Here's Chapter Three, hurrah! Kudos to my infinitely patient and discerning beta readers: Mel, Sascha, Mitai -- I lay tributes at your feet.

Basic disclaimers in Chapter One. As they say, feedback is to a writer like water is to a flower. Send lots of them, especially if they're the sugared, carbonated, and caffeinated kind. :)

Your kin is all but dead. Who would you run to? The High King?

The red-haired girl crashed through the bushes, sobbing silently as thorns tore gashes in her skin. Mother said she musn't make a sound, mustn't speak, musn't cry. But Mother was dead, felled while carrying her to safety. She tried to remember how long it had been.

Too long.

Slave.

Please, she prayed to a deity she no longer believed in, don't let him take me again. I can't live in his dark hovel any longer... not with his hands always touching me. Please, let me die in sunlight.

Slave.

Why should she feel hope now, after so long in his grasp? Why should she believe that she would escape now, after so many failed attempts?

Slave.

She would never be free from him. The girl finally collapsed to the ground, too exhausted to even open her eyes. She waited numbly for his arrival, straining to hear his mad laughter and gritting her teeth against the pain his feeding always caused her.

Instead, a mellow tenor spoke, sounding worried and a little peevish. "After all th' trouble I 'ad t'go through fer a gel, least she could do was t'thank me." A short pause, an intake of breath, then, "Bloody 'ell, what did y'do t'yerself?" There was a soft thump, and she felt a warm hand touch her foot.

"'ey, I just saved yer 'ide from th' mage. I won't 'urt you."

The girl backed away, shaking her head frantically. Even this slight activity tired her, and she sank back to the damp forest floor. Her strange pupilless eyes stared fearfully at him, body tensed against blows. Sir Jonothon glanced at her badly-cut feet, and mentally added another item to his list of things to do -- throw Marius into the deepest pit of Hell. After chopping him into mince with a blunt spoon.

The knight took off his cloak, casually saying, "Name's Sir Jonothon, m'lady. But you c'n call me Jono, if you like." He kept his tone level and friendly, trying to keep her calm as he wrapped the voluminous cloth around her thin body. "We'll 'ave t'find a stream or something... I think I saw one on my way 'ere. Can't let yer wounds fester."

She looked at him with a half-confused, half-scared air, and somehow he knew that his words were understood. She tried to scrabble away from him as he lifted her into his arms, but soon fell still when she realized he was not hurting her. He could hear her shallow, rapid breathing, like a bird narrowly rescued from drowning.

"Don't you worry, gel, I'm not going t'leave you 'ere. Or th' 'ealer will 'ave me 'ead for breakfast, so she will," Jonothon said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. She was light, too light for his liking. Even the slow walk back to where his horse was tethered did not tire him, and he wondered angrily if Marius had deliberately kept her in perpetual starvation.

Gently, he set her in front of him on the saddle, cradled in the crook of his arm. "'ang on, luv -- don't slip! Put yer arms around me... there, that's it," he said, doing his best to make the ride comfortable for her. The girl's grip was surprisingly strong, considering her poor condition. Jonothon twitched. "Err... m'lady? I 'ave t'breathe. Thanks."

"M'lady? We're 'ere."

She peeked out drowsily from the folds of the cloak, blinking once and opening her eyes as wide as possible, as if trying to be awake as fast as possible. Sir Jonothon looked down at her, troubled. He guessed that it was a conditioned reflex, an unconscious defense against any surprise attacks -- which could only come from her erstwhile captor.

He swallowed a curse as he dismounted.

"'old yer arms out. I'm carryin' you down... careful." Jonothon shifted his stance a little, easing the strain in her arms as she clutched at him. If anything, she looked more uncertain than ever, staring at him as if she could not believe that he was more than a fragment of a dream.

"Not so tight -- I'm not lettin' you go. Do yer feet still 'urt?" The girl nodded, her bright eyes now fixed on the leisurely flow of the stream.

They were almost at the river bank before a quandary finally hit the knight full on the head (it had been trying to aim the cannon properly for quite some time). "You do know 'ow t'bathe yerself, right?" he asked anxiously.

Much to his relief, she nodded again.

The feeling was, unfortunately, short-lived. It also occured to him that he had only a few spare shirts, a blanket and some medication; but no soap, comb, towel, or an extra pair of shoes. Or, for that matter, certain articles of feminine clothing.

Hell, this never happens in the songs!

Sir Jonothon made a mental note to pay a visit to a certain guild.

Reluctantly, he dragged his mind back to the present. He carefully put the girl down on a convenient rock, dismayed that there were none big enough for her to bathe in privacy.

Notch up yet another issue to take up with the bards.

"Right. There y'go, then. I'll scrounge up a shirt for you, th' shift yer wearing's ruined-- no! Don't take it off yet! Just let me turn m'back in a sec... okay, you c'n 'and it up now... thanks."

Sir Jonothon, veteran fighter of a hundred battles, fled for the safety of his horse.

"This is not happenin' t'me, this is not happenin' t'me, this is not happenin' t'me..."

Jonothon rummaged around in his pack, tossing aside various (hopefully unbreakable) articles of luggage -- a vision that would have horrified his steward, who had neatly and thoughtfully arranged everything for the knight.

"Why do I always 'ave t'be th' one t'find out that th' bards are singing rubbish?"

Finally, he located a shirt which he judged was long enough for modesty and bundled it with a blanket. After a long, thoughtful moment, he added a pair of underpants as well. And sighed. This was more awkward than he ever bargained for. Shaking dried flakes of mud from the cloak, he made his way cautiously to the stream.

So silent was she, with any sounds she might gave away muffled by the running water, that Jonothon could not find her at first. Stepping on the rock where he left her, the knight spotted a flash of red hair trailing in the stream, followed by much more of her than he judged prudent for his eyes. Hastily, he turned his gaze above her head.

"I got you a blanket t'dry yerself," he mumbled. "And some clothes. 'ope they fit, because I don't 'ave anything else." Eyes closed, he handed her everything except the cloak. "Don't try t'stand," he said as he turned his back.

Jonothon waited until the rustling ceased, and counted to twenty for good measure. Slowly turning around, he found the girl looking quizzically at him, clothed and holding out the damp blanket.

Was that amusement he saw in her eyes?

No, must be his imagination.

Studiously ignoring the suspicious gleam, he readily accepted the blanket and put it aside. His concern was elsewhere. Now that she was clean, he could clearly seen the ugly wounds that had been hidden by the mud... and something unexpected.

"Yer an elf!"

Her ear, visible where she tucked away her hair, curved elegantly upwards into a point, an unmistakable evidence of her race. Jonothon looked into her startled eyes, cursing himself for not remembering Monet's lessons.

"Yer eyes... yer not only an elf, but an ice elf," he breathed, feeling somewhat dazed. An ice elf, the most elusive of the three clans of the elven race. One of the knights he knew was a forest elf, and there was a tavernkeeper in Avalon that had a trace of dark elves blood, but he had never seen an ice elf before. No human in decades remembered seeing one. Even the mountain folk, who dwelled in the same cold valleys and plateaus, rarely saw more than a glimpse of their neighbours.

At the elf's wary look, he hastened to reassure her. "S'okay, luv. It's just that... yer people're not exactly the "'ello neighbour, how 'bout a drink?" sort, y'know?"

Her answering look was one of infinite patience, as if saying, "Considering what's done to me and my kin, you can't really blame us for being shy, can you?"

"I understand," he murmured. Feeling somewhat at loss, he dug around in the small bag attached to his belt, extricating an apple. "Thought you might be 'ungry. In them sagas a banquet or something'll miraculously appear, but I'm a poor sort of knight. This'll 'ave t'do," he apologized, proferring the fruit.

She took it eagerly, munching enthusiastically as if her life depended on it. Which might well be the case, Jonothon amended silently.

"Prop up yer feet, m'lady. I'm taking a look at it." He knelt, pulled out a bottle of the Healer's best salve and a small roll of cloth, then paused. "Y'know, I 'aven't 'eard yer name yet," he said conversationally, looking up at her.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she shook her head. Jonothon was struck by the sorrow in the bright sea-like depths, so palpable it almost seemed tangible.

"Deirdre."

Her gaze met his dark eyes, perplexed.

"It means 'sorrowful'. One of these days, luv, I 'ope you'll prove me wrong."

Slowly, the elf nodded. Face grave, she reached out for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "For now, it will do," she seemed to say.