Life the Wings

Eathan written by Cassandra, Crow written by Jen

[Continued from The Nexus Christmas Special II!]

[Eathan] opens one eye. A beam of sunlight hits it, and he groans and shuts it again. "Umgh." He rolls over. All the blankets have fallen on the floor again, he notices. He gets up, and puts his watch on. /That was a hell of a dream./

He shambles into the bathroom in the half-darkness. He hears car horns beeping outside, and someone shouting in Ancient Greek. He splashes some water on his face, and runs a comb through his hair.

Back in his bedroom, and pulls open a rickety dresser propped up with the WorldsBooks encyclopedia, volume O, Oedipius - Omnipotence. He pulls out a pair of black pants, a dark brown shirt with black metal studs around the cuffs and hem, and a pair of black socks, and shrugs them on. /Whatever I had to drink last night, I'd better not have it again,/ he thinks as he raises the blinds slightly.

He stumbles out to the kitchen, and fixes some toast with ketchup. It's the only thing he has in the refrigerator that's still good.

He sits down at the very plain wooden table. Half-awake, he begins to eat his toast. /At least there were no dead targets coming back in this one,/ he thinks. /And there was this girl... nice girl.../ He yawns. /Damn. I wish I had someone to be with me sometimes, even a girl from a dream./

Eathan runs his hands through the still-damp hair near his right ear, and hears a tiny clinking noise as his hand strikes something metallic. /What the...?/ he puts the toast down on a napkin, and fishes something round and delicate out of the hair tangled near the nape of his neck.

It is a tiny silver hoop, the middle of which is webbed with cream-colored thread, and hung with multicolored beads. From the bottom of the hoop, two feathers, their shafts wrapped in leather strips, dangle and float gently: a crow's. And a gyrfalcon's.

Eathan sits there for a moment. The ketchup can be seen through the small web-holes. /That was no dream./

He gets up from his chair. It squeaks across the linoleum. He pads into his bedroom, and hangs the dreamcatcher over his bed from a rusty nail.

He sits back down at the table, and picks up the cold toast.

"I wasn't dreaming... I wasn't dreaming! Hell!" The toast flies across the room, hits the living room window, and sticks there a moment before landing on the carpet, ketchup-side down, with a squelch.

"That was no dream... dammit... dammit." He curls his head in his arms like an animal finding a burrow, and sobs.

The door-alarm system dings cheerfully in the dark, slightly musty shop. The owner's ears twitch. He looks up, and straightens. "Mr. Gyrfalcon. Always a pleasure to see you back in town. What can I do for you today?"

"Cut the crap, Leo. I need information. You're going to tell me where to find it."

"That's what we're here for. And you're always one of our best-paying customers." The lion grinned, and purred.

"And, Leo... I'm going to pay you well enough to make sure that you don't tell anyone who comes asking if I asked." He smiled. "Or else you're asking for it. You see?"

"I see. What are you looking for, exactly?"

Eathan crouched, like a cat himself, as the men in red and orange surrounded him. He'd already taken out four. But they just kept coming back. And one of them had done something to his leg. It was exploding in small blue warts that stung to the bone. /Frigging overgrown cat,/ he thought as he slit the throat of a fifth man. /Sell me out, will he?/

The cacti and red mesas wavered in the afternoon heat. The sun overhead was large, and hot.

/I can't believe he found someone who could pull me out of the timeflow into a pocket dimension like this./

And then, he stumbled over a rock. He hadn't seen it for the heat-haze. And there was a knife, its metal warmed by the sun, at his throat. The man in orange and red looked at him, and grinned. "You didn't pay well enough to make sure he didn't tell it to anyone who hadn't come asking," the man said. His voice was accented and sharp, like an exotic coffee. "And we've been paying him well for quite some time to find your whereabouts."

"Leo, you bastard," Eathan whispered.

"Oh, no, falcon-man. Our good friend Leo held up his end of the bargian," the man said. He twisted the knife a little deeper into Eathan's throat, and the assassin could feel the sweat running down his face pool in the cut, and burn. "This *is* an alternate version of the American southwest. Just not the one you were aiming for."

Eathan looked up at the blue sun. /I was so close. I saw it. Crow... I'm sorry.../

Something hard came whistling through the air and struck him in the back of the head. He saw blue, then grey, then black. /I'm going to find you./

And then, he didn't see anything at all.

*****

The early pink of pre-dawn frames Crow's profile as she sits straight up in bed, her fur coverings held tightly to her chest. with one white knuckled hand.

"Would you like to talk about it?" The same rich voice murmurs from across the room. Crow shakes her head in the dim light with a whisper of eagle feathers bound to her hair.

"I think..." her voice cracks, "I think I'd... like to take a walk."

Across the dim room, Grandmother smiles sadly. "All right, my child." Silence fills Crow with a sense of warmth, hearing what Grandmother doesn't need to say. Take the time you need. I'll always be here. The young woman slides to her feet and dresses before stepping to the door. Crickets outside sing their last serenade of the night.

"I'll bring back fish for supper, " she offers from the doorway, suddenly feeling guilty at leaving beloved Grandmother alone. Then she is gone.

Outside, the wind rolls around her slender figure in a ghostly hug. Ebony wings unfold and catch the breeze, lifting her angelic silhouette towards the fading stars. The tip of the first of the twin suns winks against the barren horizon as she finds a spot to her liking and begins to move slowly across the sand, a solitary heron adrift in a golden sea as a melody fills her ears.

//How can the small flowers grow, if the wild winds blow and the cold snow is all around? Where will the frail birds fly if their homes on high have been torn down to the ground? //

*****

Overhead, the pair of life giving stars tilts towards the opposite horizon, casting a red heat onto the sand. Crow remains seated under a rock overhang in the cooler shade gazing at the landscape. Her face is blank, adrift in thought, hands moving the blade of a knife rhythmically over a thin shaft of wood. A sudden cry above catches her attention.

Two eagles dip and wing together through the fading sky, wheeling at the tip of each other's wings. Crow rests her chin on her knees and watches their chaotic, rhythmic dance of dives and sudden midair stalls. The wind whispers again, and the avian pair soar high into the sky, leaving only a pair of feathers floating to the sand in front of Crow. She rolls the pinions between her fingers slowly, watching the two feathers in their own dances.

A smile touches her lips softly.

The young woman stands with a flicker of her wings, and the wind rushes to greet her, pressing against her in a frantic embrace. She brings the slender rod to her lips and closes her eyes, her mind floating along with the flute's notes.

//How can the heart survive - can it stay alive? - if its love's denied for long?

Lift the wings that carry me away from here and fill the sail that breaks the line to home - but when I'm miles and miles apart from you, I'm beside you when I think of you, and I'm with you as I dream of you, and a song will bring me near to you...//

As the last note fades into the wind, the winged woman leaps into the air and wings towards Grandmother's shanty.

*****

He awoke with a headache that felt as if something was eating his skull from the inside out.

There was blood, he noticed dully, caked on one side of his face, and it seemed as if someone had punched him in the eye on that same side, because he couldn't seem to see correctly out of that eye. /What side is that?/ he thought. /The left? No, no, it's the other one... the right. Yeah. That's it. I think./

He groaned, and sat up.

The rock wall in front of him swung slowly down, stopped to become the floor. He blinked for a moment, but the floor stayed put. There was also, he noticed after a moment, a door, four walls, and a ceiling.

All made of very thick, very heavy, stone. There was no window. Just a faint flicker of light coming in under the door.

A trickle of blood dripped into his eye, and he reached up a hand to wipe it away. Something clinked, and dragged on his arm. He looked down.

/A chain./ It was black, and heavy. The tiny bit of pure iron present in the chain made his skin tingle maddeningly, like the track of bug walking over it that he couldn't just brush off. /Oh... yeah... crap. I remember now. Yesterday they put me in here. I think it was yesterday. Maybe... two days?/

There were voices talking, quiet and subdued, outside the door. "Forse possiamo usare la sua mente..."

Eathan could hear them perfectly, but didn't understand what they were saying.

He understood perfectly what they were thinking, though.

He whimpered, and huddled back into the cold wall. He fell asleep, and welcomed, when they came, his uneasy dreams.

"Usted. Despierte."

He felt something hard hit his ribs.

"Despierte! Sé que usted no está dormido."

Another kick. One that hurt more than the last. Eathan groaned.

"Niño del diablo." The phrase was muttered with disgust.

He opened his eyes and looked up. There was a hooded figure bending over him. /Oh crap,/ Eathan thought, /the Healers./ He blinked; his blurry vision cleared somewhat. /Oh. Not them. The robes are all wrong. These guys look more lik - shit. Shit shit shit shit. I wish it _had_ been the Healers, those bastards./

He stumbled to his feet. The iron dragged down his hands and slowed his feet, and made his skin itch maddeningly, like stinging nettles.

"Tenemos aqui alguna gente que desee hablar con usted, heretica. Se que usted sera el mas cooperativo."

Eathan looked up at the man and desperately quelled an urge to spit in his face.

"Si." The man smiled. ::Idiot prisoners. They always do our bidding, like dogs, after we have kicked them enough.:: "Ande!"

Eathan said nothing and sent nothing into the minds of the men he saw as they passed down the corridor. He had heard stories. And hadn't liked the results of most of them.

One or two, of course, had turned out fine. For instance, the one he'd told Walt and Schenk in the Roman bathhouse that summer. That one had been true. But it had ended well only because he'd orchestrated every detail in Pedro's actual escape.

/I didn't know then,/ he thought, /there was going to be a Part Two. Hope I'll live to tell this one./

They escorted him up seemingly endless flights of stairs, stairs that kept getting more and more luxurious.

First stone, dripping, at the deeper levels, with condensation. Then, wood that creaked underfoot. Then, smoother wood, stained, and decorated with ornate balustrades.

He was led down a hall, and jerked to a stop in front of a door. The door was real mahogany, and was carved along the edges with scenes from one of the human holy books. He didn't remember which one, and was desperately trying to think of the name, when the door swung open.

Eathan was pushed inside the room. The priest who had brought him there also stepped inside, and positioned himself directly behind Eathan. The door was once again pulled shut.

There were stained-glass windows, and carved mahogany chairs that matched the door. There was brass; there was opulence.

A man was sitting in one of those chairs. He wore a black silken robe with a black corded tie around his waist, and a golden cross set with a small ruby hung from a chain at his neck. He had close-cropped black hair, refined white hands with perfect nails, and eyes of clear blue, marred only by a pinkish-red color that tinted the whites and told of sleepless nights. "You are dripping mud and blood on the floor," he said in heavily accented French. "Disgusting."

Eathan said nothing.

The man picked up a two-pronged fork, speared a small fish from the silver tray laying in front of him. He put it on a slice of bread and began to eat, with evident relish. It was a good few minutes before he was done, and he made a great show of licking his fingers daintily afterwards.

Eathan's stomach growled. How long had it been since he had eaten?

"I know you understand what I am saying. And, even if you did not - " he popped a handful of grapes into his mouth - "I do believe that the needs of that sinful bit of dust we call our body will eventually win out over the oh-so-noble, but stupid, aspirations of your head."

Eathan looked at the man, and hoped that he wasn't who he thought he was.

The man paused to peel a grape, then looked at Eathan pointedly. "You are, of course, aware that I am talking about needs more basic than food. For instance, the need not to have your skin flayed off your back."

/Oh shit. It is./ He blinked.

"Ah." The man pushed the trays away and gazed at Eathan with delight. "I see you have heard of me." He stood up and made a mock bow, grinning like a heyena. "I am delighted to find that my reputation precedes me. Alfredo Garcia Carrion, at your service." ::Look how he squirms. I so enjoy my line of work.::

He came towards Eathan, and began to circle around him. Even the priest who had brought him from the cell, Eathan saw, kept his distance from the man.

"So. You are the fool who spirited Pedro de Mendez out of his cell seven years ago. Heh." He chuckled. "I would have thought such a - person - would look more imposing. And be less of a braggart." He smiled. "Especially one whose devil-given powers are so... distinctive."

Eathan swallowed.

"We had no face, no name... but we knew which type of creature to look for. So, when the ever-efficient Chantali Bedouins put you up for sale to the highest bidder, we began to hear rumors. And finally, we paid for you, trussed you up, and brought you home. You have found, I hope, that the special preparations we have made for you were adequate?"

Alfredo kicked Eathan's ankle, driving the iron manacle into his skin. Fiery pain shot up through his leg, and he winced.

"And the people whom we were bidding against... oh, the stories they told! I see that some of them, at least, were true. Iron hurts the fey, for instance." He kicked the manacle again, this time harder.

Eathan glared at him, and fought the pain crawling through his veins like spiders.

"So, you see... my name, unfortunately, belies me." He grinned, and his voice changed. It was a harder, colder voice, one absolutely sure of the truth of its words. "I have no mercy for you agents of the Devil's work, corrupting Spain and helping terrorize good Catholic people, people of our Lord, aiding in the escape of heretics like Mendez. It has been a long while since the people around here have had the opportunity to see a real Demon, and remembered what it would mean to burn in the everlasting fiery pits. They need to remember that. Good you happened to come along. The last Demon we found was a wonderful teaching tool. Until it died." He frowned. "I would attempt to convince you of the goodness of our Lord, before your death. But, sadly, the fey have no souls." Eathan picked up a feeling of genuine regret.

/We don't? Funny, no one ever told me that./

"But, first, you will answer some questions."

"And if I don't?"

"Ah, I see you do speak. In perfect French." Alfredo, who had not put down the wrought-iron fork he had used to spear the fish, poked the tines into the back of Eathan's neck. They drew blood, and a burst of biting agony shot into his head. "You will answer." ::It's much simpler than I ever dreamed, getting him to talk.::

"Ask," Eathan gasped. /Just tell them what they want to hear,/ he thought. /That's the only way _you'd_ ever let people out of these things. Sometimes, they even kept their lives that way./

"Such a reasonable demon," Alfredo said, with some suprise. He removed the fork. "What is your name?"

"Sybal." An instant, conditioned response, one he'd taken care to cultivate.

"Where are you from?"

Eathan heard the scratching of a quill pen beind him, and realized that the other priest was taking notes. "The land of the fey." /True enough./

"Why did you rescue the heretic, Pedro de Mendez?"

"He paid me well enough." /And he was my friend. But... when he offered me gold for it, I wasn't going to say no./

"How did you know him?"

"We did business together, on occasion."

"Then I am glad that Mendez is now dead... if he trafficked with the agents of the Devil he deserved to burn. How did you get here? How did you then escape from the hell that contained you to our world?"

/If they want me to play along, so be it. It's not like I was going to go to any version of heaven, anyway./ "The Devil sent me."

"I see."

More scribblings from the priest; silence and the smell of blood and magically-burnt flesh in the air.

::This should be interesting.:: "Who is Crow?"

"What?"

The fork once again in his neck. /Please, no..../

"I ask it again. Who is this Crow?" ::Ah. This is something.:: A silence. A poke. A scream. "Who?"

"How - how do you. Know. About her." /Fuck. I said her./

"I am the one asking questions here." ::She. Hm. Foolish man. He should be more careful about what he says just before he blacks out, if what the Chantali said is true. But the Devil's work always undoes itself, if the agents of our God are faithful and just.:: "Who is she?"

"A fellow fay."

"You are lying. Stupid." The fork, further in. And a manacle.

A whimper from the floor. The carpet, Eathan reflects, might be red so it did not show stains.

"She is a friend."

"Better."

No manacle, but the fork twists.

"This will teach you not to lie again, hm?"

"Ahhhhh...."

::Strange. A bargaining chip with devilspawn. Who knew. Our Lord works mysteries.::

*****

The leather creaks in resistance ot the force slender hands exert on it. It resists valiantly for a few moments, but, unable to win, it eventually yields. Crow nods in satisfaction as it secures the midnight black feather to the hoop, then hangs the finished piece up on the string outside Grandmother's door, along with the other dozen or so to be carried to market. Her back pops as she stretches, then slides her feet under her.

For a moment, she is lost in thought, her brown eyes glazed. THen she sighs and dusts her hands off. A soft shuffle draws her attention.

Grandmother smiles in her granddaughter's general direction. "I'm going to the Village for a little while, dear. Will you be around to watch the stew in the kitchen?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Thanks you, then. I shall see you tomorrow, then. I hope to find a spot to sleep in the village. You know how my feet are these days."

Crow smiles. Grandmother's feet had carried her many miles over the years; they were right in demanding a break these days. "Safe travels."

The young woman watches as the hunched figure slowly retreats into the dusky distance, the years having made her nothing more than just another of the desert's myriad creatures. She smiles, then turns back to the house.

"Just me now, " she whispers, and gives a faint smile. Comforted only by the stirring silence of the wind, she settles inside the shanty at the foot of a large loom. Fingers run over the threads woven together, tracing patterns. She sighs, hand pausing over the rug. The two eagles seem to stare back at her from their woven flight, wing tips touching in their secret dance. Crow lightly traces the wing of the larger male eagle, looking at it intently, then shakes her head. Settling, she plucks the spools of thread from the floor and resumes her work, intent on completing the bodies of the birds by afternoon.

*****

"Devilspawn such as yourself...has friends?" He raised one eyebrow.

"Yes." He narrowed his eyes and tried to ignore the fork hovering over his neck.

"At least *you* cannot help being a creature of sin, being born into your pitiful state. But - *consorting* with such creatures? Of one's own free will? Monstrous!" He frowned. ::Such creatures must be stopped.:: "Where does she live?"

"I don't know." /And if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Ever./

Alfonso pressed the fork into the hollow behind Eathan's ear. ::Lord, give me the strength to endure these screams. I know it is for a righteous cause, your own.::

"I don't know. Fuck you, I don't know." His breathing began to come raggedly, and tears mixed with blood.

"Perhaps you can help us find it."

"It? You piece of shit." He spit at the man's shoes in distaste. /Oh fuck. They want me to find her./

Alfonso clucked and walked around to face Eathan.

The half-elf sighed as the fork was removed from his skin. But then he was grabbed by the hair. Alfonso pulled his head up and forced Eathan to look into his face.

"So, I take it that you consent to our little journey?"

"The hell I do."

::Give me strength.:: Alfonso flipped the fork over, and held the handle in the hollow beneath the head where the neck meets the lower jaw, underneath the curve of the cheek.

And kept holding it there.

At first, there was a stinging sensation, no worse than the manacles had been. Then, an itchy, unbearable burning, like thousands of crawling, stinging ants marching over the skin. Finally, there was nothing but pain, and the feeling of fire and endless seconds. He heard his own scream dissolve into a whimper. And rise back to a scream, Elven invective that he had forgotten he had even known. "No. No, no no no nononono!"

He tried to send the pain back into Alfonso's mind, but something was blocking it. His mind redoubled in agony as his sending bounced back to him. /Got to do - something./

With fire coursing through every movement, Eathan reached up and wrenched the fork out of his torturer's hand.

The pain ceased in his neck, and the burning began in his hand.

He heard the priest's paper and quill fall to the floor, saw Alfonso in front of him, still holding his hair. He reached up and with one finger, felt the imprint of the fork that had been burned into his neck. "You bastard."

He threw the fork.

It hit. With a sound like the popping of a peapod, Alfonso's left eye burst. A beautiful flood of clear fluid and blood began to spurt forth. Alfredo let go of his hair, and Eathan took a kind of satisfaction in hearing a small squeal of agony come from the piglike man.

He reached up to take the fork again.

But Alfonso got there before him. He clenched his jaw and pulled the fork out in one smooth motion.

And fell to his knees, began to pray. ::Lord, deliver me from the agonies inflicted upon me by this tool of the devil, destroyer of your work. If it is thy will, take this pain away; let me suffer no more. I am, my Lord, your faithful servant, and want nothing more than to do thy will.::

Eathan looked on in wonderment. /What the hell is this guy doing?/

Then, as Eathan watched, Alfonso's eye began to heal.

/Oh... no./

::Thank you, gracious and merciful god, for freeing me from this pain and reminding me of my purpose here. No matter how hard the way, I know I can fight for Truth with you near me. Amen.:: He stood up, and his eye was clear and blue and just as whole as before.

He looked at Eathan with those perfect eyes. The assassin felt his will crumple.

"Now. Devilspawn. We. Are. Going."

The priest picked up the writing implements and left the room.

"Aren't we."

Eathan nodded.

"Good. I knew you would - see it my way."

Alfredo threw open the doors, and looked about. A novice was meandering down the hall, and three priests were gathered in a corner, debating something excitedly and waving their hands about. Alfredo coughed loudly.

The conversation stopped, and the boy straightened.

Alfredo turned to the boy and said, "Usted, muchacho! Voy a tomar un viaje. Diga esto a Manuel Cardinal, y haga que alguien prepare las fuentes, bastantes por un mes." ::I hope that that shall be sufficient; if needs be I can always pray for more to sustain this frail body.::

"Si," the novice said. He glanced at Eathan our of the corner of his eye, frowned, and ran off.

"Diego," he said to one of the priests. "Traiga a nuestro amigo a su célula."

The priest nodded, and came forward. "Que debo hacer si el intenta escaparse?" he asked, and looked at Eathan.

"Tome esto, y sostengalo en su piel." He handed the fork to the priest.

"You are lucky, diablo-nino, that I have given you a respite...later we will use you for your intended, and I think, much less pleasant purpose."

The priest led Eathan out of the opulence and into the hall, and began down the stairs. /Damn,/ thought Eathan, /I can't even fight back. Nothing I do would matter to these people./

Finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs, and the door of the cell.

"En," the priest said, and shoved Eathan into the tiny hole. He stepped out, then locked the door behind him.

"Fuck," Eathan said, and slid to the floor. He put his fingers on the burn-mark under his skin. /Crow...she's going to die. Because of me. Like everyone./ He curled up as best he could, and tried to sleep.

The only indication that night had changed to day came when the door was unlocked: the Chantali Bedouins had taken all of his posessions. Eathan, red-eyed, stood upright and looked at the man on the other side.

"Vayamos," the man in black said, and smiled.

They did not take his chains off when they put him on the first horse, or the second; nor did they take them off when the horses abruptly changed into camels, and they rode through a great stretch of pink desert with crystalline blue towers sparkling in the distance. When they rode the ground sloths, they were led by a guide who spoke like the strange birds - were they birds? - calling from overhead trees, but Alfredo spoke to him only in Spanish, and the man seemed to understand perfectly.

::Such a fragrant orange grove,:: Alfredo thought, as their guide stopped for a midday rest. ::Like the ones my grandfather tended years ago.:: He picked a turqiouse blossom as big as his hand off of a tree and held it near his nose.

Eathan sniffed: to him it smelled of vanilla and patchouli.

::The same scent I remember.::

Eathan frowned. /The interfaces meld into each other with even less order than usual, but it's like that bastard knows exactly what to do, where to go, what to say, who to talk to! We're being led, right to her. Gods be damned./

Alfredo turned around a moment later and glared at his captive, then resumed his prayers.

The days - such as they were - melted into nights, in which they pumped him for information, and turned back into days.

The priests reckoned the journey to have taken little less than a month by the time they stood on the snowy mountain peaks, and looked down at desert mesa and heat-hazed cacti on the other side.

Eathan looked down the dark cliffs, and at the bright sand below. In his heart, he screamed.

The llamas changed to a jeep as they crossed the interface, and chains turned to handcuffs. It was late in the morning when they pulled, rumbling, up to a market stall where pottery decorated with stark black and red designs was displayed. The woman tending the stall had long dark hair and brown skin. She wiped her hands on her jeans and smiled as she saw Alfredo jump out of the idling car and come towards her.

"Hola!" he called.

She frowned for just a moment, then smiled again. "Hola."

"Que floreros hermosos." He looked around the market stall and gestured to the pots.

"Esta usted interesado en comprar uno? Lo vendere a usted barato."

"No, gracias. Me volvere manana. Para ahora mi me pregunto - usted sabe donde la mujer nombro las vidas de Grandmother?"

"Usted le conoce si?" The woman tilted her head. ::She always has kept strange company.::

"Uno de mis amigos."

"Veo." She frowned. "Tome el tercer camino en su izquierda y guarde el ir hasta que da vuelta en un camino. Usted tendrá que dejar el coche, pero una hora de recorrer rapido debe conseguirle alliantes mediodia."

"Gracias."

They drove for a while through sagebrush and sand, and did not once hear coyotes howling in the distance.

When the suns were overhead, they parked the car, and made Eathan get out and walk along with them down a path. He was just beginning to get thirsty when he saw a puff of smoke, and traced it down to a tiny adobe hut in the distance. The wind changed, and he smelled cooking meat.

/It's just like she said, perfect.../ He swallowed.

A few seconds later, Alfredo turned to him and smiled. "We are here," he said in French. He prodded Eathan, who stepped forward. The group walked over a slight rise and then heard water, and saw a stream to their right.

And, farther down in the stream, saw a figure sprawled on a rock, black wings spread to dry in the sun.

::Mother of God. A Dark Angel,:: one of the priests thought.

Almost sensing the added company, she moves in her sleep. One arm drapes over her bare stomach, her damp skin drying with her wings after her bath. Her other arm stretches outwards before tucking behind her head, her movements luxurious, basking in the warmth of the sun.

The laundry draped along the plants at the shore flutters as it dries.

/Oh gods...I can't let this happen./

::Such beautiful danger. I can see why these two were such good - friends.:: Alfredo turned to Eathan. "You will lead her to us," he said simply, and held out the fork.

Eathan nodded, and they took off the handcuffs. The marks they left were red and raw on his pale skin. /I have to look like I'm cooperating,/ he thought. /I have to look like I'm cooperating./

The men walk closer, and hid behind a huge green-spotted aloe plant, only twenty feet away.

He walks quietly over to the rock on which his beloved lays, and tries desperately not to cry as he looks at her peaceful face and beautiful body. He finally sits on the rock, and takes care to keep his body between the hiding men and Crow.

Her lashes flutter as he nears, and she stirs again. A twitch in her forehead is the only indication of a bad dream, before her face winces and she moves the hand behind her head over her eyes.

/She's going to be waking into a worse nightmare than whatever one she's having now./

He puts one finger on his lips as a warning to Crow when she wakes, and draws his fingers lightly through her hair.

Crow blinks, then blinks again, eyes opening. She squints against the halo of suns behind Eathan, then her face goes utterly blank with shock and she can only gawk.

"E..Eathan?"

He nods, and motions to her - a quick chopping motion with his right hand - to be silent.

Color floods the silky skin of her face from the neck up as she realizes just how incredibly _naked_ she is, and she hastily beds a wing around to cover herself. Crow sits up, and scoots just a few inches back, glancing around with all the nervousness of a colt. Her knees fold up to her chest, and her wings fold around them to cover herself again.

"How did you get here? What are you doing here? What's going on?"

He frowns: /Gods, I hope she won't be scared out of her mind... but this is the best way./

~Crow... can you hear me? *Don't say anything.* Just think it. I will hear you.~

He feels his thoughts fall into her head like a drop of rain into an ocean. He knows she can't understand, can't hear.

Her wide brown eyes just stare at him.

He has had knives pressed to his gut; had his back pressed to walls; has run down blind alleys; has had hands around his throat.

And he has never before been so scared, and so alone. /Dammit./

Something isn't right. Something in his eyes... Hers glance over him, the burn marks on his wrists, the haggard expression. Something isn't right at all. The birds have stopped their calling. Her eyes search the area discreetly.

He notes her eyes flick over the wrists, the undereye circles, the blood and dust in his hair. /Well, she knows something is wrong/, he thinks.

/I've got to look like I'm doing something. Some pretense for them...why wouldn't we be talking?/ Suddenely, he graps Crow by the shoulders and holds her close and gentle to him. It is less pretense than he had perhaps thought. "Danger - don't speak," he whispers into her ear.

She blinks once.

He runs a hand through her hair, then releases her from his embrace. "Hello..." He tries to smile. "You must be wondering what I'm doing here. It's a long story..." He looks up at the eagles, and points to them. "Beautiful birds. But so deadly...they can swoop down on their prey and take them unawares if it's not alert." He hopes that his words are telling different stories to Crow and to the men in the aloe. His eyes plead with her to understand.

"Mmm." She nods, vaguely. ~Sneaky. But he doesn't think how they protect each other, either.~

"It didn't take me long to find this place - I had friends who helped along the way. I'm sure they'd like to meet you someday soon. But - maybe you'd like to go back inside the house and change?" He grins. "Sorry about all this - it wouldn't have been the time I'd have picked to come and visit."

He moves her head near his, so their foreheads are touching, and whispers quietly as the brook: "There are three men behind that aloe who want to capture you. When I'm done speaking, say something like 'I'll just go collect my things,' and walk casually down to the house like nothing is wrong. Then get your grandmother and leave. Now. I can only cover for you for about ten minutes. I love you." He sighs and presses her close to him. He hears the sound of his own heart thudding in his ears like the roar of a waterfall. /So this is what heartbreak feels like./

Images nag the back of her mind, the ones Grandmother has taught her to weave into her art, whispers of the past. She shakes them loose; this is no time for visions.

~What is going on?~ she thinks to herself and bites her lip.

Crow lightly touches her lips to his ear, then pulls away. "Let me get dressed." Her footfalls take her lightly to the treeline on the opposite side from the aloe, behind which she begins to pull on her light leather clothing. The fringe tickles her bare arms.

/Thank the gods,/ Eathan thinks as he sees her walk away. He sits down on the rock and looks into the water. /She's going to listen to me. She might have a chance. Please, let them get away... I don't want to think about what they want to do to her./

"Que estan diciendo?" One priest whispers to another.

"Nada. Es charla del amante justo."

"Si." The priest smiles. ::Our plan is going well.::

~Run, hm? Right.~ Her eyes narrow, and she look up to where the eagles circle. They spin once; she smiles. Out of nowhere, they dive, straight for the aloe plant with claws outstretch, screaming. Their wings beat like thunder.

Eathan jumps, startled, at the birds' scream, and his eyes widen as he sees their target. He jumps up. His eyes flick to Crow, then back to the bush, where dark shapes can barely be seen moving among the huge spines. The suns' light catches the blade of a knife, and it sparkles like a piece of moon come to earth.

/What the *hell* is she doing./ He runs forward, his hand instinctively reaching for a dagger missing for days now. /She doesn't understand. What we would face is worse than death./

~The hell am I going to do anything like that.~

During the confusion, Crow darts out from behind the trees. Her short skirt flaps lightly around her thighs - but instead of heading in the direction of the house, her long legs take her directly to Eathan's side. She doesn't slow; instead, she ducks her shoulder to catch him in the stomach, hoisting him over her shoulder.

"What the fuck are you - uggh!" He glares at her and glances at the men, who have come out from behind the aloe and are drawing their weapons. He counts. /Two knives. Sword. Bow and arrow. Too much. Even if I was on the ground I don't know if I could take them all out./ "Put me *down,* dammit, Crow!" He starts to try and break out of her grasp, but stops when she begins to rise into the air.

She ignores him, glaring back. Grandmother always said she had a stubborn streak.

Crow's teeth grit. She launches herself unsteadily. Her enormous wings flare and beat heavily. A grunt, and she arches her back to throw all her strength into the straining pinions. Blood drips through her teeth as she bites partially through her lip, but manages to gain altitude enough to catch a breeze.

~Goddamnsonofabitch..~

"You idiot," he says. "Did you think this would _help_?" He looks backward at the priests, and sees one aiming upward with arrow nocked to bow.

"Watchout - they're aiming for your left wing!" he shouts to Crow hurriedely. /I wish I had my knives./

~It's not the first time I've flown with an injured wing, ~ is her only thought, a half cry coming from her as she feels a muscle threaten to spasm, but ignores it, only beating her wings harder.

::Father in Heaven, let this arrow fly straight and true. Let it kill the demon-friend who has rejected your grace and love, and send her soul to the everlasting torment which it richly deserves.::

Eathan went numb. /Crow. No. Not her!/ ~Crow...oh, gods, Crow...I'm so sorry. I love you and I'm so sorry.~ He sends the emotions out, a blurred wreck of pain and fear and love, unthinking, hoping somehow that she might feel a slight shadow.

And then the priest lets the arrow fly.

"No," he whispers. He had forgoten how much it hurt to feel again.

An upstroke of wing, muscles pulling hard.

The arrow hits Crow's wing along the leading edge.

The assassin waits for the scream, the wobble in her flight that he knows will come, the terrifiying drop to ground. The fall and what will come after.

A downstroke. Another upstroke.

~Bastards need to learn to aim. I could shoot better than that when I was four.~

The arrow arcs only through feathers, and goes through them: rain falling through the space between sky and ground.

A black down feather is the lone casualty; it follows the arrow down to earth.

~Aya. Damn interlopers better get the hell out of my world.~

"What." Eathan looks at the men, growing smaller behind them. Their faces are white. Alfredo is clutching his golden cross and staring at it dazedly.

"Dios? Por que usted ha abandonado a sus criados?" One of the priests cries out in a wavering voice. "Dios?"

::My God - he...He is gone. I cannot...believe...I - ::

Alfredo grabs the second priest, the one who shot the arrow, by the collar and points to Crow. "Nuestro dios no mentiria... Intento otra vez, rapidamente!"

The priest stares at Afredo, and makes no move to pick up the bow that has dropped to the sand. "Dios..."

Crow hoves momentarily on an updraft. ~Come on, you desert rat gut sucking bastards. I dare you to hit me.~

::This - :: Alfredo thinks. ::But it is impossible. Our Lord is everywhere. Everywhere. Perhaps I am not sincere enough? Perhaps the vision this demon sent me has poured sin into my soul.:: He looks up at the clouds and suns. "Nuestro dios no mentiria...si?"

/Vision?/ Eathan thinks. Then: /Ah. I see./ He begins to laugh.

~Hello, you bastards. You know, I didn't really like the first part of the trip here. But this leg of the journey - I really am enjoying it.~ He smiles down.

The faces stare back at him in blank shock and fear. He hears a whimper.

~What, you've never had to deal with a telempath before? Oh, that's right - your God protected you.~ Eathan looks around. ~Too bad. He doesn't seem to have evolved in this reality. Should I continue?~

Alfredo looks up at him, teeth bared. ::You will not prevail. Our Lord punishes the unjust, casts out the wicked...:: His thoughts trailed off in a mixture of terror and uncertainty.

~Are you *sure* about that...Alfie? ~

Alfredo turned red, then white.

~Oh, it's such fun to be a 'demon.' Except, of course, when people capture you. Then they accuse you. And try and hurt you. And the ones you love. It feels like...well, like hell. Here. Have a taste of what you'll be getting...what I was getting.~ He sends a twinge of physical sensation to the men.

On the ground, they cringe. One cries out.

~Or this.~ Emotional, this time.

~Or how about this, Alfie? I've been saving this memory of the fork especially for you.~ He looks quite satisfied as the man in black robes begins to scream. The other priests back away from him, terrified.

Eathan turns his head as best he can and talks to Crow. "That was stupid. Brave as shit, but stupid," he says, grinning lopsidedly. "You can land anytime now. I'm having fun with them. We've all just found out their God has left the building."

"Mm." She says nothing else, but fans her wings like a feathery hang glider, floating gently towards the surface. With care, Crow lightly slides him from his shoulde,r holding him under the armpits so his feet will touch the ground before she does.

"Thank you....that was amazing," he says with sincere gratitude.

The black pinions quiver, and as she touches down behind him and to the left, she sinks to her knees, pain running along her wings and down her back.

He notices the quiver. "What? What's wrong?"

"Of course not, " she whispers, leaning on her hands, looking up wearily. "This is a safe reality. Only the Just One rules here."

"I -"

And she faints.

Eathan glances from the men, standing white faced and pale in their anger, to Crow, lying motionless on the sand. "Bastards," he spits out between his teeth, and goes over to them. He picks up a knife from where it had fallen in the sand. "This," he says with a tilt of his head, "will be mine. Thank you." He spits in Alfredo's face.

He hides the knife so effortlessly, so quickly, in his clothing that it cannot be seen, cannot even be guessed at. /If they can't tell I'm a professional from that, they deserve to be killed. Even more than they do now./ He turns around, picks Crow up, and brings her over to the stream. He splashes water gently on her face, and sets off toward the house.

Inside, the house is warm and brightly lit. It looks cozy. Eathan spies a wickerwork couch, covered in brightly patterned pillows, and sits Crow gently down upon it, cushioning her head with a blanket. "You're a crazy-tough lovable one, Crow," he says gently, and goes back outside.

The men have recovered somewhat from their shock, it seems, and have picked up their weapons. Eathan can see them running headlong away from the house and surrounding area. They are about 100 feet in front of him - but their feet slip clumsily through the sand, and their robes weigh them down.

It does not take him long to catch up to them, and he is silent, and smiling. "Hello..." he says in French when the tip of his dagger pricks the back of Alfonso's neck. The blood wells out like a sick pearl. "I suggest you stop."

Alfonso calls out to the other two. They turn, and see Eathan. One of them draws his knife, and throws it at Eathan.

The throw is not awkward - it is obvious that the priest had been trained in the art - but it never reaches its mark. Eathan pushes Alfonso slightly to the left, and a moment later is rewarded with a yelping cry. He reaches down and rips the dagger out of Alfonso's leg, then wipes it on the man's hair.

"Thank you," he says, bowing slightly to the now-weaponless priest. "Much appreciated." He puts the second knife away.

Eathan turns Alfredo around to face him, and holds the dagger against his stomach. "You," he says, "are going to come with me. All three of you. And you are going to be polite."

::Being held by a demon...::

"And -" Eathan twists the knife so that a little blood runs out - "you will not lay a hand on the woman. Or you will die." His voice and manner are crystalline sharp and cold.

"Eyahhh...." Alfredo gasps. "We - we will."

"Yes...that's good."

Halfway there, the second priest unsheaths the sword, and runs toward Eathan. "The Lord will - "

" - not help you in this situation." Eathan turns, and draws the second knife again. He deflects the man's wild stroke and kills him with one swift movement. The man gurgles and looks up at Eathan. ::I died in the service of my Lord, heretic...:: Eathan shrugs as the man dies, then takes the sword. He inspects it. /Cheap junk. Mostly for show. Maybe I can sell it at the market./

He sheaths the second knife, again holds the first againt Alfonso's stomach - the man flinches away from even his looks now, Eathan notices. /Good./

He leads them into the house and sits them on the bench across from Crow's. He wipes off the daggers, hides them again, and sets the sword between the chair and the wall. He squats down by Crow's head, and runs his fingers along her delicate cheekbones. Her skin is soft and perfect. "Crow. Wake up."

Her lashes flutter again, and she slowly shakes her head. "Eathan?" she murmurs, voice barely audible. Cramps seizing her shoulders, back, and wings again, she fights to sit up. Then she pauses, looking straight at the men in front of her.

Eathan looks at her. "You need to re - "

She sniffs.

"Oh _hell_!!" Crow starts to scramble despite the pain and manages a vault over the back of the couch. "The meat!" she wails, diving through the curtained doorway into the small kitchen. Muffled rattlings of the pot as she hauls it off the flames ring through the living area like a dinner bell. A few minutes later, she re-emerges, sheepishly, with aplate held in one hand.

"Some bread, " she offers, almost shyly. "You looked hungry. The meat is cooling still."

"What?" Eathan looks confused. /She's worrying about *dinner?*/

"Um." He takes the bread from her and looks at it as if he has never seen any before. "Thanks... but I think maybe we have more *important* things to do?" He points the bread toward the men, and raises an eyebrow to Crow. "And you," he says firmly, "need to sit down."

"I thought I might as well offer you some, since it was freshly baked, " she says lightly, with a halfway indignant tone. "And I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Eathan mutters under his breath.

Crow settles on her knees beside Eathan, blatantly ignoring the menon the couch. The plate is set with care onto the table between the two benches before she lightly reaches out to take his hand.

"Hey," he mutters and looks away. "Don't worry about that. I can take care of it late - "

She turns it over, fingers tracing the burn mark with a feather touch. A tremor takes her, and she nods to herself. One hand retrieves a small leather pouch from inside her dress, pulling out a piece of thick root. She snaps it, then pulls his hand closer to herself to let the liquid midsection trickle over the markings.

He looks at the root with some interest. "I didn't know kalach grew here," he says, suprised, and shifts the dagger to his left hand. Then he holds his right out to her. "Thank you."

He smiles slightly at her. The burning pain eases. By the morning it will be gone.

"Springroot, " she explains. "It helps with metal reaction burns." Crow doesn't explain how she knows the source of the burn. Nor does she explain how she knows exactly where his other markins are, she simply stands and brushes his hair aside, smoothing the lotion of the root across the back of his neck and behind his ear. Her breath chills the damp burn at the back of the neck as she leans forward to slip an arm around to reach the burn at his throat.

"Er." He pulls away for just a moment - the kalach stings sometimes as it heals - but then sighs, and relaxes into her gentle touch.

"That better?" she asks, her voice right next to his ear. Only then does she turn her attention to the other men.

"Yeah. It feels better now. Don't put any more on, it can start the reaction going again. Thanks."

Crow stumbles slightly as she heads outside, pausing to retrieve two pieces of cloth. She isn't long, and when she does return, she steps to Alfredo.

"No!" Eathan jumps up and pulls her back from Alfredo. "He's dangerous. Even like this." He frowns and points to the sofa. "You *are* going to rest. I can take care of them." The tone of his voice leaves the meaning of what he might mean by 'taking care' ambivalent.

Alfredo looks afraid and angry.

"Bah. Take him to YOUR place then and let him bleed all over the rugs there. Blood stains are a bitch to get out of a weave that tight." She gestures to the rug beneath the bench.

"I don't have rugs." A silence. "And hydrogen peroxide. With a brush if you need to."

"This is a simple reality. I'd have to go into the Nexus to find anything like that, " she reminds him, softly. Crow stretches, then, with a weak shudder in her wings.

He shrugs. "I've got some..." he says as he reaches a hand down to where his belt should have been. "Oh. No, I guess I don't." He glares at the priests. "Do I?"

"Did they bring it with them, or leave it from whence they came?" Crow blinks slowly at the priests, then shrugs. "This is why I clean my game outside on the stone slab."

"They let the Chantali keep it," Eathan mutters. "The people who captured me and sold me to them," he explains tiredly to Crow.

"Stone slab?"

He runs his hands through his hair and gives Alfredo a mental image involving a skinning knife, the stone slab, and vast amounts of blood.

"It's outside, " she murmurs, gesturing with one hand. "Near the small spring we get water from. Natural formation."

Eathan nods.

"I suppose he can understand me?" she glances over her shoulder to Eathan, then shrugs. I'm not going to hurt you, " she directs to the priest, "but I doubt this is going to be pleasant for you."

"No. He can't. You don't know Spanish, do you?"

One rag, soaked with sweet spring water, is pressed into the man's open leg wound. Hard. She sponges at the blood, urging the wound to bleed out any bits that might've gotten stuck. She continues to rinse the wound, then adds a few herbal leaves to prevent infection and takes the other rag and - not altogether gently - ties it around the wound to help stop the bleeding.

The priest mutters something. By his tone of voice the pair can tell that it was highly uncomplimentary.

Crow lands a kick in the middle of the man's shin. "For a man of a God, you're an awful bastard."

"I only wanted to make certain you didn't lose your leg, even after you tried to kill me. Not that you _could've_ with a shot like that."

The priest says nothing more, but sits, red-faced and tight-lipped, staring at the wall opposite.

Her eyes look up, and she mumbles something under her breath, then turns away in absolute disgust.

"I told you, sit." Eathan gets up and takes her by the hand. He tugs on her, trying to get her to move to the sofa.

As her back spasms again, Crow drops back onto the bench. Her wings hunch behind her, then flare slowly, as if she were trying to stretch them. She offers a smile at Eathan.

"See." He smiles to her. "I told you you needed to sit." He frowns as one would at a wayward but much-indulged child.

Then, the situation hits him, and he suddenely sits on the bench himself. "Crow..." he whispers. /I was so afraid I'd lose you./

She gazes back at him, her eyes edged with a residual uncertainty. But they are full of emotion, too, softly brimming with something akin to hope... and love.

He pulls her close, and wraps his arm around her waist. "I'm so sorry. Crow..." he tucks her head beneath his neck and simply sits there, looking at the two men. Thinking about how close they'd come to doing her harm.

Her breathing eases, and Crow presses up against him, one hand sliding over his chest slowly, trailing close to where the burns on his neck are. The dark lines of her eyebrows furrow; the soft fingertips trace a parallel to the edges. This was not done in haste. They enjoyed this. Tears form up in her eyes and trail slowly over her high cheekbones. Silent tears.

One and slides to the back of his neck and pulls him close. Crow presses her cheek to his, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. A lone tear rolls from her cheek down along his neck.

Eathan twitches as her hand draws near the marks on his neck. "Be careful, please," he whispers gently to her.

The soft fingers along his cheek stop abruptly and draw back. Crow folds her hands in her lap like a chastised child and draws back.

"No..." he sighs. "It's okay. Really. I didn't want you to - stop." He looks uncertain.

Her eyes flicker back at him once, then back down. The loss of words is obvious on her, as if she doesn't know whether to apologize or just tackle and kiss him. Either way, she sits on her hands.

Eathan looks down at the pattern of weaving on the rug.

Finally, he straightens, and looks at Crow. "What do you want to do with them? I want to kill them."

Crow folds her arms around herself, legs tucked beneath her slender frame. "I... don't believe in killing others for vengeance, " she says softly and doesn't look directly at Eathan.

Eathan's gaze flicks away from her. He looks at his hands. "Oh."

/She's really going to hate me when she finds out what I do... the vengeance cases are the most noble ones. Maybe I shouldnt've - no. Gods. This is hell. I didn't need them to find it for me./

"I will not say I don't think they deserve it, however. And if the Tribe finds them, they _will_ be killed, if only to protect the locale of our world."

"No, " she says softly. "I do not think death."

A long pause before she looks straight at Alfredo. "There are worse things than death."

At this Eathan raises his head. He looks at Crow for a moment, astonished. /I wouldn't have thought she'd have had it in her./

Then he looks to Alfredo. He smiles.

Alfredo blanches. The gazes of the Dark Angel and the Demon are upon him. ::Surely,:: he thinks, ::surely they will kill me soon, my God, and I will be in heaven with you.::

"What did you have in mind?"

"The tradition of my Tribe for interlopers..." Crow steadies herself, grimacing a little at the proposition.

"Emblazon a sign upon their foreheads so none will aid them from this reality. Then you take them, separately, to the deep expanses of the desert, strip them of their clothing, and leave them, usually unconscious, to awake and let nature treat them as she wishes."

"Oh." Eathan raises an eyebrow. "That's nice," he says with obvious admiration tinting his voice.

Crow's lashes flutter, and her eyes remain rooted on the floor. For a moment she seems to sink into the comfort of her wings, then relaxes a little.

Ethan opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.

A moment after this, he realizes what he just said, and how he said it. He swallows. /This was bound to happen sooner or later, Gyrfalcon. You can't take back what you've said./

/And besides. It's true./

"I think they deserve it, y'know?" he says, in a completely inscrutable tone.

"They are.. " her voice fades for a moment, and when she raises her gaze, her eyes are slightly vacant and unfocused.

"Crow?" Eathan notices her gaze, sees her glazed eyes. "Hey," he says softly. "Hey?" He begins to worry. /If this has done something to her, I'm never going to forgive myself.../

He sneers at Alfredo.

She doesn't seem to here him, her eyes fixed, more than normally dilated.

"Crow?"

"They are interlopers, " she regains, her voice only just audible. Perhaps a bit hollow. "The Tribe would not let them live; they are unwelcome. If let go, they would only bring harm. To you. To me. To this place."

Eathan only looks at Crow. /Yes,/ he thinks, but stays silent.

Crow blinks. Shakes her head. Blinks. Then her eyes clear and focus. She sighs and looks up at the ceiling before her eyes are blurred with encroaching weariness.

She pauses, leaning her chin on her hand and thoughtfully gazing at the priests before her. "You mentioned that they cannot talk to their God here, or something to the like? If they are anything like most religious men, the feeling of their God abandoning them is torment in itself. But place them out alone in the desert with naught but their own thoughts would be a hell on earth, I would dare to say. Alone in a strange land, without the presence of their God. No one would help them."

Her eyes flick between them, her face calm, if not a bit on the wearied edge. "They don't strike me as the type able to live outside of the walls of a city alone. Too thin. Too stringy. Not really even a meal for the wolves or vultures."

Eathan nods again. "True," he says, finally, in the same tone as before.

Crow rubs her eyes with her fingertips. In her mind, she asks her own faith for forgiveness.

"Are you all right?"

"Just tired, " she replies in the same soft tone.

"We need," he says in a gentle, yet authoritative voice, "to get these things out of here, and then you need to sleep."

He hefts the knife and looks at the two priests.

"Yes. I suppose we do." Her resistance falters and she stands. "But to get to the right place to drop them will take most of the night if we ride. Especially since we will drop them separately."

Eathan frowns. "Do you need to come with me? I can take care of them by myself, and you could rest here. It would be better for you." He smiles encouragingly.

She shakes her head. "This is my people's ritual. And you wouldn't know the place in the desert to take them to." Her smile is faint, tired, but determined.

"You're sure you can't just tell me?" He looks at her, then after a second or two shakes his head slowly from side to side. "No. I can see you need to do this yourself. I'll just help however I can."

She swipes a hand over her eyes again. "I will mark them outside first. There will be no bloodshed in Grandmother's house; it is a haven." Crow resettles her wings as she moves to the doorway and slides out into the late afternoon.

Eathan nods, and prods Alfredo and the other priest. They reluctantly get up, and move outside slowly.

"C'mon, you bastards," Eathan hisses. "Get your oh-so-holy asses out there. You did this to yourself."

The two are herded out into the blinding desert light and hanging heat. They blink, and wipe sweat from their brows. One curses as a drop of his salty sweat falls into his eye and begins to sting.

Eathan stands behind the two, looking wary and holding the knife with a practiced and easy grip, ready to use it if need be. He calls to Crow. "Do you need help? Just tell me what to do."

::I'll be more than happy to do anything that causes you two fine men pain.::

"You're going to have to hold them down." Crow kneels by the small fire they keep burning outside and pulls a knife from a hidden sheath. She dips it in the spring, then sets the blade in the fire, watching it hiss and spit as the water evaporates.

"Not a problem at all." Eathan smiles as he grips the two priests tightly by the arms.

The thinner one, who had shot the arrow at Crow, winces. Eathan sneers at him.

Alfredo swallows. ::It is the Demon's game now... but there is always a loophole in the plans of the Devil and his minions, so the holy writ tells us...::

With a quick hand motion, Crow flings a few herbs into the fire, causing it to smoke. The scent of the heated herbs drifts over to Eathan and the others.

He catalouges the herbs in his mind. /Rosemary. Basil. Yellowroot. What's that one? Ah, yes, figwort. Antonis. Prescott's weed. Bedstraw. Hm. Don't know that one. I'll ask her about it later. Saxifrage, of course, kilmory, and...ebla. Smells nice. Wonder why they picked all those?/

Within the flame, the blade begins to glow red from the heat, pulsing like a heartbeat. Crow watches it for a moment, then motions for Eathan to bring the men over.

Eathan looks from Crow to the knife. /I suppose I get to choose who's the first lucky contestant. Hm./ He shoves the scrawnier priest closer to the fire, and lets Alfredo wait.

~You're going to know exactly what you're in for, but you'll have to wait for the pain,~ he tells Alfredo, who stands pale and stoic behind him.

The priest starts singing a psalm, something in Latin about mercy.

Eathan kicks him hard in the stomach - ~shut up!~ - and grabs the man's arms in such a way that to break away, he would need to dislocate his shoulders, or break his wrists. He holds on tightly.

/If he tries to get away, I'd prefer it to be both./

The flute is lifted to her lips, and a slow, mournful song lilts across the desert. A vaguely familiar tune.

As if the roots dug back into a single past.

A soft strain, albeit slightly different, slightly more cultural, of Amazing Grace.

/Hm. Strange./

It had been so hot all day, and he hadn't had anything to eat for two. There was a river, thankfully; he had been following the muddy thing that burbled slowly through brown-grassed banks since he'd stepped into this reality. It held no fish, except lazy catfish under deep rocks that he had no way of catching. And he wasn't going to lose his knife on a botched attempt at killing one of those bony things.

When he heard the singing, he knew there was food nearby. People never sang if they weren't getting enough to fill their stomachs. The music seemed, at first, to come out of the heat-haze, to emanate from brown dust and rocks and storm-gray sky.

"Amazin' grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me..."

And then he saw the church. 'Bountiful Mrcy Baptist,' read the stick-on letters on the dusty sign. The 'e' was missing, it had fallen off somewhere long ago.

/I can save myself, thank you very much,/ he thought to whatever God they were singing to, and snuck in the back door.

Over the sound of the organ and voices in harmony, no one heard him open the old refrigerator and begin to rummage.

/Jelly... ugh, it's gone bad. Pickles. Half a carton of cream. Don't they ever eat around he - Ah. This is better./ In the bottom drawer there was a freshly baked loaf of bread, and behind the cream there was wine. He poured himself a glass, ripped a hunk out of the bread, and put everything back where he had found it.

/Damn good bread,/ he thought, /though the wine could have been helped by another decade in the cellar./

"All right, everyone. Good rehearsal for today. Marg'ret? Can I see you, please?" echoed down some hall. The rehearsal had ended, and the people - upstairs, he thought, from the sound of it - were putting things away. Packing up. He stood, and walked towards the back door.

The door to the kitchen opened, and two people entered. It was a moment before they saw the boy, dressed in black, piece of bread still in his hand, cup of communion wine still on the table.

/Damn echoes./

"What's some white boy doin' in our kitchen, eating the food of our Lord?" One of the women, a solidly-built lady with a faded green sundress and smoldering chocolate fire in her eyes, stepped forward. "Go back to your own kind, boy. Eat the food of your own white God."

"Now, 'becca..." the first one began.

"Now, what?" The embers had become a blaze, now. "Let him come in and eat everything we'd all saved for for months, now? That's your money, too. You coulda got new shoes for your own chile with that you donated to the cause this rich white boy ate. Don't tell me that ain't true, Marg'ret." She frowned, reached forward like a snake, and grabbed Eathan by the wrist. "Now, boy, what's your name? Where you from? You know I'm gonna tell your papa 'bout this. I hope he tans your hide good."

"Let me go."

Outside, the heat died. The sky darkened, and fat drops of rain fell and burst themselves open on the tin roof.

"You ain't from around here, are you, boy?" She scowled.

"I said, let me go." He dropped the bread, and got his knife. The fire-eyed woman gasped, let go of his arm, and backed away.

The other woman began to sing, in a quavering voice. "...'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved..."

The wind began to blow through the screen window where junebugs flattened themselves in a vain attempt to gain shelter from the rain. A breeze slipped through the room and toyed with Eathan's hair, untangling it from around his ears. His unnaturally pointed ears.

The women saw, and turned pale.

Eathan shrugged. The mumbled singing still followed him as he left into the rain and the thunder and cracks of light that split the sky in shards.

Eathan smiles, nods to Crow. "Anytime you're ready."

Crow's brow twitches. For a moment, looking at the man held before her, she quails. I do not condemn him, she reminds herself. I will let the Maker choose his fate.

/They tried to kill you. Don't you feel anything?/ Eathan doesn't understand her hesitation.

She places one hand swiftly on the priest's temples.

The man flinches backwards as Crow touches his face, then sighs. ::If I must endure this for my God, then so be it.::

Eathan holds the man there. /How can these bastards be so sincere and still do such harm?/

Using pulse points, she lightly numbs the skin of the forehead as she takes the glowing knife to his forehead. Her hand flicks three times, searing a blistering mark onto the man's forehead as one might brand cattle.

/Interesting./ The man cries out like a child as the knife makes contact with his skin. ::Ahhh - ::

Eathan shrugs and does his best to block the mental screams out of his mind. ~You deserve so much worse than this.~

Crow averts her eyes from him, then, and intones something deep in her throat. The mark on the forehead raises in a crimson red, the symbol strange, powerful, and altogether too familiar for comfort, though none can quite place it.

Eathan looks confused when he sees the symbol. /Where.... huh. I can't remember./

"Place him to one side and bring up the other." She tucks the knife back in the flames, humming deep in her throat.

Eathan nods, and unceremoniously dumps the marked priest on the ground.

He sits there, shaking and cradling his head in his hands, white but resolute. He looks up at Eathan and Crow with fear and - strangely - awe.

"Unh-uh," Eathan says, and wags the knife at Alfredo like a warning finger.

The man had been about to run, Eathan knew.

"You," he says, "are coming with me." After a bit more of a struggle than the other man had put up - ~Fuck you, you damned vigilante~ - Eathan gets Alfredo in the same hold and drags him to the fire.

~Oh, I am going to enjoy this.~ Eathan grins.

::Our Father, who art in...::

~Shut the hell up.~

One hand raises to where the twin birds circle overhead, and she gestures in a throwing motion. Screaming, the mated pair dip and twirl, then race out across the horizon.

"They will bring the herd so we may ride. It would seem best if we each took one man and rode to place them in the desert's arms. It would prevent them from knowing where the other might be."

Eathan nods. "Like I said. Any way I can help."

Crow turns, then, the resistance still present in her features. The knife glows in her hand... but this time, she doesn't bother seeking the man's pulse points. She simply takes the knife and presses it to the sensitive flesh, laying the blade flat. The mark she finally sears is different from the first, more elaborate. More painful.

In the end, she pricks her own thumb and leaves a streak of her blood across his forehead.

~Maker of the blood of my ancestors judge you fit or unfit to remain. Ancestors, show him the Way through life or through death. May the desert teach you Truth and humility.~

She repeats the process on the other man with a different marking of blood, then sucks on the finger she sliced.

Dull thunder echoes across the desert, a constant rumbling noise. Within a few minutes, a herd of wild mustangs appears on the fringe of Grandmother's land. The paint at the front tosses its mane, half rearing as the black stallion brings up the rear, bugling and pawing the ground. Crow smiles.

Eathan looks impressed. /She is very linked to this land. As once you were to your own./ He sighs.

Unheeded, then paint trots forward to Crow and noses her shoulder. Crow stands and hugs the mare's neck, one hand running down the brown and wide spotted withers. Communication between the two seems unspoken, but omnipresent.

/Hm./ Eathan notes. /Nice horses./

"This is the herd's Lead Mare. I will take her and that one," she gestures to the first priest, "one way. I do not know who will take you..."

The paint whickers softly and turns back towards the herd. In answer, the black, proud stallion, half prancing, steps forward and eyes the rest of the mustangs. He trumpets again.

"Ah. He will take you himself. The herd will be safe here."

"You can communicate with them, then?" Eathan asks softly, so as not to startle the horses.

"Not in so many words. I just... know." Her fingers run over the mare's neck, and the horse whickers to her, nibbling her hair.

The paint dances to one side, reaching her nose down to peer at the priest before her. She snorts, and whuffles hot breath over him. The stallion rears and half screams defiance. She shies back again.

The young native woman smile faintly. "These are unbroken horses. Don't expect a smooth ride."

"It's okay," Eathan says, slowly approaching the black horse. "I've been around horses all my life. Helped m - people to gentle them, even." He holds a hand out for the stallion to sniff.

"They're not ordinary horses," is all Crow mentions as she smiles.

"Hm," Eathan says.

Eyes rolling, the stallion moves closer and watches Eathan. He stills, then paws the ground. A snort, and those intelligent eyes settle on Eathan's, sizing him up.

He makes a soft clicking, tounge-on-teeth, and sends feelings of reassurance to the creature. ~Don't worry... I won't hurt you.~

The stallion snorts again, and settles enough for the possibility of being mounted.

Eathan lays a land on the horse's neck, and gently swings himself up onto the horse's back. He grabs a hunk of the horse's mane and winds it through his fingers. The smell of horse - dust, sweat, sweet hay - fills Eathan's nostrils.

Crow leads the mare over to where the other priest sits, then gently takes the man's hand. She motions, and the mare kneels on one knee, allowing Crow to settle the priests astride the horse. With another whicker, the horse lurches back up and follows Crow as she returns to the shanty.

A moment later, the young woman returns with a pack strapped to her back. She tosses Eathan a canteen of water with a bandana tied around the strap. "Blindfold him, " she gestures to Alfredo, " and mount up. When the stallion stops, leave him at that spot. The stallion will bring you back here."

Eathan nods. He grabs Alfredo's hand and yanks him up onto the horse, being careful not to hurt the animal but taking no such care with the man. "Get up here," he grunts. "Devil-child," Alfredo sqeals as he is pulled up onto the horse and pushed in front of Eathan. ~Shut up.~ Eathan takes delight in sending Alfredo nasty images involving his head, a melon, and a horse-hoof as he blindfolds the man. ~Sit, quietly. Or you're going to fall off. And I can't say that I wouldn't like it if there was some sort of accident.~ Alfredo says nothing.

Crow turns her face away from the scene.

Crow turns and leaps onto the back of the paint mare. She settles behind the priest, holding him steady with an arm around his waist as she ties her own bandana around his eyes.

"If there is nothing else you need to know... I shall see you in a few hours."

Eathan turns the horse around and draws near to Crow's own mount. "Be careful, please... if you need me, just think my name. I'll know." He gives her a nervous sort of smile, then strokes the horse's neck. ~Take us to where we need to be, swiftfoot.~

The stallion leaps midair and takes off at an unbelievable bolt across the sands.

Crow gently croons to the mare, and the horse takes off at a lighter, but equally swift pace. One arm hooks around the priest's waist to secure him gently. The suns are well above the horizon as she leaves, the dirt and sand flying beneath powerful hooves. Hot desert winds whip around the trio, whispering the mare's mane and Crow's hair alike against and around the priest as if to shelter him from the blazing heat.

The suns, blood red, gold, and a fiery orange, rest their heads on the horizon as the mare slows. Crow dismounts and leads the mare to a small rock spring to quench her thirst. Foam drips from the mare's muzzle.

The rocks forming the small enclosure in the middle of the desert are painted a wild glowing red by the sunsets. Crow lightly eases the priest down and sets him beside the sprint, removing his blindfold. From her pack, she pulls a small, two day supply canteen. She fills it from the spring and places it in his hands.

"May the Maker be with you, " she murmurs, and a sadness fill her eyes. Drinking from the stream herself with cupped hands, she returns to the mare, who whinnies across the open desert. For miles around, the sound echoes against nothing but sand. The rock stands alone, a blood red fortress, as the dark of night begins to creep across the sky.

Crow spares him one last look as she mounts the mare again. Her heart isn't in this. "Peace, " she whispers, as if to herself, then nudges the mare back out across the desert.

The wind rises to the stars behind them, twinkling in defiance of the fading reds and golds, and the sand silently swallows the prints made by the paint mare's flying hooves.

"Hey, hey," Eathan croons softly to the horse, hoping it may slow down a bit. /It's going to wear itself out going like this in this kind of heat, this kind of weather./

They reach their destination when the suns are overhead. Hot, and hot, and crackling.

There is nothing for miles about but a stand of cacti about 100 yards away. No water. No shade.

Eathan smiles.

The cacti have burst into bloom, a harmony of reds and oranges and yellows. The sickly-sweet scent of their flowers wafts across to the pair, skitters around them, and then is gone.

"Here's where you get off."

Eathan turns around and pulls Alfredo off of the horse, none too gently. The horse shies a bit at this, but the assassin mutters something to it, and it stills.

He looks at the water canteen for a moment before throwing it down in the sand before the man's feet. /You don't even deserve to be given this chance./ "Water."

He rips the blindfold off of Alfredo's face, taking some hair with it.

The priest opens his mouth to protest, and then shuts it again when he catches sight of Eathan's face, a collage of narrowed eyes and half-evident sneer.

"Die in pain," the half-elf says, wheeling the horse about. His tone of voice does not lend itself to wish or promise, but statement of fact.

He clucks his tounge to the horse, and they go off, at a more sedate pace.

::Mother of God, help me...::

By the time the horse and rider return to Grandmother's home, the stars are flickering on the horizon, the reddish-purple of the sky perfectly matching the tops of the mesas in a blend of land and cloud.

Eathan gets off of the horse and leads it over to the stream to drink. /Beautiful creatures,/ he thinks. /I miss working with them, I think./

The horse lifts its head. Drops of water, like stars, fall off of its whiskery lips and sink into the sand. It sniffs, and snorts.

It turns and looks at the half-elf for a moment with perfect brown eyes, then flicks its tail and goes trotting off into the desert night, to join its herd.

/Yeah,/ he thinks. /I guess I do./

He turns and goes into the brightly lit house, so much warmer than the chill air that was beginning to creep over the dunes once the moon rose.

He looks about. There are various rooms. A bedroom, one at least, a kitchen... he frowns for a moment, wrinkles appearing between his eyes, and shrugs. He suddenely looks very old as he sits down on one of the benches in the hallway and looks out of the window at the place where the sand meets the stars.

Against the velvet night, the paint mare's white hide glows with an eerie moon quality, reflecting the minimal light before the moon even rises. She slows by the fringes of her herd, and whickers. Crow slides down, the throws her arms around the mare's supple neck. Both seem to sigh with unspoken understanding.

Overheard, the stars glow with ancient knowing.

With a final stroke of the horse's neck, the young woman heads back to the house. Night wind lifts the hair from her back. Behind, the horses bugle to the stars, and there is distant thunder once more as their shadows depart from the valley.

Crow smiles a little and pauses at the door. Lightning flickers at the horizon, and she feels the wind pulling at her from outside. Sky thunder echoes the sound of the herd's hooves.

Quietly, Crow slips into the house.

Eathan is waiting for her. He sits up, but does not stand. "It's done with then." There is a hint of weariness in his voice that he is fighting to keep in check.

He looks at Crow. "Are you feeling better?" he asks with concern.

Crow shrugs and offers a tired smile. "There's something in the wind that bears a storm which makes me feel... alive. Like the lightning." The young woman chuckles, peering out the window.

Eathan shrugs. "They're interesting."

"Oh, are your burns all right? The sun didn't aggravate them?" She looks over her shoulder, her hair still loose, her wings collapsed tightly on her back. The eagle feathers woven in her hair flutter in the breeze which comes in from the window. No glass covers these windows, and the walls speak more of countless years and history.

"No. They're fine." He frowns. "As fine as they can be, I suppose." He smiles tiredly. "That plant doesn't grow in too many places... would you mind giving me some? Or perhaps even some seeds? It's hard to find, even in NCM."

"Of course. It grows in an area in the woods near where I usually bathe. We can gather some in the morning."

"Great."

Lightning crackles against her silouhette. Crow moves from the window, almost hesitant to approach Eathan. Her lashes dip in shyness.

Eathan smiles. "Come... sit." He scooches over on the bench and tosses a few pillows on the opposite end of the bench. "I think we've both had a hellavua long day."

"Indeed." Crow settles on the bench and stretches. "If you're tired, I can make up a bed for you. Or there's food, if you're hungry..."

He thinks for a moment, his fingers tracing the embriodery-patterns on the pillows, then sighs. "Not really hungry. Thanks though... more tired than anything else." He looks at her. /Tired of all this. Tired of putting people I love through hell. For me./

She nods.

"I'm sorry about how today went... it wasn't an ideal reunion." He gives a short humorless barking laugh that turns into a cough. "Yeah," he finally sputters out. "Yeah, I'd like to sleep. Thanks."

"You wouldn't like any tea or anything before you sleep? Might help clear the dust from your lungs." Crow smiles, a genuine smile that makes her doe like eyes sparkle.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds, opens them, and sighs. "No... no, thanks. Just bed."

"And don't worry about today. It... happens." A lone wisp of raven hair drifts over her lips; she replaces it. "Perhaps not often, but... Yes. There are people out there like.. well, like that."

"But...here? Here, dammit, *here*?" His hand tightens on the pillow, white knuckles against black and red embroidery, as his voice rises. "Dammit. This place was good. Peaceful, you said. Until *I* came." Self-hate burns through his voice. "I bring death with me wherever I go."

"Even if I'm not trying to," he whispers, turning his head away from Crow and staring out the window. He tosses the pillow back onto the sofa.

"Hey." Crow nudges him. "Don't be so egocentric to think you're the first person to ever bring trouble. It happens everywhere. It's how the Tribe was nearly destroyed. It's how Grandmother lost her sight..."

/But I'm bringing it to you. And that's what matters./

"Now, a bed..."

He nods, worn out. "I'm sorry." He hangs his head. /I shouldn't let her see me like this. Or maybe let her see me at all. Since it's all I am anymore, nothing. Damn./

She shifts, almost as if her mind can't stop working over things though her body is exhausted.

"Hey." He puts a hand on her shoulder and draws her a bit closer to him. "Relax...tell me where the bed is and I'll make it up myself. You need sleep more than I do."

This fact is belied by the bags under his eyes and bruises on his face, and he knows it.

Crow simply studies him, a smile playing at her lips. "You're not always a good liar, Eathan." Her hand reaches up, tracing the wear and wrinkles on his face, and she sighs.

The half-elf sighs. /Oh, gods. If she knew... I'm lying to her right now! If I was any kind of a man at all I would tell her, and then get out./ But he continues to sit on the sofa, continues to let her touch his face with that gentle touch.

/You know she's going to find out someday. Your life. Your lie. And she's going to hate you for it. Why not just leave now, spare her the pain. For once you'd be doing the right thing./

"Uh-huh," he mumbles.

"C'mon," he says, heaving himself up out of the chair with a grunt and offering a hand to Crow.

A chuckle arises from her, and she leads him into the bedroom. Beside a window which allows in cool breeze, a small bed piled with hand woven blankets rests. She secures a wooden blind down to help in case the rain should blow towards the window.

"Sleep here." Crow nudges him towards the bed. "My bed serves as the guest bed when we have company, and I'll make myself a bed in the other room."

Her finger goes almost instantly to his lips. "This is our tradition; don't argue with me."

"Mmph," he says. He finally nods, seeing that he has no other choice. "Fine. You're getting it back tomorrow, though."

"Only if you leave or plan on sharing it, " she retorts, folding down the blankets. "You'll sleep there until you decide to leave."

He frowns.

Crow clicks her tongue at him, and smiles.

"Besides, you look like you haven't had a soft place to rest your head in days. I promise it's cozy. The rain usually doesn't blow in this way, and there are extra blankets in the corner if you need one. Anything else?"

"No, no," he says, smiling tiredly. "I'll be fine."

A breeze whispers in around the blinds, and flutters the tapestry on the wall behind Crow. The silver feathers of the head of the large hawk sparkle, his profile only interrupted by the profile of a second hawk, smaller, and a dusky sand color. Their eyes almost glow, watching over the room.

Eathan smiles and hugs Crow briefly to him, his hands lingering on her hair, then lets her go with a kiss. "C'mon," he says, shooing her out of the room. "Go to sleep now."

She chuckles. "Yes, mother." But Crow doesn't seem to resist her tired steps back out into the living room. A few minutes later, there is silence from that room.

After she has gone, he takes off his pants and belt and tosses them in a corner of the room. /Gods, but this place is hotter than an Angel City tenement block in July./

He places the knife under his pillow, flips over on his back, stares up at the ceiling and tries to sleep.

/And I thought it was hard to sleep in that cell,/ he thinks hours later.

/Maybe I should go,/ he thinks again, hours, minutes later. /I could do it. Just get up and leave. Leave her in her peace. It's where she wants to be./ He gets up and sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his feet. He wiggles his toes against the soft, cool floor.

He looks over to where he threw the rest of his clothing.

Gets up, takes a step forward.

Sits back down heavily. The bed-frame creaks.

/Dammit. I can't do it. I can't leave her here. Alone. I did that once before and it hurt her, I guess. Gods only know why./ He cups his chin in his hands. /And admit it, you fool. It hurt you too. So leaving is out. It hurts you and her - rationalize, rationalize, Eathan. You're just not leaving 'cause you don't have the guts to go. If you really loved her you'd leave. You're going to cause more pain by staying. She could die - in fact, it's almost certain with *you* around. And then where would you be? Where the *hell* would you be?/

He sighs and lays back down on the bed. A rainy wind tries to get through the blinds and fails. /Ah, fuck it. Whether I leave or go I'm going to be hurting someone sometime. It's what I do. I've never done any good for anyone. Not even myself. Not even myself./ He blinks. /Not even.../

There is nothing then but the sound of the wind and the thunder and the quiet, even breathing of sleep.

In her sleep, Crow fusses and tosses. The scent of rain rouses her further, and she sits up in the darkened room. One hand raises to rub her eyes.

Soft rain on the roof covers any noise she makes as she stands and wraps a deeply colored blanket around her bare shoulders, shielding naked skin from the occasional burst of storm wind. With all the quiet of a desert mouse, Crow tiptoes into the bedroom, leaning over Eathan to check the blinds and resecure them from the rain.

Only the gloss of her wings catches the light as she turns to leave again, satisfied the rain isn't leaking into the house.

He sleeps, and dreams not of blood, of screams, but of a dark angel standing over him.

The light has just begun to creep, catlike, around the room, when he wakes. The house is still dark and silent. He pulls his rumpled clothing back on and pads silently out to the stream to bathe.

The water is clear and refreshing. He sits on a rock outside and braids his still-damp hair, then quietly makes his way towards the kitchen. /Maybe I can make breakfast./

The sleeping woman stretches from the bench and roll over. Half awake, she sits up, holding the blanket over her chest, but paying no mind to her bare shoulders, which seem golden in the early dawn light.

Crow yawns, for once lazily not getting up right away. She stretches one leg out from her blankets and wiggles her toes. A flutter of wings confirms her suspicion; they hurt like hell. Carefully, the black pinions stretch out then in, attempting to ease the dull yet fiery ache spiking through her shoulders and back.

Yawning again, Crow runs her fingers through her hair, straightening the already straight, sleek black strands. The feathers flutter in the morning breeze.

Eathan knocks on the door and pokes his head in. His hair is slightly damp from his earlier bath, and the smell of something nearly but not quite burning wafts through the room.

He tucks a piece of hair behind his ear and says, not without a trace of irony, "Good Morning." He smiles. "There's breakfast, if you want it. Pancakes. I'll be out in the kitchen." He closes the door softly and heads back out to the kitchen. Soon the not-quite-burning smell is gone.

Crow yawns, for once lazily not getting up right away. She stretches one leg out from her blankets and wiggles her toes. A flutter of wings confirms her suspicion; they hurt like hell. Carefully, the black pinions stretch out then in, attempting to ease the dull yet fiery ache spiking through her shoulders and back. Yawning again, Crow runs her fingers through her hair, straightening the already straight, sleek black strands. The feathers flutter in the morning breeze.

Eathan knocks on the door and pokes his head in. His hair is slightly damp from his earlier bath, and the smell of something nearly but not quite burning wafts through the room. He tucks a piece of hair behind his ear and says, not without a trace of irony, "Good Morning." He smiles. "There's breakfast, if you want it. Pancakes. I'll be out in the kitchen." He closes the door softly and heads back out to the kitchen. Soon the not-quite-burning smell is gone.

He looks up as she walks in, and hands her a plate of pancakes without a word, then sits at the table. Butter is spread methodically onto both sides of each pancake, and he spears a rather large bite onto his fork and chews thoughtfully. Finally, he swallows and thinks of something to say besides 'God, you're beautiful': "Do you want some syrup?" He pushes a blue earthenware jug towards her.

His own pancakes are already liberally doused with syrup; they need to be, blackened and charred around the edges as they are.

The half-elf finishes his breakfast slowly and draws patterns in the excess syrup with his fork after he is done eating. Finally, he looks up at Crow and asks the question that kept him up half the night: "So. What do we do now?"

She eats even more slowly, considering each bite as she eats it. In a way, she feels sort of shy around him. Her dark eyes flicker up to his face as she's licking her fork of the syrup, leaving it perched lightly on her full lips. "Well..." she begins, consideration leaving the word to be drawn out. "I could take you back to the Nexus, if that's what you wanted. This isn't every man's paradise.

"It really is up to you. Grandmother won't be back for a couple more days, so you are welcome to have her bed if you wish to remain a few more days." Her finger traces the edge of her plate, scooping up some syrup, which she sucks off of her finger.

Eathan bites his lip pensively, and looks down, then back up at Crow as he speaks. "I... want to stay," he says, "but I'm afraid that this--this kind of thing will happen again and again. Me--my mere presence puts you in danger."

He swallows as he realizes that he has once again spoken the truth, and is surprised at himself: both for doing so, and for feeling something akin to relief about it.

"This is the closest I've been to paradise in a long time," he says, and to stop himself from saying anything more, hurriedly stands and collects the plates and syrup pitcher, stacking them on top of each other.

Crow smiles, finishing up. She picks up her plate and moves to follow him towards the sink. "There's nothing here... There's very little way you can put me in danger." Her hands relieve his of the plates as she begins to clean up. "You don't have to worry about me, you know. I've survived this long in hostile terrain..."

"It's not the terrain I'm worried about. People might--" /No. Be honest./ "--will come after me. They'll try to get to me through you." He frowns. /It'd work. It has worked. It'd work again./

She looks to meet his eyes and smiles softly. "And if you're happy here, there's no reason to leave. Everyone should work their best to _be_ happy. Even you."

He looks at her, speechless. The thought comes to his mind, unbidden: /I would die for her. She just said that to me; I would die for her./

He reaches out to her, places his hands on her shoulders, sees the world suddenly wet through the tears running down his face. He stands and sobs and moves no closer to her, but moves no further away.

"I---happy---" he finally says, voice choked with gasping for breath in between sobs, sweat and tears and snot running down his face. He finally realizes that he is shaking, and takes his hands off Crow, half-turns away, and chokes a few times before wiping his face with his shirt. "Me," he says. It is not a statement, or a question, just a word....

"You--I--you're the---do you really think that?" his voice sounds almost pathetic in its desperate hope.

She watches his struggle for words and composure for a long moment. The heart in her chest aches for him and for the concerns he has - but there's little she can do to appease any of them. Even if she bore a bulletproof skin, or could see into the future, as Grandmother could, she doubts anything would truly appease those niggling thoughts at the back of his mind.

Instead, she steps up behind him as he manages to get out a question. Her thing arms slide around his stomach, hugging him to her, pressing her body against his back in the sweetest, gentlest hug. Crow shyly tucked her face into the side of his neck, her breath warm against his skin. "Yes. I do."

Eathan starts, partly out of long habit, partly because her action was so unexpected, and then becomes so still that, for a moment, he can feel himself breathing in time with Crow.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he blinks.

Then he leans his own head over to lay it against Crow's, his light hair shining against the darkness of hers. He exhales in one, long, shuddering sigh, and puts a hand on top of hers. "Thank you."

She smiles into his neck, nestling in a little more. He is soft, really, and smells... Well, he smells like he's been riding around in the desert for days. But it is his scent. Crow is loathe to let him go so easily, and leans lightly on him.

Eathan stands there a moment longer, then carefully--as if cradling a feather in a strong wind--cups Crow's hand in his own and brings it up to his lips. He kisses it.

...Eathan stands there a moment longer, then carefully--as if cradling a feather in a strong wind--cups Crow's hand in his own and brings it up to his lips. He kisses it. Her eyes close. It is a long confortable moment - at least, in her own mind. Slender fingers give his hand a gentle squeeze even after the kiss, and she settles against him a bit, letting him choose what he wants to do.

"This is...nice," he stammers, the words sounding stupid even to him. "But it's... we've really only known each other in a dream. A dream where I--" /Say it!/ "--hurt you. And I'm... not good for you." /Your words limp like a foundering horse, boy./

Crow slowly relaxes her hug, sighing quietly. "And who are you to know the fate of all?" she murmurs. After a moment, she releases him and continues to clean up after breakfast. "Life is full of hurt and pain... Sometimes the only thing that prevents more hurt... is love."

She leans on the counter, drying a dish mechanically. "I think I would hurt more if I'd never met you."

Putting the dishes away is an automatic response, as almost is the fluttering of the feathers in her hair. "My whole life is a dream, you know... Makes no difference where two souls meet. If they can cross the ether to touch one another... Then..." Crow stops and shrugs, picking up the syrup to put back into its place as well.

"I don't know fate, maybe," Eathan says, his voice tight and tense and somehow sad. "I know your thoughts, though--and even if I didn't, I could tell that I've hurt you somehow. I'm sorry. Both that I didn't tell you that earlier, and that I hurt you now. But." He stops, sits down in a chair and rests his head on folded arms. Does not look at her, exactly. "Everyone I've ever known and loved has died." He turns his head to look sideways at her back, her wings gleaming and rustling in the early morning as she puts away the dishes with a satisfiying domestic sound of softly clinking china.

"That doesn't really make for a lot of trust or experience. After a while, you find it's safer not to feel. You don't hurt. You don't feel. But you don't hurt. That's what I ask of life most days."

He coughs again, and plucks a loose hair off of his face and watches it drift down to the floor. "I guess this isn't most days?"

"How do you know you're alive if you never feel?" Her eyes watch him for a very long moment before she turns back to her task. "In all my days, as few as that may be, I have found it better to hurt and to cry than to simply ... *not*. It is a painful affirmation of life... But it is an affirmation."

"And if you continue to deny yourself the very thing that makes you alive - love and companionship - then perhaps it is better to lay down and die. But that is a very cowardly thing to do... And I think more of you than that."

The half-elf opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut. He looks everywhere except at Crow, and at himself.

Crow stills, and there is a long moment of silence. Then she steps next to him, dislodges his hand to press it between her breasts so he can feel her heart. "Would you really give it up? The ability to feel? Just out of fear of hurting someone else? When that person would lay themselves over hell's fire to be with you?"

"I... have before. I don't know what to say, now." He looks confused; his eyebrows draw together and wrinkle his forehead.

He suddenly notices exactly where his hand has been placed, and a faint pink tinge washes his cheeks. He moves as if to pull back.

Her eyes are momentarily hurt. One slim hand runs her fingers along his jaw, and she leans over, pressing her lips to his with a sort of urgency she's not known in herself.

For a brief fraction of a second, he tenses and pushes away from her kiss, like a deer trapped and blinded by the headlights of an oncoming car, knowing nothing but fear and instinct.

Then, he breathes out. Allows her to kiss him.

Breathes in. Trembles. Kisses her, on the cheek and then the lips.

Delicately removes his hand from her cleavage and puts it on her back.

Her body arches to his hand, lips moving against his in a gentle fervor. Both hands cup his jaw, one absently sliding down his chest as the kiss continues. By the time she regains enough sense to breathe and pull back, she's taken a delicate perch on his lap.

Eathan continues to kiss her, bringing up his other arm to cradle her in it.

With a blush consuming her cheeks, she bites her lips, one hand still resting on his cheek. Tingling runs along her skin, and her wings give a light quake as she steadies her breath. "Ah... Are your burns feeling alright? I can get some more balm for them, if you need... ?

"Er." He coughs, and looks up at her. "Um, no...they're feeling much better now, actually." He smiles, and this time the emotion in the smile actually reaches his eyes.

He lets her go, gently unfolding his arms from around her, and simply sits on the plain wooden chair, looking at her.

There's almost a sharp pang when his arms slide away. Her wings twitch again, then relax to the point of pooling on the floor. With a gentle hand, she turns his head so she can verify that the burns are ok.

"They seem to be recovering well..." Pleased with the healing, she touches her lips just below his ear, shyly. The touch is like the flutter of a butterfly's wing, softly floating upwards against his ear.

Eathan's eyes widen slightly, and he again wraps his arms around her back, underneath her wings so as not to crush the glossy feathers.

Fighting a nervous giggle, she ever so very gently kisses the tip of his ear, breath tickling his skin. There is a hesitation, then a light toothless nip, a swath of her lips around the tip of his ear.

He bites his lip for a moment at the nip, and breathes in sharply before leaning forward and burying one of his hands in her hair, stroking her head and tracing the line of her cheek with the slightest touch of his fingers against her skin.

With a slight blush and a feeling of encouragement, Crow nibbles a little on his ear before she sits back. Her thumb runs over his lower lip with the same sort of feather touch, and her eyes flicker from his mouth to his eyes.

Eathan looks back at Crow, and runs a loose strand of her hair through his fingers. /Kiss me again. It's okay./

Crow's hand moves slightly as she leans forward to kiss him again. It is a series of small kisses, deepening with each successive one until it seems her soul could touch his through their bond.

A shiver of wind floats through her black feathers - the sky rumbles distantly. Another storm is brewing in the heat of the day, and the moist, cool wind eases through the thin reed window covers to cool the room. Crow ceases only to take a breath, and the look in her eyes is clear as she resumes her soft, deep kisses. I love you. Please don't leave me.

He knows she probably can't hear him. Couldn't hear him before, can't hear him now. But he needs to say it to her, in the deepest way he knows how. He leans forward, gathering her, wings and all, into his arms, and puts his head against her own. ~I won't leave you. I won't ever leave you.~

He wonders if it is a hope, or a promise.

"I love you," he says, whispering into her ear. "Loved you from the moment we went out into the snow. It was so cold, and gods you were so warm, and alive. And I loved you."

This, he knows, is the truth.

Do not copy or quote the above material without the expressed consent of the owner of this page.

back