Authors : Anakerie and Lady Reason

Reason and I are still working on the Down in the Underground series.   Jareth and Sarah's oldest son Donovan was in an accident attempting to rescue his sister Lucy's daughter from what he precieved as an abduction (in reality, Javin had run away). He was presumed dead at this time and the family was heartbroken. However:  

The Demon and the Dragon 1/?  

He had walked his entire life.

It wasn't as long as that might seem, for he had only been alive for a few days. A week at the most, if he had to guess. He understood that a week was 7 days and nights. He also understood that there were 26 hours in one day, but he could not say where he had learned this, or who had taught him to find his directions.

He could not say what name his teachers had called him by.

He wore the what had probably been once a splendid pair of silk trousers, now torn and muddy and ragged. His shirt had been lost long before, exposing his bare shoulders to the hot sunlight. Only his boots were whole and solid, and he watched them often as he walked, admiring the cut and the stitching of them. They were finely made, as the trousers were. Surely he had been wealthy to wear such clothing; surely no pauper would have garments like these. And being wealthy, he would surely be missed. Someone was bound to come searching for him. Any minute he would hear a call, a name, and then he would remember everything. He just had to wait.

He drank the clean river water, and ate small fish he caught with his hands. Fruit grew in the forest, and he filled his stomach with that as well; once again knowing without knowing how which plants were good to eat and which would kill him. He also knew, somehow, the right words to think to a pile of sticks to make them burst into flames. Making a fire with magic was as natural to him as drawing a breath.

He slept when he could force himself to walk no more, curling up under a tree or in a grotto to rest. Fragments of dreams came to him and left just as quickly, leaving him with no clues as to their origin.

He thought, maybe, that he might have a sister somewhere.

He was unaware of the beasts that came for him when he slept, intent on making a meal of the weary young man. He was not aware of their eyes widening as they sniffed the air around him, and took in the magical taint, and fled. It was a pheremone he was unaware he possessed, and it saved his life. In his weakened state, he could have done little to defend himself if attacked.

He looked often at his face in the river water. His chin was covered in blond stubble that itched. Sticks and burs clung to the curls in his fair hair no matter how he tried to remove them, and finally he simply gave up. He did not know why he even walked now, only that he must keep moving, must keep going. He needed to find people, any people. People might be able to help him.

If they couldn't... well, then his suffering would be over.

Early evening on his seventh day of life, the young man reached a the edge of a village.

Watching the people was like water to a man lost in the desert. He took in as much as he could. People. People who moved and walked and talk and sang. Children running back and forth. Horses neighing. Horses. He liked horses. Maybe he had owned one. He was sure he knew how to ride.

He left his place in the trees and stumbled toward them eagerly.

A child screamed, followed by another. He was confused and looked around for the danger as mothers snatched them up. Him? They were afraid of him? No, he was nothing to fear, just a bit dirty. He needed them. He needed their help.

Something struck him across the back of the knees and he fell into the soft, muddy ground. "He's down." someone called, and he felt another blow to his bare back.

His spirit completely broken, he lay still and waited for his would-be saviors to kill him.

"Stop off. Leave him be!" someone called angrily.

No, let them finish me, the young man thought sadly. Let it end.

The pain vanished.

"Stay out of this, Demon." Someone spat. "None of your concern."

"I make it my concern. This man is sick and in need of aid, and you respond by striking him?"

"He made for the women and children. He's a stranger! Look at him. He's a maniac. Probably one of Ceternir's crazy's they dumped on us."

To the young man's surprise, he felt himself rolled onto his back and his head lifted gently.

"Easy, friend." said a soft voice. "You won't come to harm at my hands. Can you speak?"

"Lost. Tired. Thought... someone could help me." The words hurt.

"Someone will. I will." The voice promised. He tried to make out a face, but the sun was in his eyes.

"You're too big for me to carry. Can you walk if I can support you? I do not live far."

With the last of his strength, the young man climbed to his feet, feeling a strong arm reach under his shoulder to bare the brunt of his weight. He leaned wearily against the other man with a sigh.

"You'll not keep him in this village, Demon!"

"I do not live in your village." the voice replied calmly. "I live outside of it and I escort him now outside of the village and to my own home. As is my right."

"If he harms anyone, you'll be burned along with him." someone warned.

"Right now, he's in no condition to harm a termite. Stand aside and let us past."

Once again, the young man found himself walking but it was easier now that he had help. He was led away from the village and down a narrow forest path, to a tiny hut tucked under the trees.

"Isn't much, but it's mine. And you will be safe here." the other man promised.

The exhausted young man could only nod in gratitude.

He was led into a cool interior room, and suddenly he felt a soft bed under his back, and it was so glorious he wanted to weep. His boots were removed from his swollen feet and and his torn pants taken away. A cool cloth made it's way down his body, soothing him, and within minutes he was sound asleep. And in his dreams, he walked the corridors of a great hall, dressed in splendor, a beloved son and brother and uncle and prince, but when at last he awoke, he would remember none of it. And would not for a very long time to come.

*************************************

Quinn sat on a wooden chair, examining his visitor thoughtfully.

He was far too light and fair to be a child of Ceternir, who were brown hair and eyed almost to a man. Plus he was taller than they, thinner boned and more delicately made.

Quinn lifted one limp hand, examining it. The fingers were long and tapered, and now that he he cleaned them the skin was almost ghostly white. The skin was unblemished, uncalloused. These were the hands of a gentleman. These hands had never blistered from an ax or strained against a hoe. These hands were made for painting, perhaps. Or whatever it was that gentleman did.

Quinn gazed at his own hands. Rough hands, with large uneven knuckles. Hands that had done all manners of mean labor in his life. Hands that had cut the wood and shaped it to build the house he stood in now. Hands that had made the bed and the table and the small chest he stored his meager possessions in.

Yet, he did not resent the softness of his visitors hands. Rather, it intrigued him. Everything about the young man intrigued him.

It had taken a while to clean him up, but he was a thing of beauty. Soft pale curls fell around his head and his groin. His body was like his fingers; long and thin and delicate. He might scar now, although there were no traces of older marks. He had dozens of small wounds covering him, and Quinn had cleaned and dressed them the best he knew how. Nothing was serious or life-threatening, to the Quinn's relief. He did not want this man to die.

For two days and nights the visitor slept, muttering in his sleep things that made little sense. Often he repeated a number, over and over, his oddly accented voice would cry out "80!" to Quinn's confusion. He would try and sooth the young man, and finally he would sink back into the bed and be still for a while.

**********************************************

Quinn had been working on mending one of his shirts. He wasn't very good at the task but there was no one else to do it and it wasn't hard. He had little care if the stitches were even or not, so long as the garment held together long enough to last him throughout the winter. He had mended his visitor's pants, and his crude, thick thread looked terrible in the fine cloth. He was considering trying again when he heard a voice behind him ask.

"Why do they call you Demon?"

He put the cloth down and walked over to the bed, letting the sunlight from the window fall over his face.

"Because. In their eyes, I appear to be one."

He watched his visitor taking him in. The unblemished left side of his face, the red and rough right side. A mass of scar tissue where a right eye had once been. His nose lurched up to one side, exposing the inside of the nostril. His hair was long and auburn, and tied back with a scrap of doe skin, and his one remaining eye took in the visitors appraisel calmly. "I'm glad to see you finally awake. You had me worried." He sat down in the chair beside the bed.

"What is your name?" The visitor asked. "Surely not Demon."

"Quinn. Although you'd find few who know this or call me by it."

"This their loss, then." The visitor muttered. "To call an angel a demon. I owe you my life."

Quinn was embarrassed. "What is your name?"

The visitor shook his head. "I don't know. I walked in the woods. I fell in the village. I awoke here. I know nothing else."

"Nothing of your family? Where you are from?"

"A blur. Beyond my reach. How long have I been here?"

"Two days. You were nearly dead of exhaustion, and nearly beaten to death by those dunderheads before I could reach you."

"I meant no harm."

"In their eyes, a stranger always means harm. Or a freak like myself, although I was born to them and my parents as well. I work for them when I must; when I require money for something I cannot make on my own, but I have as little to do with them as possible. They will not seek you out here."

"Thank you." He tried to sit up and then fell back against the feather pillow.

"It's too soon for you to try and move about yet, my nameless friend." Quinn chided him. "Rest and I'll bring you some broth. You must try and build your strength back slowly."

The visitor looked around the small cabin. "You've only one bed." He was ashamed. "Surely I am in your way."

"Nonsense. Are you accusing me of making an uncomfortable floor?" He gave his guest a mock glare and then laughed. "I've slept on worse, believe me. You need the bed far more than I do."

He ladled soup into a bowl and brought it back to the bed. The visitor tried to hold the spoon but his hand shook too badly.

"Let me." He noticed that his guest was embarrassed, but allowed Quinn to feed him until the bowl was empty, and then drank from the water skin Quinn held to his lips. "There. Painless enough, eh?"

"Now, I need something call you if we're going to be friends." Quinn thought for a moment.

The visitor's face was blank. "Call me whatever you like."

"What about Drake?"

The young man thought. "I like that well enough, but why?"

Quinn bent and picked up one of his visitor's leather boots. "Look in the stitching on the side. It forms a dragon. And Dragon doesn't seem to suit you."

"Drake I will be then." He was pleased with his friend's choice.

It was then that Drake noticed that he was nude under the thin blanket, and his face reddened.

Quinn laughed. "Here you are. I am no seamstress, but it will together. But I tended your wounds, friend Drake. You've nothing I haven't seen before."

Still flushing, Drake pulled the mended pants up around his waist, noting they hung loose at his narrow hips, indicating the weight he had lost.

"Pure silk, though." Quinn said, impressed. "Someone likes you well enough somewhere. It won't be long until they track you down here."

"I've no where to go until that happens."

"You go no where. We are friends now, and you will stay here with me." Quinn said firmly. "I did not patch you up to watch those idiots tear you apart again. This cabin and the surround woods are safe for you, but the village is not. You will remain with me until your family comes for you."

"What if they do not? What if I have no family?"

"I cannot believe that would be true." Quinn assured him. "If it is, then you will remain with me until you can no longer stand my cooking."

"Why?" Drake asked. "Why would you help me like this?"

Quinn's indigo eye softened. "Because. You needed me to. My mother used to tell me that we are called where we are needed. And because I appreciate beauty, and hate to see it sullied."

Drake blushed.

"Have I made you uncomfortable? That was not my intent." Quinn patted his hand. "I speak openly. You are beautiful, friend Drake. I cannot imagine those you left behind are not searching diligently to reclaim you."

His fingers played over the back of Drake's hand for a moment. "I must go out for a while. Rest and recover, and I will return soon."

To his surprise, Drake's hand covered his own. "Thank you again, friend Quinn. Someday, I will find a way to repay you."

***************************************************

"Check mate."

"Someone taught you well." Quinn grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

The chess set, which he had made himself, sat on the bed beside of Drake. The blond man had beaten his host for the third time in a row.

"I win. Now I get my prize." Drake gloated.

"Very well. I shall allow you up for a few minutes. But no more." Quinn carefully removed the board and set it aside.

Drake slid his legs out of bed and attempted to stand. A wave of dizziness almost knocked him backwards but Quinn was there to catch him. "Slowly now." Quinn moved to support his weight as he had during their first meeting. "You've put on a few pounds."

Carefully he led Drake around the small room and after a few minutes, Drake was able to stand on his own by holding on to the wall. "Very good." Quinn nodded. "Do you want to go outside?"

Drake nodded and Quinn helped out out the front door and into the warm sunlight. The blond man turned his head up toward it, absorbing it.

He glanced around the cabin's surroundings. A small garden. A rack for drying meat. A covered woodbin. Everything a lone man needed to survive on his own. Quinn didn't have much, but what he did have was his own.

"Shall I bring the chess board out here?" Quinn asked. "I am determined to win at least one game against you."

"Wait." Drake's face had an odd look.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Just a thought. A flicker of something..." He lowered himself to the wooden porch.

Those hands curled and curved around, cupping something and Quinn sucked in his breath to see a shining glass ball in them. "And if I..." Drake was thinking outloud. He put the ball down in front of him and it shimmered. The chess set appeared by his side.

"How in the name of the stars..."

"I wish I knew. I can make fire by thinking it. And all of a sudden, I knew how to bring the chess board out here. But I don't know where I learned it."

"Wizard-born." Quinn nodded. "Very rare around here. I've heard they've magic users in the far north, but I cannot say for certain. And you could not have walked all the way from there to here and remained alive. Most interesting. Do you remember any other spells?"

Drake tried to think. "No. Nothing. Just that if I know where something is, I can summon it to me."

Quinn rubbed his chin. "A rather handy skill to have, actually. You could make your living as a thief if you were so inclined. Not that I would condone that, mind you. But you'd be a good one if you wanted to."

"My skills might be better used for hunting." Drake laughed. "I could start earning my keep."

Footsteps startled them and they both sat upright, watching as a squat man approached from the line of trees.

Quinn placed his hand on Drake's shoulder. "What brings you to my land, Olanis?" He asked politely.

Olanis scrowled at Drake. "Not about him, if that's what you're thinking. Your pet doesn't interest us. We've bigger problems."

"My ears are open."

"Centernir gathers for attack."

"Again?" Quinn threw his hands in the air. "And here I'd hoped for at least a few months of peace."

"You will join the defense?"

Quinn sighed. "Have I ever said no, Olanis? I will do all that I can. If I must have neighbors who detest me, I prefer it be neighbors I know."

"I will add your name to the list." Olanis grunted. He looked Drake up and down.

"He is far too weak still to aid us." Quinn said firmly. His eyes grew thoughtful. "As I do not live in Grentir Village, then my efforts to defend it are worth a mercenary fee."

"Why you cold-blooded..."

"My fee will be that my friend here." He glanced at Drake. "Be permitted to enter Grentir at any time. That he not be harrassed in any way. You are lucky he has not told his family."

"Huh?"

Quinn nodded. "This is Lord Drake, of the Simbalas clan in the Northern Lands. VERY powerful mages, I might add."

Olanis paled.

"Drake was on a journey when he was set upon by enemy mages and attacked, and left for dead. For days he wandered alone and ill and confused, until he came to us for help. Instead of aid, he was attacked again. Need I mention that the Simbalas clan considers an attack on one an attack on all? Should he file complaint, Gretnir could be obliterated."

Olanis looked skeptical. "Let him show his magic, then."

"Lord Drake is still weary from his trials and can do very little without completely exhausting himself. It would not do for him to fall ill again. However, I don't think a little demonstration would tire him too much. Drake?"

Drake rose to his feet shakily and cupped his hands again, the crystal reappearing. It slowly transformed into the water skin, which he raised to his lips and drank from, his eyes on Olanis.

Olanis bowed deeply. "Milord. Please accept my apologies for our behavior. We had no idea of your true identity. Of course you will be welcome in our village at any time, an honored guest, for as long as you wish to stay."

"I am enjoying Quinn's company. I shall be staying for quite some time. It was a misunderstanding, I'm certain. My parents need not know. My mother's wrath is not something to be taken lightly."

And he knew that he spoke the truth in that. He could not see his mother's face, or hear her voice, but he knew she was dangerous when in a fury, and he smiled. It wasn't much of a memory, but it was all he had and he clung tightly to it.

Olanis bowed again, many times, before leaving. By the end of the evening, the story of Lord Drake would be known all over the village.

"Ingenious." Drake marveled. "I almost believe that myself."

"It's probably not far from the truth. You no doubt are a lord of somewhere or another." Quinn shrugged. "And now you'll be treated with the respect you deserve."

"And how do you know I'm not a peasant who stole better clothing?" Drake said, amused.

"Because you have a lord's hands." Quinn touched them. "And a lord's way of speaking and walking and moving. You will see that I am right one day. You are at least a lord; definitely someone with a high ranking."

"What do you wager?" Drake smiled.

Quinn cocked his head, his one eye flashing. "If you are correct and you are not at least a lord, then I shall be your personal servant for a week. If I am correct, you shall serve me."

"Accepted." They shook hands.

Drake had incredibly blue eyes, Quinn noticed not for the first time. Blue and deep and enternal. Quinn would wager that he was far older than his body showed him to be. In a world where people did not show age past their early 20's, it was hard to tell at times, but he could see the experience of a lot years behind Drake's gaze. Far more than he had seen in his short twenty years of life.

Drake was looking back at his friend, still grasping his hand. The scars didn't bother him because they did not bother Quinn. The young man accepted them with good graces although he never spoke of how he had obtained them. They were simply a part of him. His hair was loose from the pony-tail and brushed his shoulders, and fell over his indigo eye, making him look younger.

"I... must go now." Quinn shook himself. "I am needed, in the village."

"Who is Centernir? Why do they attack you?"

"The next village over. Our lands are better and they want them. A few times a year they attempt to overtake us. They do not have the organization to be successful. The most they accomplish is putting a few scars on their young men and our own. Most of the boys here look forward to the attacks, but I despise them. I am a builder, not a warrior. Yet, I will go to defend the Gretnir in spite of myself."

"But they call you Demon. They dislike you." Drake argued. "Why fight for them?"

"I do not. I fight for myself. Those of Gretnir leave me in peace. Perhaps the Centernir's would not. Perhaps they would seize my land, or enslave me. They've taken some of our young man as slaves in the past, although they've always managed to escape and find their way back home."

Drake rubbed his hand. "Be careful then. You are my only friend, and I do not wish to lose you."

Quinn paused and leaned forward. His lips brushed against Drake's cheek. "You will not. I will return before sun-down tomorrow."

Before Drake could react, Quinn was already headed for the village.

Drake reached up and touched the spot on his cheek where Quinn's lips had been, and he stood there a long time, lost in thought.