padded by leather straps--all of them longer than Charlie was tall. The cabinet itself was huge, and when she spotted his belt and its two swords, she had to climb inside to retrieve it.
    When Charlie stepped back into the barn, the sight before her made her freeze. The steel  flanchards, and peytral that Thrasher had been wearing fit over Tek's barrel like they had been made for him. They were buckled perfectly, and she had to question whether or not he had worn barding before. Her broadsword scabbard was fastened around him, just where she would want it to draw her blade from his back.
    He was turned away from her, a chest open at his feet. She watched as he bent, pushing aside wads of straw from inside the chest. He pulled out a hauberk, and slipped it over his head, pulling his hair out from underneath. It gleamed, showing itself to be in perfect condition and well cared for, but it did not fit him properly.
    She approached him, and reached up, straightening the lay of the mail over his shoulders. He skittered to the side, startled, and his wings flared, knocking her over accidentally.
    "Gods almighty, don't you make noise?" he demanded. He turned a light shade of crimson and bent down to lift her to her feet. She looked him over again, and after a moment he figited under her eye. "What?"
    "It suits you."
    He looked away from her wordlessly, turning to Dance. He sympathetically and silently pulled her saddle from him, propping it on the open edge of the chest. The gelding grunted his thanks and went back to sleep. Tek turned back to her.
    "You'll have to ride bareback," he said quietly.
    She only nodded, suprised. He took her arm, helping her up. Something boosted her foot. She looked down and saw that it was the flat of his hoof--he was lifitng his foreleg, giving her somewhat of a foothold. He directed her hands to his waist, readjusted the fold of his wings, and turned down the trail.
    He began at a trot, picking his way through the mud and tree-roots expertly. He had a smooth gait, and even without a saddle it was easy for her to sit his movements. As they reached the clearing, he broke into a lope. She braced herself for the plunge down the bank to the creek, but it did not come. Instead, his wings erupted on either side of her, rapid beats holding them aloft as the ground dropped away.
    Soon they were climbing high enough to see over the trees. Charlie could feel his muscles working, and it reminded her of the fire ships being rowed upriver. Every wingbeat was an oarstroke, and he sailed fluidly. Then a thought occured to her: she had never seen him fly.
    "We won't be able to see him from up here," she yelled over the wind blowing in her face. She had to be careful of where her legs were, she realized. If she bumped his wings the wrong way, it could mean an uncorrectible falter.
    "I'll go back to the ground once we're away from the village," he explained more quietly over his shoulder--the wind was in favor of his voice. He banked suddenly, forgetting he had to compensate for a passenger, and she nearly slid off. She wrapped her arms around his waist quickly to stay put, and he grabbed her hands. "Sorry," he said, but she could see him smile.




  

    "Ah, my delicate cherry blossom. I hoped I would see you again."
    Charlie whirled, a chill running down her spine at the weariness in Jem's usually light voice. He leaned against a tree, crouching, an arrow buried almost to the fletching in his shoulder. The blood that drained slowly from the wound added to more that came from a second low on his right side. He was very pale, and his eyes were half-closed, giving the impression that he had just been woken from a deep sleep. He held something in his right hand.
    Now this close, she could see that the arrow in his shoulder had pinned him to the tree. She pressed a hand to the bark, and the wood split away from the bolt. Jem slid abruptly to the ground. Charlie tried to catch him, but couldn't--she had expected him to stand.
    "Jem?" She knelt, lifting his hand to see what he held. A short, hooked-tip arrow dropped from his fingers. Her eyebrows knitted together. His hand pulled away from hers, cupping her face, smearing his own blood over her skin. Charlie heard Tek approaching, and he stopped, standing a few paces behind her. "Jem? Are you al-- ...No." She stammered a moment. He smiled drowsily at her.
    "His highness has bestowed me with the honor of a fatal amount of sedative. It would do me no good to expend my energy." Charlie heard Tek sigh, and move away, but she refused to accept what he had told her.
    "There are still things that can be done..." She began to tear his uniform away from the wound on his shoulder. Tek hung his head, hearing the fear and desperation in her voice. Jem kept his soft smile, not wanting her to know that his body was screaming at him to give in to the drug. He took her hands away from his chest, clutching them and lifting them to his lips to kiss her knuckles.
    "Leave it be, maiden fair," he murmured softly. "Leave it be."
    "Jeremy..." Charlie was suprised at the strangled sound of her voice.
    "Hush," he chided, silencing her with a finger to her lips. "Annik will come after you, when his men report that you weren't here. You'd better let this brute take you somewhere for safekeeping, at least until he looses track of you." Behind her, Tek flicked his tail, but stayed silent. Jem reached up and finger-combed her hair back into it's proper place. "You need to stay alive, to stop him." He pushed himself up toward her, and pressed a hand to the back of her neck, kissing her deeply. She could taste his blood in his mouth. When he pulled away from her, she moved closer to him, pulling him into her arms and cradling his shoulders over her knees. She had forgotten how much his eyes shined when he was being mischievious.
    "You haven't got much time," he began again. He closed his eyes and tangled his fingers in her hair. "They're headed for Ravencroft. When they don't find you there... Gods only know what lengths Annik will go to."
    "Then I'll be there." She bit her lip, looking down at him. He was pouring cold sweat, and she knew he was struggling to stay conscious. "I won't give him any more excuse to endanger the lives of my men or his own people." She tugged her sleeve down and wiped his forehead. "What is left of them, that is," she added forlornly. He forced his eyes open.
    "No... Charlie, please. You're the only one who can make him answer for what he's done." He tugged at her hair gently, then let his hand drop away. "Tek..." The man came forward, looking over Charlie's head, down at Jem.
    "You're responsible for keeping her out of trouble now." Jem's mouth curled softly in his crooked smile. "If anything happens to her, I'll know who to come after." Charlie felt Tek's hand rest on the back of her neck, smoothing her hair, then he kissed the top of her head. The elf's smile broadened. "I can see you're already doing a splendid job." He caught his breath, and his eyes snapped shut.
    "Jeremy?" Charlie's throat had squeezed shut, and her voice came out as little more than a whisper. The elf exhaled slowly and his eyes opened again. His face adopted a drowsy smirk once more.
    "Hey..." he whispered, and reached up behind her ear. He pulled out two silver pieces, and layed them in her palm, then covered her hand with his own. His skin was icy cold.
    "You damned idiot," she mused, though she fought to keep tears from her eyes. He chuckled softly, and smiled weakly up at her.
    "I love you too, my light of dawn." He blinked twice, then his eyes drifted slowly shut. With one last sigh he slipped into sleep.
    Charlie didn't move from where she was, curled around him protectively like one might a small child who was suffering from a nightmare. Tek went to the elf's other side, settling, and lifted Jeremy's wrist in his fingertips to feel his pulse. Charlie held his other hand, and she squeezed it every few moments. Each time she did, he squeezed back, though it was less noticable each time. Finally, when she gripped his fingers, his muscles were still. She looked up at Tek, who only met her eyes briefly, then looked away. He let go of Jeremy's other arm, draping it over the elf's abdomen.
    Charlie picked up Jem's sword from where he had dropped it below the tree, and began to dig his grave. As time wore on, she began to tire, and finally allowed Tek to help her. When she touched her hand to the tree's singed bark, the wood gleamed and shed its dark wounds, and Tek swore that the leaves on the weeping tree flushed out. The woman drove the well-cared-for blade into the ground at the head of his grave, and crouched, resting on one knee, at the other end of the freshly turned over soil. She stared at the patch of earth that was brown--a stark contrast to the blackened ground around it--and the way the moonlight flicking through the clouds made the sword's hilt look as though the silver and gems decorating it were glowing.
    It was another hour, at least, before Tek could convince her it was time to leave.




========================





    Charlie woke from a restless sleep.
    Tek stood over her, gently shaking her awake.
    "What is it?" she asked whisperingly.
    "There is a woman here to see you. An elf." he looked drawn, exhausted. His normally swarthy tone was gray. She sat up, catching his hand as he moved away.
    "Haven't you slept?" He shook his head, and poured water for her.
    "Haven't been able to--you've been tossing all night..." He took the glass back from her, and pulled he rout of bed. She clung to his waist for a moment until he had no choice but to hold her, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He kissed her neck before he let her slide back to the floor.
    "Please lie down for a while, at least? You need rest just as much as I do." He ushered her out the door.
    "I'll rest when I'm dead."
    She couldn't help but think that it might not be so long.

    The woman sat in the den, cross-legged on a cushion. She held a brass staff in her lap, her long auburn hair falling down her back.
    "Fyurae?" The elf turned her head to smile softly at Charlie as she sat down on the floor opposite her.
              "Charlemagne Verity Sedgemoore. I still think that is quite a mouthful."
              "How did you find me?" A crystal was produced, and Charlie could see her own image in it, which faded into a turning, shifting view of Sparra. She once again thanked the gods that dwarves did not deal with humans.
    "I came to see how you were taking this," Rae explained in her low, warm voice. Charlie felt her heart sink.
    "Then you know." She did not meet Rae's eyes.
    "Aye, I know. I knew weeks ago." She reached across the distance between them, resting her hand on Charlie's knee. "Jem knew, too. Once of the Duaghters is a seer. She had a dream, and I told Jem about it."
    Charlie recalled the mysterious message Jem had received from his sister, and how disturbed he had seemed for the following days.
    "But, he knew that trying to avoid his fate would only put you in danger. Put all of us in danger. He chose this." Her coppery colored eyes were glinting in the firelight, whether from grief or pride Charlie couldn't tell.
    Charlie swallowed a lump in her throat. Jem had died for her, after she had ignored and denied him all those times. Their arguement and angry words must have hurt him all the more, knowing it would be their last chance to speak their minds, but not being able to for fear of revealing what he knew.
    "He worried about me too much," was all she could manage to say.
    "We all do," Tek said behind her. She frowned at him, and he knew it was because he had ignored her orders to rest. He lifted his hands and smiled in surrender, and disappeared back into the dark bedroom.
    "He's right," Rae cautioned, her expression one of concern. "You're taking a lot on. And you don't have a lot of help."
    "I can't just do nothing while Annik sends people to slaughter. I know I am trying for the impossible, but I won't ask people to fight for something they don't believe in. Most of the men he left alive aren't going to volunteer to help." Charlie sighed heavily, shaking her head. "I think Annik knew that the men at the gorge that day would be all those who respected Elf kind. Its not that any of them think so lowly, they just... are afraid of the consequences."
    "They should be. You should be, too. Don't think that Annik was the first to do this. Its been happening for centuries." Rae stood fluidly, going to a bookshelf and selecting a volume. It was the large notebook that Tek used as a concordance for his books of lore and research. The pages were magicked to make room for alphabetical entries. "This is slave-made. It was made over four hudred years ago, but it was slave-made." She opened the leger and turned through the pages briefly, shaking her head. "He sure does know what he's doing."
    "Aye, he does," Charlie agreed. "At least that makes one of us."