Kikuyu_Black_Paws

A bird of air and thermal waves, Rustles cross the sea-shore, Cackles wildly to itself, whispers secrets to itself, never listens to itself, Ever mutters "Nevermore." Yes, it took a dear old leaf, From that Raven's paper book, Ever cackles to itself, whispers secrets to itself, never listens to itself, Casts a fond and fiery look. There, it sees the Hunter now, Craving Phoenix for his reward, Now it cackles to itself, whispers secrets to itself, never listens to itself, And flutters gamely from the Lord. All bragging rights are shattered now, The poor lord detests grim, That bird that cackles to itself, whispers secrets to itself, never listens to itself, And got the best of him. -------------------------------- Next line: Chaos, Panic, and Disorder...

Light webs run through cobbled corners; darkest spiders bite their prey. Wind rustles through shadow tree-line as the creatures mourn the day. Farthest mountains belch forth thunder; storm clouds roil 'cross feral land, shrouding all before the tempest, captured in a giant's hand. Foxes' bright eyes in the meadow; soft footsteps o'er mossy stones hint of some new open doorway there among the creatures' homes. Vines curl tightly, shimmer brightly as the rain comes down in sheets: pattering on ringing tree chimes; singing with metallic sweet. Deep within the farthest tree roots lies an angel, fallen far. Wings of silk grace unclothed body, like a delicate shining star. She lifts her head up, sheds a tear; spreads her wings and takes to flight; ever quickly disappears, flashing into stormy night. Whispers now among the creatures, speaking of this blessed child: disperse quick among the tree-line, disappear into the wild.

Once upon a time there were three Billy-Goats-Gruff. They lived in a wide field of the greenest grass by the bluest river and were the happeist Billy-Goats for miles around. All day long they grazed on the sweet green grass and played Billy-Goat games. Then one day the grass ran out. They had nibbled it bare, and the Billy-Goats began to get hungry. The littlest one, his stomach pinching with hunger, turned to the medium goat. "I am going across the bridge to the wider field of green, green grass and I will graze and be filled." And so the littlest Billy-Goat set out for the bridge across the bluest river. Trip trip trip went the littlest Billy-Goat, his eyes fixed on the field of green green grass before him. Already he could taste the sun-ripened blades between his teeth and he sighed as he hurried across the bridge. Now beneath the bridge upon which the littlest Billy-Goat was so merrily tripping lived a horrible troll. His skin was as black and scaly as a snake's, and his eyes were blood red and slant-pupiled. He had long sharp fangs and claws, so long that he could not curl his hands up and he could not close his mouth. So he breathed loudly, like a steam engine raging down the track. "Who is that on my bridge," he snarled low in his throat, and he pulled himself upon the bridge directly in front of the littlest Billy-Goat. The littlest Billy-Goat was very frightened and backed up a single step, but he had been taught to be brave and he stood his ground. "Please," he said politely, because he had heard it was good manners to be polite to strangers (though not too polite) "I would like to cross the bridge to the field of sweet green grass so that I might eat. I am terribly hungry." The troll grinned widely, baring his long fangs, and spread his arms wide so that the little goat could not get across the bridge. "So am I," he hissed. "And I think a nice young goat will fill my stomach nicely!" "Oh dear!" said the littlest Billy-Goat, and he dodged wildly to the side as the troll lunged at him. The shoulder of the huge troll brushed against his ribs and he fell with a squeal into the cold river below. Drenched and shivering, he went back to the chewed up field. The middle Billy-Goat saw him and exclaimed, "But what has happened? Why are you not in the green field eating sweet green grass?" "A troll barred my way and wanted to eat me," the littlest Billy-Goat cried. "And I am ever so hungry, but I am too afraid to try again." "No one treats my family like that," the medium Billy-Goat gruffed. So he set out for the bridge. Trip trip trip the medium Billy-Goat went across the bridge and stood his ground. He did not have to wait long, for the ugly troll had already jumped before him. "Well now," the troll hissed, his tongue flickering between his teeth most horribly. "Now I have an even bigger Billy-Goat at my finger tips. I thank you, goaty, for coming this way. You will make a most excellent meal!" "Oh dear!" cried the middle Billy-Goat, and he dodged wildly to the sdie as the troll lunged at him. The shoulder of the huge troll brushed against his ribs and he fell with a squeal into the cold river below. Drenched and shivering, he went back to the chewed up field. The littlest Billy-Goat saw him and exclaimed, "Oh no, not you too!" "What is this?" a large gruff voice asked, deadly quiet. The littlest and middle Billy-Goat looked way, way up into the eyes of the Biggest Billy-Goat, their mouths hanging open in awe. The Biggest Billy-Goat had a long beard with beads and braids running through it, and long curling horns that arched back from his brow. His huge cloven hooves could squash trolls flat easily, and he was the Gruffest of all Billy-Goats Gruff. "Who has pushed my family into the river?" he growled, very imposing as he eyed his two younger brothers. "It was a troll at the bridge," the littlest wept. "He pushed us into the river when he tried to eat us!" the middle cried. The Biggest Billy-Goat looked up at the bridge, his anger roiling around him like a great cloud. "A troll, eh?" he asked softly. "Well, we will see about that!" Clomp clomp clomp stormed the Biggest Billy-Goat as he moved to the center of the bridge. "Ho troll!" he called. "Here's a nice fat goat for you to eat. Come and get me!" Now, trolls are not very bright creatures, and with a great horrible smile the troll leapt onto the bridge. He looked way, way, way up into the Biggest Billy-Goat's face and grinned wider. "You will keep me fed for many days!" the troll shrieked happily. "Oh will I?" asked the Biggest Billy-Goat, and he rammed the troll very hard. The troll stumbled back with a hiss and spat at the Biggest Billy-Goat with rage. Screaming, he threw himself forward, prepared to devour the Biggest Billy-Goat. But the Biggest Billy-Goat was no amateur at troll flipping. When he had been younger he had one the Grand Field Gold Medal in the Troll-Flipping event. The Billy-Goat ducked his head, and gritting his teeth, he hooked his horns into the troll's awful little jerkin and threw him into the air. The troll screamed and went flying into the bleust river below, and was swept away downstream, never to be heard from again. "Hooray!" cried the littlest and middle Billy-Goats, running to their elder brother. Together, they trip trip-ed and clomp clomp-ed into the field of green grass on the other side, and they filled their stomachs on long sweet grass. They lived happily ever after, moving from field to field with ease, and they were never hungry again. The End

The Beginning of Never The two great suns were setting behind the purple sea, sinking between wisps of clouds. A pirate’s ship floated on the horizon, its billowing black sails so small they looked like birds’ wings. The lights from the lanterns were tiny pinpricks of brightness. The sky painted pink and gold and plum over the island. Waves lapped at the sandy shore, shhhhhhhh-ing as they swept forward and back, forward and back. In the cove the flash of a silver and sapphire tail splashed in the water, and a mermaid propped herself up on a rock, running her fingers through her hair. Beside her, another mermaid swam back flips through the waves. Smoke rose from the far side of the island. Huge trees rustled in the wind, the chimes hanging from their branches bidding Neverland to sleep. Deep in the wood a shadow hopped from rock to rock, fleeing deeper into the trees. It turned back momentarily and blew a silent raspberry, waggling its fingers in its ears. “Get back here you two-tongued, yellow-bellied, snot-sucking fart-brain!” the owner of the shadow roared as he chased after it, bounding from rock to tree and back again. His wild hair caught bits of bramble and leaves; his face was smudged and tan. Leaping out he caught a foot of the shadow with a triumphant cry. “Got you now!” The shadow struggled wildly, pawing at the air in a futile attempt to escape. The young boy gripped the shadow more tightly, trying to stick the foot in his hand against his own. “Stay this time!” he growled, giving the shadow an extra hard yank. The shadow seemed to give a withering sigh and settled down, its feet melding with the boy’s. The boy stood, propping his fists on his hips, staring down at the shadow with a look of supreme satisfaction. “That’s better!” Absently he plucked a stick from his hair and eyed it with his ivy-green eyes, one of his arching eyebrows going up in surprise, as if he really couldn’t understand what such a stick was doing in his hair. Shrugging, he tossed it aside and set off through the woods, a hand on the sheathed dagger at his side. Huge scarlet and purple flowers were closing up for the night all around. Vines held roosting white birds that chirped a sleepy welcome to him. A giant tortoise lifted its head slowly as the boy bounced off of his shell, blinking as he retreated into the distance. Over a hill and around a bend, the boy came to what appeared to be a huge, continuous tree-house that stretched from tree to tree to tree to tree. Rope ladders adorned with feathers, shells, acorns, and anything innocent, admiring fingers had found in the forest, stretched among the branches to the huts. Beneath the trees were the game courts. The boy sighed contentedly and propped his fists on his hips again in his familiar gesture, eyeing his home with a lord’s pride. “PETER!!!!” a voice shrieked, breaking the silence. The boy jumped, startled, and leapt into the air, taking flight to reach the top-most hut quickly. As he soared through the doorway and planted his feet on the ground, agile as a cat, he stared in wide-eyed wonder at the younger boy there, holding the hair of another, his twin. “Make him let go!” the captive whimpered. Peter folded his arms, frowning at the two miscreants. “What’s this about?” he asked imperiously. “He stole my chestnut cap, the mud-licking zit!” the jailor said haughtily. “My best chestnut cap, and he lost it!” “I did not steal it!” The other defended. “I...just borrowed it...for a little...” “Yeah, and you lost it!” The boy gave his captive a shake, bringing tears to his eyes. Peter pushed the boy away, freeing his brother. “Leave off. We’ll get you another chestnut cap, one better than the last. Come on now, it’s almost time for food!” At the mention of filling their stomachs both boys forgot the offending chestnut cap and scurried out of the hut, sliding easily down ropes to reach the bottom. Peter shook his head with a sigh and leapt out of the tree, taking a swan-dive to the ground. A huge group of young boys, aging from 5 to 10, were whooping and rushing towards a compilation of wide tables, all of them heaping with food. Peter, the oldest of 13, sat down at the center of one of the tables, rubbing his dirty hands together. “Let’s eat!” he growled. Lids flew off pans and pots, hands reached in to fill plates, even a few feet took part of the bounty. For a few moments of silence there was nothing but loud scraping and satisfied smacking. A little whirl of light hovered through the air towards Peter and alit on his shoulder with a chuckle. “Pete, did you finally catch your shadow?” Peter flicked the little light on the wing gently. “Y’see it stretched behind me, don’t you, Tink?” The little light dimmed, revealing an ethereal fairy who crossed her arms and laughed, twisting to see the shadow lying humbly at the boy’s feet. “Yes, I do see it. What did you use, glue?” Peter thrust out his chin in defiance. “No, I made it stay. It’s finally beginning to see who is boss.” Tink fluttered up gently, floating into an old clock hold strung above the tables, dangling a leg and letting it swing. “I see.” The boy grinned and went back to his food. Slowly the eaters dispersed, disappearing into huts. Lanterns were blown out and darkness settled over the huts. A lonely voice called out over the trees, the soft echo drifting over the whole island. “Goodnight Neverland!” * * * * Peter was up long before the others. He soared over the island, whirling among the clouds, laughing to himself. Beside him flew Tink, keeping just behind his shoulder. They were crossing the east cove when a scream split the air. Peter gasped, diving down into the trees, Tink right behind. Two pirates had the arms of a young girl, dressed in a buck-skin gown and slippers, her long black hair pulled into two braids. She struggled wildly, shrieking and snapping at the pirates, trying to bite them. Peter leapt in front of them, drawing his golden dagger and planting his legs firmly in the grass. “Let her go!” One of the pirates dropped the girl’s arm. “Hey, ain’t you...” He never finished. The young girl leapt into action, slamming her foot into the pirate’s instep. The man howled in pain and hopped on one foot. The girl easily knocked him over, taking the other pirate down easily as well with a kick to the face. Both pirates took one look at the enraged young woman and Peter’s knife and fled into the trees. Peter nodded in satisfaction and thrust his blade back into its sheath, turning to look at the girl. For a moment he sat stunned. Her eyes were the biggest eyes he had ever seen, and so dark they could have been the night sky. A dark blue handprint was painted over her mouth and jaw, and she had feathers in her hair. She watched him curiously, and then she pressed her hands together and bowed. Peter glanced at the trees around him as if begging them to advise him as to what to do. “Hello,” he said. The girl grinned. She took his hand and pulled him after her, into the woods farther than even he had ever been. “Wait,” he protested. “Where are we...?” They stumbled through the foliage into a large camp. People of the same skin color and hair type were bustling everywhere, leading children, dogs, horses. Warriors watched them warily from where they sat, oiling bows, sharpening spears. A young woman, her legs folded neatly below her, knelt before a fire, smoking fish. Peter pushed his hair back from his brow with an awe-struck “Gee whiz...” The girl smiled at him and yanked him through the camp to the biggest tent yet. Its buck-skin sides were covered in paintings of the moon, sun, plants, and animals. Tink settled comfortably in Peter’s hair, smiling and humming to herself. Inside the tent it was slightly dim and smelled of smoke. The girl flowed into a kneeling position easily, pulling Peter down with her. Two elderly people, a man and a woman, sat opposite them. They were dressed like the girl, but they had different blue markings on their faces. The wrinkled old woman had two curvy lines with three dots below them on her cheeks. The old man had a great gold necklace around his neck. Just behind them was a younger man, but still, in Peter’s eyes at least, very old. He bowed his head to the girl beside Peter. “Greetings Tiger-Lily. Who is your friend?” The girl began to jabber in an alien tongue to Peter’s ears. He sat there, wide-eyed, as she talked to the old people. “Tink,” he whispered. “What’s going on?” “She’s telling them how you distracted the pirates so wonderfully while she chased them off,” the fairy said, amused. Peter shifted uncomfortably, wiggling his bare toes in the dirt. He didn’t like sitting unless it was to eat. His eyes roved all along the inside of the tent. He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice when the talking had stopped and all eyes turned to him until Tink yanked his hair sharply. “Ow!” he cried, slapping a hand to his hair so quickly that Tink had to take flight to escape. Peter looked at the people before him and grinned awkwardly. “Hello,” he repeated. The younger man smiled at him. “Our Princess, Tiger-Lily, thanks you.” Peter looked at the girl, his mouth slightly agape. She smiled prettily at him. The man across from them continued, reaching over to hand Peter something. “The Chief names you our Friend. What is your name?” Peter took the long bead necklace that the man handed him. “Peter Pan,” he said. “Of the Lost Boys.” The man’s eyes glittered. “I have heard of you, Peter Pan. You are quite famous, in your own way.” Peter looped the necklace about his neck and stood, planting his fists on his hips. “Well, I have to be going,” he said. “There’s lots of work to do, you know...” Tink landed in his hair again as Tiger-Lily stood. The man bowed from his kneeling position. “Our Princess will show you the way back to your home,” he said. Peter blinked as the Indian Princess tugged him back into the sunlight. “No need,” he told her. “I can get back easily.” Tiger-Lily frowned at him, cocking her head. Peter crouched and leapt into the air, taking flight easily. He heard the Princess gasp, and then laughter trailed after him. When he had reached a high enough altitude, Peter crowed jubilantly, the roster’s screech echoing over the trees. He flipped in midair and shot off towards the Lost Boys’ hideout, a hand on the necklace under his shirt. * * * * A large silver knife slammed into the wooden table. The pirates flinched back, fear making their throats tight and their knees shake. “Tell me again,” a sibilant, deep voice purred, “how a little girl managed to beat you to a pulp. Tell me again, my ears are longing to hear.” “Well,” one began. “It wasn’t rightly our fault, Captain! She ‘ad help, she did.” The knife was yanked from the table and the Captain brushed his long, smooth black hair from his shoulders. Dressed in a fine scarlet coat and black breeches, the Captain never looked under groomed. He narrowed his eyes furiously at the pirates before him. “And this was...?” he prompted. One of the pirates dropped his eyes. The other shuffled nervously. He mumbled something incomprehensive. “Beg pardon, I didn’t hear you.” “It was Peter Pan,” the pirate repeated. The dagger smashed into the wood just beside their heads and they jumped. The Captain turned sharply to the inner cabin. “Smee!” he roared. A pudgy pirate came running. “Aye, Captain, aye, aye, what is it?” The Captain pointed his left hand at the two pirates before him. “Have these two useless, spineless boat-swain thrown overboard.” “Aye Captain Hook, aye, right away!” The pirates left, the two condemned pleading and jabbering. Hook did not hear them. He turned and gazed at his reflection in a mirror. His hawkish face was completely smooth, his eyes golden-brown and narrowed in a frown. Long, black, straight hair was cut just above his shoulders, and his left ear was pierced in two places. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, glaring out the window of his cabin to stare at the island. He picked up one of his hooks, a favorite weapon of his, and turned it between his hands. “Peter Pan,” he hissed. “Of course...” The sound of two screams and a splash outside did not move the Captain from his position. “Very well,” he said. “If it is a war you want, Peter, it is a war you will get.” * * * * Peter hopped back into the tree-houses, his hand still pressed to the beaded necklace at his chest. Cries of welcome rang out everywhere from game courts. A group of boys on skates played with a ball and a hoop. Others just wrestled on the ground. Still more used bows and arrows with paint sacks attached to the ends to shoot at each other. Peter rubbed a hand through his hair, grinning. “I had an adventure,” he called out. Immediately all the games ceased as the boys came crowding around him for their latest story. Peter pulled the necklace out from under his shirt. “There’s an Indian tribe on the far coast of the island,” he said. “Their Princess was beset by pirates, and I rescued her.” He felt a slight tug on his hair and he glanced up at the fairy on his head. “Well I did,” he said. “If I hadn’t shown up, she would never have been able to get free enough to fight them off!” Tink shook her head and sighed but she said nothing. Peter grinned and went back to his tale. “Well, they named me a friend of the tribe and gave me this!” He stroked the necklace again. “How many were there?” “Were they smelly and old?” “Did you fight them?” Peter held up his hands with a laugh. “Well...” he glanced up at Tink and she raised her eyebrows at him. “There were about twenty of them,” he said excitedly. “And they were all smelly and old, they were pirates, what do you think?! They were so terrified at my presence that they let go of the Princess and together we fought them off.” He heard a tiny sigh from above him, but he ignored it. “A girl?” one of the boys exclaimed. Peter winked. “Yes, Toonts, a girl! They’re not all weak. You wouldn’t take on Tink here, would you?” He screeched his rooster crow again. “No old geezers can stand up against us!” he crowed. The boys roared in agreement, leaping around and forming a swirling dance of screeching, whooping youngsters. As the suns sank over the horizon again, calling the end of another day, Peter and Tink went to the shore. The young boy leaned over from a rock and peered into the water. The face he was looking for appeared before him, sapphire eyes and hair reflecting the pure blue of the water. Her pointed, fin-like ears glistened in the water as the iridescent scales caught the failing sunlight. The mermaid smiled at him and touched his cheek. Peter was a great favorite among the mermish. Peter grinned. “Do you have what I asked for?” he whispered. Mermaids do not like loud noises, which was why he always came alone. The mermaid smiled and nodded, handing up a pearl necklace. Peter smiled and looked it over. “Tiger-Lily will like this,” he whispered. Suddenly the mermaid’s face went pale and she disappeared with a flash. Peter was just turning around when a firm hand grabbed the back of his neck and a net was thrown over him. He roared in anger and thrashed, trying to grab his knife, but hands had hold of all of his limbs, pulling him in all directions so that he couldn’t twist around and arm himself. Pirates! There were about twenty of them this time, without exaggeration, all grinning at him. One of them had his knife and the pearl necklace, licking his own blade wickedly. Peter crowed at the top of his lungs, and felt relief pool through him as he saw Tink fluttering madly towards the Lost Boys’ tree-house. The pirates all parted, except for the ones that were holding him down. A tall, dark haired pirate in a long blue coat walked through them. Sharp silver hooks were looped into his belt and a long blade was thrust at his waist. “Peter Pan,” the pirate sneered. “Not so cocky now, are you, my young rooster?” Tears stung Peter’s eyes in pain as a pirate grabbed the back of his hair and shook him. “We got ‘im, Captain Hook!” the pirate grinned. Faster than lightning the Captain pulled out a gun and shot the pirate through the heart. He fell back, dead. Peter stared with wide eyes at the Captain as he turned to address the rest of the pirates. “Don’t harm him,” the Captain said. “Bring him back to the ship in one piece.” Peter roared in rage again, struggling wildly as the pirates picked him up and heaved him into a rowboat, taking him out to sea where the pirate’s great ship was just floating around the cove. * * * * Tink flew wildly into the tree-houses. “They kidnapped Peter!” she cried, over and over again, slamming into faces and pulling ears. “Get up you lazy louts, they got Peter!” The alarm went up like wildfire. “They got Peter! They got Pan! Pan-the-man!” The Lost Boys swarmed into the game courts, circling around Tink as she fluttered in distress. “The Pirates got Peter!” she explained. “I don’t know what they want, but we have to get him back before they kill him!” she cried. “I’ll get the Indian tribe, they’ll help us. Arm up for battle!” She disappeared in a flash of light, leaving the boys dazed and confused. Slowly, comprehension filled each and every Lost Boy. Pirates had Peter. Pirates. Toonts slammed his fists together. “The dirty, fart-eating, jelly-bellied, old geezers,” he snarled. “Come on! We gotta get moving!” With a roar of agreement, every boy ran to his hut, grabbing weapons and decorative armor. * * * * Peter was thrown, net and all, into a lavish cabin. He could see his long gold knife lying on the desk not far away. He struggled wildly, but his hands and feet had been tied and he could not move. He didn’t have to wait long. The door behind him opened and heavy boot falls, two pairs, made the floor thrum. A face appeared in his view. It was not the Captain’s. “Looky ‘ere, Captain, the little fish is alive.” Another pair of boots appeared beside the pirate. These Peter knew to belong to the Captain and he strained to look up. “Peter Pan,” the Captain growled. “You know who I am, presumably?” “A terd-belching, sword-slinging, good-for-nothing pirate,” Peter snarled. “Let me up and give me my weapon in a fair fight!” The Captain laughed. “No, I don’t think so. I can’t have you bouncing around the cabin with your annoying, fairy-induced flight. Do you know why you are here?” Peter was struck speechless. No he did not know. The Captain knelt before him, lifting his chin with one of his hands. “Two words,” he hissed. “Tiger-Lily. You intercepted my men in bringing me the Princess. That did not please me. Now when I launch my attack on the Indians I will not have the blackmail I wanted. It’s because of you!” Peter grinned wildly. “Too bad for you, pirate. You think I care? You’re a grownup!” The pirate struck Peter across the face. “I don’t appreciate your insolence,” he snarled. “Seeing as how you are tied up at my feet, I would think you would be begging for mercy.” Peter grinned past the blood on his lip. “Beg? Never!” Hook stood with a sigh. “Leave him here,” he ordered. “We’ll see how proud he is when he realizes that no one is coming to get him.” Peter watched them leave with a feeling of satisfaction. He closed his eyes and waited. He did not have to wait long. A tiny speck of light opened the window and flew in. Peter opened one of his eyes. “Tink, what’s going on?” The fairy settled on the floor in front of his face. “I’ve warned Tiger-Lily’s tribe. They’ll be here by sunrise. The Lost Boys are getting ready too. Do you know what all this is about?” Peter laughed. “Apparently the Captain was trying to get the Princess as leverage against the Indians. I seem to have messed that up for him.” He snorted. “Too bad. Fat-licking, no-brained...” he trailed off into a stream of more insults, glowering at the floor. Tink pulled out a tiny knife and began cutting the ropes that bound him. “Well, it’s going to get hot in the morning. So be ready!” She sliced through the last of the ropes. Peter sat up gingerly, rubbing his wrists. “Am I ever not?” he asked. Tink sighed. “Sometimes I wonder at you,” she said. Peter laughed softly and plucked his knife off of the table, strapping it to his side again. “You’d better go,” he whispered. “I’ll find a place to hide here.” Tink gave him a tiny kiss on the cheek. “Be careful!” she warned, fluttering out the window. Peter grinned and stepped stealthily farther into the cabin. This was going to be fun! * * * * Dawn came bright and early to the coast. The pirate ship was near the beach, and all of the pirates had assembled on the sand. Hook flicked a grain of salt from his immaculate jacket, eyeing the trees before him. Turning to Smee, he laid a hand on his long blade and his hooks. “Is the boy still in the cabin?” Smee shifted nervously. “About that, Captain...erm...he seems to ‘ave...er...escaped.” Hook stared down at the pirate before him and closed his eyes. He gave his head a little shake. “What?” “Escaped, Captain...his ropes were cut, very finely.” Captain Hook glared at the trees again. “Never mind him,” he hissed. “We don’t need to worry about the little tripe.” Without another word he started into the trees, his eyes murderous. Peter floated just above the pirates, Tink beside him. He gripped his knife grimly. No crowing today, no jubilant laughter. This was serious. Just farther into the forest, at the edge of the swamp, the Indian warriors were ready, waiting for the pirates to stumble upon them. The Lost Boys crept through the trees, hands on their slings, knives, and bows. Peter soared just ahead, his eyes on the swamp before them. The pirates stumbled into the first of the booby traps. Screams punctured the forest leaves as pirates fell into pits, were yanked upside-down by ropes, tripped over trip-wires, or stepped into cleverly hidden pools of tar. At the center, untouched by the traps, the Captain roared furiously at his useless pirates. Suddenly the Indians came charging through, their spears and arrows doing terrible damage. The pirate force was engaged to its fullest as Lost Boys appeared out of the trees, crowing and yelling at the top of their lungs. Unseen in the melee, Hook slipped into the trees. Peter grinned, following the pirate farther into the swamp. He flipped in front of the Captain, landing on a log and holding his long knife ready. “Come now, Captain,” he teased. “Are you going to run from a boy?” Hook sneered, drawing his long blade and one of his hooks. “You are an irksome fly, Peter Pan. It will be my great pleasure to pin you to a tree and watch you squirm.” The pirate lunged forward, leading with his blade and following with his hook. Peter danced back, blocking and parrying with his long knife of gold. He laughed and cart wheeled, treating the fight like a game. The pirate sliced at his legs and Peter leapt lightly into the air, flipping over Hook’s head and landing behind him. But Hook was fast. Pain sliced across Peter’s belly and he stumbled back with a cry, clapping his arm against his stomach. Hot blood flowed from the wound on his left side and he limped, holding his dagger before him, his face contorted with pain. Hook grinned, hefting his hook. He was about to throw it at Peter when the silence of their fight was interrupted. Tick...tick...tick...tick...tick...tick... The Captain turned in curious concern, looking around for the source of the noise. A huge crocodile was sitting in the water not far off, watching them, drawn by the smell of blood. Peter lunged forward, his knife flashing. Hook screamed and blood dripped onto the log. Peter threw the neatly severed hand into the air at the crocodile, which devoured it in one snap. Peter grinned at the Captain, his face pale from pain and blood loss. “There Hook; now your name will suit you. I trust you can get out of this swamp alive, but if you don’t I really don’t care.” He crowed tauntingly, and then with a kick of his heels he shot up into the air. Hook roared after him, scrambling away from the crocodile that was inching fearfully close. “I hate you Peter Pan!” he screeched. “No matter where you go I will hunt you and your little brats of friends! It’s war between us now!” Peter could not hear him. His hand pressed to his side, he flew erratically back to the tree-houses, his eyes fluttering. The sky before him went black, and he did not know he was falling. It was near dawn when Peter opened his eyes. His side was wrapped in clean linen and he was lying in a dusky room that smelled of smoke. A pretty face was looking down at him. “Tiger-Lily,” he whispered. Tink’s light appeared next to the Princess’ face. “Do you know how badly you scared me?” she cried. “Just go off and get yourself sliced open by a pirate. Don’t worry about how much I worried!” Peter grinned. “I got him back,” he whispered. “Got his hand...” he gave a feeble, whispered crow and fell back on his pillow with a wider grin. Tink sniffed. “You wouldn’t be smiling if you had died, would you? Almost broke your neck when you fell. I could barely catch you. You’re very heavy you know.” Tiger-Lily hid a smile behind her hand, but Peter grinned openly. “No,” he said. “To die would be an awfully big adventure.”

The Children Legend has it of a forest on the farthest, most northern coasts of the ancient world. There it rains constantly, for the clouds have a life of their own and weep over the silence of the world. There are no words there yet, and the tears of the clouds moisten and nourish the trees in preparation of the time when words will become more than just a dream; for when they become reality. The rivers and rocks hold countless Watchers of the night, dangerous and plotting. If they can, they will stop the coming of the words, for it will mean an end to their world. Their kind, and their civilization along with it, will be bound by the ink-spread chains. They will do anything - from kidnapping, to murder - to stop the approach of these words. Then there are the Children of the Trees. Those who see them think they have seen fallen angels, for they wear no clothing but the wings that are thrown across their backs like robes. They are constantly weeping, helping nourish the land for the words. One such Child, a young girl with wings the color of the storm clouds and eyes of the river, is a Singing Child. She weaves dark feathers into her hair and sits in the tree branches, waiting. She sings for the Words to come, and they fly forward. By her voice, the land's creatures have been given names. And while she cries, the trees grow and pull the words from the ground as nourishment. But yet they are still unspoken words. Another Child, the Mourning Child, rubs moss and dirt into her whitest wings. Her eyes are shadowed with grief, her body wasted with weary trials. She pulls the feathers from her skin and plants them deep in the earth. She sheds no tears for the world of Words. In silent meditation she tells them her grief, wills them to come and rescue her. The Guarding Child stand watch over the Watchers. He is many and one. They are three in number, standing at the three corners of stone and river. Identical and yet different, their presence confuses the Watchers. When a Child is kidnapped or murdered, the Guarding Child take retribution and punish the Watchers. They scream for justice, for words to bind these lawless children of stone and stream. The two Dancing Children stand at the center of the forest, pounding the ground with their feet. There they show the children of stone and stream that the Children are not afraid! They will fight for words to tie their world together. Their hair is cut short. Every day it grows long to the ground. Every day they cut it off lay it in a circle around them, warding off the children of stream and stone and preparing the ties which the words will need. One last Child, the Laughing Child, flies among the clouds with great cries of jubilation. He shows the words what happiness can be, how muted it is now. His calls of joy twine through the clouds, filling them with tears to nourish the land further. The coming of the words draws near. The Singing Child, the Mourning Child, the Guarding Child, the Dancing Children, and the Laughing Child are but a few of the Children of the Woods. Together they will beckon the coming of words, and the clouds will stop crying. The sun will shine in the sky, and the flowers will blossom. Children of stream and stone will be bound to their courses. And the Children of the Trees will be free.

I wait for love to come to me, It never finds its way, I wait for joy to circle me, It's always dashed away. I wait for grief to leave me be, It lingers like a ghost, I wait for anything at all, I wait for what is most. I wait for heart to touch my heart, I wait for palm to palm, I wait for dark to flee away, I wait for any song. I wait for light to sing my way, It can't come past the dark, I wait for dawn in disarray, It never makes its mark. But while in darkness shadows round, Chain me with dark fears, He came alone through all the Wild, Of bloodshed and black tears. He was love that came to me, That had always found its way, He was joy that circled me, That was never dashed away, He forced all my grief to flee, No longer like a ghost, He was everything at all, Was what I wanted most. He took his heart and touched my heart, His hands in palm and palm, He made the darkness flee away, He gave me my first song, He was light to sing my way, He came past the dark, He came for me in disarray, And left a lasting mark.

Beautiful. There are no words to describe it. Keep it up! I want to read more!!!

I feel a tugging in the wind, It rustles through my wings, I lift my head and watch the sky, For what the clouds may bring. The storm night flickers in the air, I taste the lightning's breath, And thunder grumbles sharp report, Their lingering thoughts of death. Tree branches sway and dance the storm, To sing of times gone by, They know where legends first began, They know where kingdoms lie. Tears sting my eyes, I cannot go, Where lightning finds its light, Where thunder sleeps among the deep, In blankets of dark night. The wind prattles near my head, A comfort-less embrace, And then it swirls far on its way, Past my tear-streaked face. I turn and walk into the wood, Of pen-ink and unheard, There perhaps I will find rest, Among the trees of words.

On Zadown's review about Lady in the Water: I highly disagree. In my entire life there are only two movies that have made me want to, and I quote myself, "spread my wings and fly to another world" Those two include Braveheart, and the most recently, Lady in the Water. Lady in the Water is an amazing example of the real world and the fantasy world clashing. The dialogue here and there is a little primitive and poorly written. But that does not take away from its overall impact. When the Great Eatlon, the eagle that takes her away, appeared at the ending of the movie, I actually wept. Both Braveheart and Lady in the Water have done that to me, not because of the sadness or happiness of the ending, but because of the severe longing that fills me when I encounter but cannot touch such worlds that to me serve as fantasy. The soundtrack (which I am listening to right now) is an amazing taste of themes that inspire. Even now I close my eyes and just drift with the notes. Chills run up your spine. It is a must have even if the movie was not enjoyed. On the whole, it seems to me that most writers (I cannot say all, because I know I am wrong, Zadown ) would enjoy this tale. It makes it possible to dream up a world and actually touch it, twining your fingers in its ethereal, filigree strands. The storyline is beautiful, the music enchanting, and the imagination enrapturing. All ten fingers way way up for this story. Maybe even a toe or two. ~Kikuyu Black Paws

In the Eyes of a Cat Toran walked steadily before Shannon, his hair sleep mussed. The stress of the past few days and lack of sleep was clearly wearing on him. A silvery form dropped from the trees into their path, hanging upside-down on a vine, watching them curiously. Toran did not see it until he was almost nose to nose with it. He fell back with a cry of surprise. Moonlight pierced through the clouds and illumined the specter. It was a man dressed in a gentleman’s clothing, a long bottle-brush tail flicking back and forth. His spiked hair was smooth and gingery, falling above his head to almost conceal two furry ears. He wore a mask over his face, a widely grinning, sharp-toothed mask that was definitely ‘cattish’. The muscles in his arms and throat stood out against his skin. “Where hence, flying friend?” he purred, eyes hidden behind the cheerily winking eye-holes. “On such an auspicious night, do you chase after fool’s gold, or a treasure trove?” Toran blinked sleepily. “I-” he began. The cat man let go of the vine and flipped to his feet, landing easily. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “North is it?” he pointed. “Or south?” His other hand crossed over his arm and twisted about. “I do believe you cannot go both ways, or can you? Perhaps if one leg walked north and the other south, I believe you could do it. But it would be very difficult indeed.” Shannon had her hand on her flute. Jeremy’s scream had her wide awake and worried, and this delay was not putting her in the best of moods. “You’re crazy,” she hissed. “Stand aside so we may pass!” The cat man turned to her, his head cocking wildly. “In a hurry, are we?” he simpered. “Well then let me not stand in your way.” He stepped aside with a flourish, watching them as Shannon grabbed Toran by the wrist and dragged him along. Without a sound he followed them. Shannon broke into a trot, her eyes wide and searching. Trees whipped past her, sky dipped in and out of sight. Toran tried to keep up, his wings tucked tightly against his back. “Shannon!” he protested. “Slow down!” The scream kept echoing through her head, and instead of slowing down, she sped up. She began to pant with horror, eyes wide. The trees split before them and a clearing presented itself. Shannon stumbled to a stop in horror. Jeremy was lying on the ground, his wings spread wide and bleeding. Standing over him with one foot pressed against the Dawn’s chest was Raven, holding two large russet pinions in his hands. Ravens cawed all around, almost laughing with their dry leaf cackles. Shannon screamed and charged forward, but a streak of ginger lightning beat her. Raven turned, surprise flitting across his face as the masked hunter toppled him. The two went rolling across the ground, Raven swearing, the cat-man spitting and yowling. Long claws raked down the Raven’s chest and face, teeth found his throat. Wings buffeted and knives slashed, feet kicked, dust and blood flew in the air. Shannon leaned over Jeremy while Toran watched the fight with horror and fascination. The dust settled, the cat-man sitting atop Raven’s chest, claws deep in his arms as he kept them pinned on the ground. Raven stared calmly at the attacker, blood pouring from arms, face, and chest. He licked at blood on his lip and grinned, his crimson eyes flashing. “Cat, eh?” he panted. “Kill me then. You seem to have bested the Raven.” The cat-man cocked his head, his mask spattered with blood, his own and the Raven’s, still grinning wildly. “Seem?” he hissed. Suddenly the Raven heaved upwards with his entire body, dislodging the cat. One snap of his wing sent the man flying. He flipped and landed on all fours, tail lashing. A glint of golden light sparked from the eye-slots and he charged forward. A bang stopped him short. Raven jerked, his face going pale as a large hole appeared in his chest with a splat of blood. Giving Toran an odd look, the Raven toppled and fell to the ground, pawing at his wound, and then lay still. Jeremy opened his eyes and smiled at Shannon. “My...feathers...” he whispered. Toran pocketed his still smoking gun and walked calmly to the Raven, picking up the feathers that had been dropped. Shannon smiled down at Jeremy. “We have them Jeremy, it’s ok. You’ll fly again, I promise!” The cat-man stood, giving Jeremy a hidden look. “He was mine,” he hissed. Toran shrugged. “He was nobody’s. Up for grabs, a murderer, filth. It didn’t matter who killed him. Why did you come anyway?” The cat-man bowed and took off his mask, revealing a fair skinned man with large golden eyes and a wide mouth that seemed prone to smiling. The faint markings of whiskers stretched across his cheeks and he stuck his tongue out, his long hair falling around his shoulders. “Osmodius, at your service,” he purred. “I’m a protector of these woods, and a general Trickster. When the good are in need of service, I provide it. When they are in need of directions...well, that’s another matter entirely.” Shannon looked up at the cat-man. “Osmodius.” “Yes, my dear lady?” “Can you take us out of these woods? The only one who can fly is Toran, and not for very long. We’re all weak and hurt; walking is the only way. Can you guide us truly?” Osmodius stared at Shannon for a long time, taking in her smudged, tear-stained face and her heavily bruised shoulder. He looked at Jeremy lying on the ground, beaten and bleeding, a gap at the tip of each wing where a long feather should be. Finally he turned to Toran, looking at his slumped shoulders and dejected, grief strained face. Looking back at Shannon, he eyed her solemnly. “You all have been through much loss, I think. A good turn would not hurt. I will lead you to the edge.” Shannon smiled, wiping tears away. She didn’t know when she had gotten this soft. Maybe it was since Conrad had... She dashed away her thoughts, standing and helping Jeremy to his feet. The Dawn held out his hand to Toran, who placed the long feathers in his hand. Jeremy tucked them into his shirt, close against his skin. “Where should we go?” he whispered. Osmodius smiled. “I know a place where you can stay and rest. They even have a wing-grafter there. It’s away from Dawn and Night, for us who care nothing for their war. You’ll be safe there.” * * * * Osmodius led them through the woods silently, leaving Raven’s body to be picked at by the birds he had once commanded so haughtily. Jeremy stayed silent, his face drawn and pale, leaning on Shannon’s good shoulder. Toran helped him along on the other side, keeping his eyes ahead so that he would not have to think of anything other than placing one foot in front of the other. Dawn was approaching when the cat-man pushed aside a bush and revealed a tall white hospital stationed between the trees, nearly four stories tall and stretching back into the woods. “Here we are,” he said pleasantly. “Come come, they should have breakfast started.” Osmodius pushed open the doors jauntily and grinned, spinning his mask on one finger. “Got some new ones for you, Dolores!” he called. A woman with vibrant green eyes and black cat-ears peeked out from a closet, frowning. “What now?” Osmodius bowed low. “Dolores my friend, new customers if that’s the way you want to say it. They are in need of some assistance.” The cat-woman named Dolores stepped out of the closet and walked up to them, clucking her tongue with eyes narrowed. “What a mess,” she hissed. “What bull did you get on the wrong side of?” Osmodius gestured to the two Night and single Dawn. “Squeezed beneath the two angry bovine Dawn and Night, I’m afraid. Can you patch them up? That one needs wing grafts on both sides, and I do believe the young lady has a broken collar bone. Can breakfast and rooms be arranged, possibly next to each other or attached?” Dolores waved a hand at the cat-man. “Yes yes, I wasn’t born yesterday. Come along you three, we’ll get baths and medical care for you all.” Shannon turned to Osmodius, smiling weakly. “Thank you,” she whispered. He shrugged. “My job, m’lady. Don’t think another thing about it. Off you go!” * * * * Shannon sat on the medical table limply as a nurse rubbed joint cream into her shoulder gently. She stared blankly forward, her now clean hair pulled back into a neat braid. Meaningless thoughts poured through her mind: the image of her parents, smiling at her; her brother, shooting at targets while tears streamed down his face and blurred his eyes, still getting a bull’s-eye at every shot, just after their parents had been killed; Conrad helping her walk when she hurt her ankle, teaching her to fly; the two being sent on missions and leaving her alone and worried; the day she was finally allowed to go and proved herself to all of Night that she was a worthy opponent with her flute...they went on and one like a never ending recorder. The nurse touched her cheek gently and she snapped out of her stupor and looked at her. “Here, miss,” she said softly. “Put your sling back on.” Numbly Shannon complied, then slipped off of the table and let herself be led into a wide suite where Toran was lying on a long bed, washed and newly dressed himself. His hair was even combed. His arms were behind his head and he lay staring up at the ceiling. A table with food stood untouched nearby and Shannon settled herself beside Toran. “Where’s Jeremy?” she asked. “Still in surgery,” was the calm answer. “Eat something.” “Not hungry,” Shannon said softly. “Ridiculous,” Toran retorted halfheartedly. “You haven’t eaten since we left the house; that’s nearly 36 hours ago. You need to eat.” Shannon turned bleary eyes at her brother. “Then you eat.” Toran’s mouth closed with a snap and he grumbled up at the ceiling. “Well, if you’re not hungry then fine...we’ll eat when Jeremy gets back.” Osmodius appeared in the doorway, newly dressed in a gentleman’s clothing. “Tut tut,” he muttered. “All clean and pretty and you haven’t touched the food. Worried about your friend, or have you just lost the will to live?” Shannon shrugged, wincing. “Nothing seems worth anything anymore.” Osmodius sat beside them, picking a piece of lint from his immaculate black jacket. “Your friend is alive and will recover. He will fly again. Your shoulder will heal and you will all be safe here. Neither Dawn nor Night can touch you. What isn’t worth living?” Shannon stared out the window, not seeing the trees. “Conrad is dead,” she muttered to no one. “He’s not coming back, and neither are my parents. The only home I ever knew betrayed me and tried to kill everyone I loved. The only home I could have turned to wants us dead because of what we are or wants us alive because of what we know. I don’t want to live a fugitive all my life. I’m tired of running.” Osmodius watched her silently. “This Conrad of yours, is he at peace now?” Shannon turned to stare at the cat-man. Osmodius lay a hand on her shoulder kindly. “Sometimes the bad can be hard,” he said gently. “But you must pull through. Everything happens with cause.” A nurse arrived at the door. “Um,” she said, nervous at interrupting the gentleman. “Your friend just got out of surgery. They’ll be bringing him here shortly.” She hurried out under Osmodius’ keen gaze. The cat-man turned to Shannon with a cheerful smile. “You see,” he said. “There are still things worth living for.” Osmodius sat with them, whistling to himself, until Jeremy was carried into the room by a very tall cat-man in a white jacket. Compared to the doctor’s thick muscles and filled body, Jeremy looked skeletal and emaciated. The doctor lowered Jeremy onto a couch, spreading his wings out gently. Jeremy blinked woozily up at Shannon and smiled. “Hey there,” he whispered. Osmodius stood and brushed off his clothing. “I will return at your evening meal. For now, I must confine you to this room. Tomorrow perhaps I will find you well enough to walk about. Good day for now!” He tipped his brow to them and exited the room. Jeremy’s eyes flickered, and he looked down at the tip of one wing. There a great tawny feather filled the one-time gap. He smiled faintly. Toran nodded to the half-conscious Dawn. “You will fly again,” he said simply. Jeremy nodded, closing his eyes and falling asleep. Shannon stood and moved to a window, her eyes vacant as she stared out at the trees beyond. “What now?” Toran gazed down at Jeremy’s sleeping features for a second. “Fight.” Shannon blinked and looked over at him, her eyes wide. “I though you said...” “Forget what I said,” her brother said calmly. “Yes, I’m tired of fighting. But Night did something to us I can’t forgive. Because of them, Conrad is gone. That makes me a little...crazy.” “Then what do you propose we do?” Toran joined her at the window, brother and sister staring out at the setting sun. “We get to base. And then we use our Night heritage to our keen advantage.” The sun was just dipping below the horizon when Jeremy woke and Osmodius made his appearance. Toran told the cat-man their need to reach Night base. Osmodius watched him carefully throughout his explanation. Jeremy’s wings rustled gently in the background and Shannon sat on the floor, picking at a bunch of grapes. The cat-man turned to look out the window, his golden eyes glittering. “Perhaps it is time to put an end to this war,” he hissed. “I will lead you to the Night base, and then, if circumstances permit, I will help you in your infiltration.” Toran grinned and gripped Osmodius’ hand gratefully. His wings spread wide in barely contained gleeful wrath. “When can we leave?” Osmodius glanced at Jeremy. The Dawn nodded, his face pale and drawn, but his eyes glittering fiercely. “Tonight, if possible,” the cat-man said. Shannon stood and placed a hand on her flute, running a finger beneath her bandanna. Suddenly her eyes were very serious. “Let’s go then.”

The Raven and the Eagle Shannon found Jeremy sitting in a corner, his knees drawn up to his forehead. His eyes glittered in the dark as she approached, but he made no other notice of her. Shannon sat beside him and rested her head against the wall. “You feel guilty,” she said. Jeremy stirred gently. “Not really. But I was wondering, about what the hermit in the forest said. What really did start this war? Why are we fighting? Is it that bad that we had to divide our species into three pieces?” Shannon shrugged. “I was born a Black. I never questioned that the White were evil. I haven’t been able to shake the idea that we are all fools either.” A yell and a clatter from the other room made both of them jump. The fluent swearing that followed made Shannon’s eyes widened. “He’s learned some new ones since I last saw him,” she muttered. “I didn’t think it was possible.” Jeremy made a face. “Is he still cooking?” Shannon chewed on a nail. “It’s what he does when he’s worried. If he doesn’t have a pan when he’s worried, he throws things.” With a decided look upon her face, Shannon stood and moved into the kitchen. Jeremy sighed and followed. Shannon sat on a stool and took out her flute. Jeremy flinched but sat near the window. He looked out into the rain. Beautiful, soothing music drifted through the hut. Conrad, standing nearby shoving rice around a pot, slowed and cocked his head to listen. Toran’s muscles visibly relaxed from where he lay on a bench, one arm thrown across his eyes. He peeked from beneath his elbow at Jeremy, watching him keenly. But even Jeremy seemed to be enjoying himself, despite his past experience with the flute. For a moment, everything seemed alright. Conrad clattered pots and pans full of food onto the table until it was sagging. Jeremy inched forward, his eyes wide as he looked at the copious amounts of food. He drooled as he inhaled heavenly aromas and thought he might just die and go straight to Paradise with a smile on his face. Conrad gestured to the food, his half-closed eyes glittering with frustration. “All I could whip up with so few resources.” He glared at Shannon. “Someone didn’t keep their hut stocked!” Jeremy stared astonished at the huge pots of fried rice and stirred veggies dipped in sweet and sour sauce. A strange, white meat that seemed ready to drip off the bone covered in a scarlet glaze sat in platters, onions and curly pieces of beef garnishing it along the sides. Huge pitchers of tea were crammed among the corners and rolls of bread and stringy vegetables were placed wherever room was available. Nearby a huge cake made the air shimmer with heat. Jeremy sat down heavily with astonishment and Shannon sat next to him with a smile. The Dawn turned shocked eyes upon her. “This is what he does when he’s nervous?” he said. Shannon grinned, picking up a fork. “Eat,” she insisted. Jeremy stared as the other three filled their plates and began to wolf at their food. When they realized their guest was not partaking in the bounty, their forks slowed and they paused. “Why aren’t you eating?” asked Conrad. Jeremy picked up the fork. “I’ve never used a fork before,” he admitted. Toran’s eyes widened. “What do you Dawn use? Your hands?” Jeremy blushed. “Sometimes,” he said. “But most of the time we use kahtchi.” Shannon blinked. “Ca-what?” Jeremy looked around the hut helplessly. “It’s a kind of...well...it’s a sort of a grabby-thingy, like chopsticks...but...” he shrugged. Shannon grinned. “Well, try! We aren’t going to laugh at you.” Toran, through a mouthful of food, said “Much.” Jeremy picked up the fork and stabbed at his plateful of food. A piece of chicken stayed with the prongs and he lifted it to his mouth hesitantly. All three eyes were on him. He paused at their gaze, startled. “Do you have to stare at me?” The chicken plopped off of his fork with a magnanimous squish. For a moment the Night seemed trying hard not to choke. Then they burst out laughing, pounding on what pieces of table they could reach. Jeremy blushed and ducked his head. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll just use my hands.” He picked up a scoopful of rice with deft fingers and popped it into his mouth cleanly. It was delicious. The remnants of the meal lay on the table, and the four companions lay in a stupor about the hut’s kitchen, stomachs bulging. Conrad, already usually sleepy in manner, was nearly unconscious. From where he lay, he flopped an arm in the other three’s direction. “I cooked you clean,” he mumbled in one sentence. Almost at exactly the same time the other three groaned. “You cooked you clean,” Shannon muttered. “It’s your hut!” Conrad whined. “They’re your pots,” Toran grumped. “I’m...so...full! I...can’t...breathe!” Jeremy wheezed. “Fine,” Conrad mumbled. “We’ll...just sleep it off...” With a groan Shannon heaved herself up and pulled out her flute again. She began a small, soothing ditty that made the air heavy and even more sleepy. The fullness of their stomachs subsided. They lay, staring up at the cobwebs of the ceiling, listening to the song. * * * * The Raven was bored. He didn’t like to wait. The rain was subsiding; it would be perfect weather for killing soon. His knives were thirsty, and he was hungry. Why should he wait? He owed nothing to Gale and he had no liking for the little trio down there. The White he would spare...just barely. With a little hop the Raven swept from his perch and landed outside the door. Without knocking, he opened it and entered. They were all nestled in the kitchen, convenient for him, unlucky for them. The music the girl had been playing drifted off on a discordant chord of surprise. Four pairs of shocked eyes stared at him. The Raven swept them all with his scarlet gaze and sniffed. He tapped his nose. “You all give off a very unique smell,” he hissed. “Naughty of you not to wash behind your ears.” Toran stood, tense. “Raven,” he said cautiously. “What are you doing here? As you can see we found Shannon and-“ The Raven cut him off coldly. “Yes, I can see. But can you see? Gale has neither need nor any wish of your ‘talent’ any more. He has ordered me to dispose of you and,” his eyes turned to Jeremy at the window, “retrieve the Dawn.” Shannon leapt to her feet, flute in hand. She began to play a different tune entirely. Short, violent keys slithered up and down scales, darting out here and there. Light began to splinter from her skin in a scarlet and violet pattern. Her eyes were narrowed with concentration. The Raven watched her in mild interest, his neatly sculpted eyebrows lifted if only slightly. Then the earth began to tremble around them. Stones lifted of their own accord. Jeremy leapt from his stool, knocking it back as the rain outside stopped and began to float upwards again. Raw energy pulsed in the air and poured from the flute in music form. The Raven seemed unaffected. He smirked and turned towards Jeremy. Conrad and Toran’s wings spread wide. They both screamed battle cries, hurling themselves at the assassin. His knives came out in flashes of silver, spinning so quickly that they were blurs of light. Two dirks leapt to Toran’s hands, while Conrad pulled a compact rod from his pouch. It spread into a long staff, which he gave an expert twirl. Shannon played on, her own wings spreading and casting dark black light around her body. The light lifted and drifted over to Jeremy, covering him and surrounding him with a barrier of black light. Jeremy held very still, swallowing hard as the music buzzed around him. The Raven dealt blows and blocked hits with ease, seemingly bored with the fight and lazily taking on the two warriors. With a punch of the heel of his hand he sent Toran flying, and he stabbed a knife through Conrad’s ribs with the other. Toran screamed, coughing up blood, as Conrad collapsed to the ground. Shannon’s eyes widened; the Raven turned towards her, his mouth curling into a tiny smile. With a flash of his black wings he disappeared from view. Shannon whirled, still playing, and she backed slowly towards the wall to keep her back covered. The Raven dropped from his position hanging on the ceiling and landed on top of her, sending her flute clattering away. She cried out as her shoulder hit the ground with a strange snap and the black light around Jeremy disappeared. Jeremy spread his wings, preparing to fly and draw the assassin away from his wounded friends, but a knife flew through the air, pinning his wing to the wall behind him. He screamed in agony as another knife whistled through the air and pierced through his other wing. The Raven sauntered forward, eyeing him. “You look like a Dawn,” he sneered. “All day-lit and noble.” Jeremy tried to pull his wings free, but they were pinned fast. He tried to think of something clever to say, but fear and rage wormed its way through his teeth and held his tongue tight. The Raven smirked at him, shrugging the rain still dewed upon his cloak onto the floor. He unpinned one of Jeremy’s wings and shoved his face against the wall. Jeremy’s wrists were pulled behind him and bound with strong twine. Then the second knife was pulled free. Jeremy growled with pain as the Raven tied his wings useless and then shoved him from the hut. The lamp flickered in the wind of the open door and then sputtered out, leaving the three Night on the ground, unmoving. * * * * Shannon didn’t know what time it was when she was stirred. At first she thought she was back in the forest with Jeremy as gentle hands turned her. The same burning pain was there, except this time it was located in her upper shoulder. But no, she thought drowsily, then it was my wing, and we were outdoors. Shannon opened her eyes. Toran looked down at her, his face dirt and tear streaked. Blood was smudged along his jaw and he was bare-chested except for a long linen bandage about his ribs. He smiled weakly when he saw her eyes open. “Awake already sunshine?” he whispered. “How are you feeling?” Tears began to leek hotly down Shannon’s face from the pain. “I think my collar bone is broken,” she whimpered. Toran handed her a wad of rag. Shannon sniffed it and then inhaled deeply. The sleep gas Jeremy had first given her was not anything like Toran’s own mix of lavender, vanilla, and other herbs that made her sleepy. He had made it especially for her as a baby, when she had trouble sleeping since the death of their parents. It worked like a charm. Already she felt drowsy and the pain subsided. Toran’s fingers brushed her collar bone gently. “It isn’t a bad break,” he said. “It will heal in a matter of days.” Helping her sit, he formed a sling for her and gently rubbed avian bone-balm over her shoulder. Shannon was half asleep when she remembered. “Conrad?” Toran swallowed. “He...he was hurt pretty bad. He didn’t make it through the night.” It took a few moments for the news to sink in. Shannon had known Conrad since she was born. He had helped care for her as a baby when she and Toran had suddenly become orphans. Now he was gone...all gone. New tears of pain washed Shannon’s face and she bowed her head. Toran sat next to her heavily, a hand against his eyes to keep the tears at bay. “I buried him,” he whispered hoarsely. “Near the lake where the sky is clear and the cat-tails bloom; I think he would have liked that.” Shannon’s throat was painful with stored tears. “And Jeremy?” she whispered, knowing the answer. “No sign of him. There’s blood on the walls and twine on the floor. Raven must have gotten him.” Shannon shuddered with sobs. “What do we do now?” she whispered. Toran’s eyes glittered with rage as he stared up at the pre-dawn sky. “We say our final goodbyes to Conrad in the morning. Then if you can travel, we go after Jeremy. When we catch him we’ll go find a place where they won’t bother us anymore, maybe with the hermit you told me about. I’m sick of this war, and I’m sick of fighting. The Dawn betrayed us. I don’t stick with traitors.” Shannon’s eyes dried and she stared resolutely forward. Somewhere in her, something else had shifted, snapping within her like the bone in her shoulder. She had lost her parents, her freedom, and now her best friend to this war. She was about to lose her newest friend, and if they had their way, she would lose her brother and her life. Things were going to change; they were going to change very, very fast. * * * * At first Jeremy was only concerned with staying on his feet. The Raven was no slow traveler and the night was slippery with rain. Branches whipped across his face and chest, leaving bloody, painful welts, but the branches seemed to press away from the Raven, as if they abstained from coming near him. His wings bled freely in the moist air, leaving a neat trail of blood. He was beginning to feel weak and faint, despite the huge meal he had eaten earlier. Even though it weighed heavily on his stomach, he refused to regret eating it. A jerk on the leash that attached him to Raven yanked him to a halt. The Raven had his nose in the air, his eyes narrowed as he sniffed the faint breeze. Jeremy didn’t think, he just ran. He started off so violently that the leash was yanked from the Raven’s grasp. Jeremy darted into the trees, weaving and moving hard. He could get up and fly here, he would have to find a clearing, get into the air and... A fist swung out of nowhere and slammed into his stomach. Air and the meal he had consumed earlier fled from his body under the harsh contact. The Raven sneered at him and threw him on the ground. “You think you could have escaped had you gotten into the air?” he asked contemptuously. “Think again. There is nothing that can flee from the Raven. It has never happened. It never will.” Jeremy staggered to his feet. He was in pain, but he felt wide awake. The heaviness of the meal was now gone...all over the forest floor of course, but he felt he could run faster, farther now. Despite the pain, he aimed to try again. He would not give up. The Raven looked amused, his scarlet eyes twinkling in the moonlight. “My brethren are awake at this hour,” he hissed. They can smell your blood. They’re crying out to me to spill it, to provide them a meal.” He cocked his head. “Do you think I should?” Jeremy stared levelly at the assassin. “Do whatever you think your master would approve of.” The Raven grinned. “Oh, I’ve already gone past that. You see, my master only wanted your good friends dead if they failed. A pity I was bored: they might have lived longer had he not sent me. And now he wants you. To what end, I wonder?” Jeremy shivered as the Raven’s laughter sent cold chills down his spines. He told himself that the three who had taken him in were not dead. He had to believe that. A glance at the trees showed him the bright flashing eyes of ravens, watching silently. An owl hooted not too far away. A second owl answered. Jeremy thought he could hear the special throat deepness that distinguished the real sound from the code. “Do you have more friends out here?” the Dawn asked. The Raven grinned, but said not a word. Jeremy ran again. The trees whipped past his face, slapping him and tearing at his clothing. He heard a strange cackling behind him, a whoosh of air as wings beat to lift a body. A clearing presented itself. With a grin of elation Jeremy opened his wings and surged upwards, stretching for the stars and his freedom. The Raven blew in out of nowhere, his huge wings blacker than the sky and blotting out the stars. His eyes glowed eerily out of his shadowed face as he grabbed Jeremy by the shoulder. Jeremy yanked against him, beating his wings powerfully. Suddenly noise erupted from the trees. Ravens and crows of all sizes burst like dry leaves before a tempest from the trees and swirled madly around them. Under their fierce attack, Jeremy could not gain any air, and he was bore down by Ravens. The Raven’s eyes were glittering madly. “Flying, eh?” he said. “We can fix that.” Ravens pinned Jeremy to the ground. He felt the assassin yanking on his wing, feeling for the tip. Seconds before it happened he knew what he was going to do. The Raven gave a huge yank, and then searing pain tore up Jeremy’s wing to his shoulder. He screamed, tears of pain and horror streaming down his cheeks. Chuckling, the Raven stood, holding a huge russet pinion feather. “Pretty,” he said, stroking it down his cheek. He stepped over Jeremy and knelt on his other side. Jeremy struggled. With one pinion feather he had a chance of flying again, by reconstructing the lost pinion from the remaining. But without it his chances were slim at best, none at worst. The Raven caught his wing in strong hands. Jeremy could not pull away. The Raven stroked the feathers, his eyes fixed on Jeremy’s face. He was enjoying the young man’s torture, enjoying it with an inhuman pleasure. He counted down the feathers, chanting in a sing-song voice. “One, two, three, four...” He placed his fingers around the last, largest feather. “Fiiiiive...” He pulled. Jeremy screamed again, the noise carrying over the trees. The ravens scattered, cawing and shrieking loudly. * * * * Shannon jerked awake, her eyes wide. A scream echoed through the trees. Birds hooted and chirped in protest, half-asleep, and then went back to bed. The stars twinkled merrily down at her. Shannon rolled over, wincing as she moved her shoulder. She shook Toran, curled up in his own blanket. “Wake up!” Toran, as was their way since their parents had died, woke silently and completely, his eyes snapping open to fix on Shannon’s face. After a tense moment analyzing their situation, he sat up. “What is it?” “I heard a scream,” Shannon whispered. “I think it was Jeremy.” Toran looked her in the eyes. “Are you absolutely sure? No dreams?” Shannon shook her head. “I heard the dream after I had woken up. Something else woke me...” Toran stood, wrapping his blanket up and stowing it in a small pouch. He pulled out his two long guns and checked them before shoving them back into their pouches. “Let’s go then.”

Eyes in the Wood Rain pattered through the trees, creating a dim cacophony of noise. Everything seemed muted and pressed as if by a cloud. Rain slid down hair and clothing and feathers, dripping incessantly. Two pairs of eyes, one green and one black, peered through the downpour and watched the trees. Conrad stirred and moved his gaze upwards to the clouds. “How much longer is this rain going to hold up?” he growled. “It’s as if someone doesn’t want us to find her!” “Quiet,” Toran muttered. He eyed the footprints that were now dim in the mud near the falls. “Those are hers...” he mused to himself. “But whose are those?” Conrad turned back to look at the footprints. “The one she enchanted with her flute I suspect,” he growled. “No Dawn would knowingly help a Night.” Toran spread his wings and shook the water from them. “They’re not here,” he muttered. “We must continue on.” Conrad stood and shook his own feathers clean. “We have no idea where they are,” he sighed. “Where are we supposed to start?” Toran looked up. “In the skies.” The rain was harder clear of the trees. Wind buffeted their wings and lighting flickered above them. Conrad swooped to dodge a spout of hailstones. “This is suicide,” he yelled above the shrieking winds. “We should continue on foot!” “By then they’ll be so far away we won’t ever catch up!” shouted Toran. “Keep moving!” Suddenly Toran pulled up short, his eyes wide. “I bet I know where she is going,” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about it before!” Conrad’s mouth dropped. “The Cove!” he guessed. Toran grinned and nodded. “We’ll wait for her there. If she needs to hide, that’s where she’ll go. * * * * Shannon sat beneath a makeshift tent and watched the rain. Beside her in the cramped, dry space, Jeremy whittled aimlessly at a piece of wood. Shannon turned to him. “May I play?” she asked, a wry smile twisting her features. Jeremy glared at her flute. “Does it enchant upon your command?” Shannon pulled it out. “It does many things. It only does what I want it to do.” Jeremy turned back to his wood and grunted. Shannon smiled and put the instrument to her lips. At first cool music washed through the clearing, pretty, but lacking that enchanting, pulling tone. Then...something happened. Jeremy looked up slowly and stared, his eyes wide. The rain now fell as if working its way through jelly. The glittering drops hung suspended in the air, slowly, ever so slowly dripping towards the ground. Jeremy reached out and dashed his hand among them. They split and floated outwards at a downward slant, still slow. Jeremy turned and stared at Shannon. “What are you doing now?” The young woman smiled and lowered her flute. The rain sped up and crashed onto the ground, the sound of dripping filling the air again. “The flute can do many things. But its tone is so beautiful that it can even enchant the rain when played with mediocrity.” Jeremy shifted and scratched his shoulder. “You shouldn’t play anymore,” he growled. Shannon stiffened. “And why not?” Jeremy looked up at the sky. “We’re being followed. I felt it this morning.” Shannon stared at him. “And you told me nothing?” “I don’t have to tell you every little thing!” he snapped. “I’m not accountable to you!” Shannon’s eyes glittered. “We’re in this together,” she said quietly, “whether you like me or not. And if someone is following us, I’d like to know!” Jeremy watched her silently. “There are two of them. I haven’t seen them yet. But they’re gaining on us. If we don’t find some place to hide out soon, they’ll catch us.” Shannon eyed the woods around her. “How far do these woods stretch?” Jeremy shrugged. “Until the range. Why?” Shannon nodded absently to herself. “I know a good hiding place.” * * * * Commander Gale watched the radar screen keenly. A younger man, Colonel Key, watched him curiously. Gale smiled and ran a finger along his lips. “Have them activate one Lieutenant Toran’s radar chip,” he commanded smoothly. Key raised his eyebrows. “Sir, how will they find the girl?” he questioned. “That forest is more of a jungle than a wood.” Gale smiled again. “He’s her brother. He’ll find her.” The Colonel grimaced. “But, sir, why send him of all people. We have much better trackers.” Gale turned away from the screen. “She is traveling with a Dawn, yes?” At Key’s nod, Gale’s grin stretched. “I want him to find his sister. And then, when he brings her back here, he’ll bring the Dawn with him. We’ll have a weapon we couldn’t possibly dream of before. If I had sent trackers, they would scare the Dawn, and possibly the girl, away and we’d never find them. No...I want this Dawn. Alive.” Key swallowed and saluted. “Yes sir,” he said. “I’ll see to it their progress is monitored.” * * * * Shannon stepped between the vine branches and smiled. A large lake stretched far to her left. She had never seen the other side. A lovely little hut that Toran had built for her when she was younger, before their involvement in the war, sat at the lake’s shores. Jeremy pushed through the vines behind her and surveyed the area. “No one else knows of this?” he asked. Shannon shook her head. “No one but my brother and my best friend.” Jeremy grunted and looked around. “Well, it is cozy enough.” Shannon led the way towards the hut. She opened the door and froze. Jeremy peered over her shoulder. “I’m assuming you know them?” he growled. Shannon leapt forward into Toran’s embrace. “You knew I’d come here!” she cried out. Conrad stood over a pan of scrambled eggs at the stove. “Yes, I know, I’m just the cook here. No need for any greeting.” As Shannon rushed over to give him a hug, Toran stood and eyed Jeremy up and down. “You’re the White they mentioned,” he said. Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “‘They’? Who exactly is ‘they’?” Toran shrugged. “Base headquarters wanted us to fetch my sister. Her escape is known of, and your dealings in it. Despite the fact that you did so against your own will.” Shannon glanced over at Toran. “He found me after the explosion,” she said earnestly. “I had a broken wing and he splinted it.” Toran eyed the Dawn again, who stared expressionlessly back at him. “Well,” he muttered. “You did take care of my sister in need, despite the fact she is a Night warrior.” Toran stuck out his hand. “So for the time being, I’ll overlook the fact that you’re White.” Jeremy eyed Toran’s hand nervously, and then took it and shook. Shannon grinned. “That’s good,” she said. “I didn’t want to have to enchant you to like each other.” Jeremy glared at Shannon and retreated to the back of the room. Conrad gave the eggs another half-hearted stir. “So...tell us what’s up.” Shannon shrugged. “They didn’t get anything from me,” she said with obvious relief. “You can thank Jeremy there for it again. At the time I couldn’t fly, and enchanted or no, he’s helped me from the beginning.” Toran rubbed his chin, his eyes thoughtful. “Are we taking him back to base?” The silence in the air hung heavy. Shannon glanced at Jeremy. Conrad glanced at Shannon. Jeremy stared steadily forward at Shannon, awaiting the announcement of his fate. Shannon thrust her chin forward. “He’ll do what he wants,” she said firmly. “He’ll tell you that himself.” Toran shrugged and turned to Jeremy. “Well, are you going to keep up with us, or return to your own kind?” Jeremy shivered slightly. “I do not know if my people would welcome me back. I committed treason.” Conrad cocked his head. “Shannon used her flute though. In normal circumstances, you would have done what any White soldier would have.” Jeremy looked away. “That’s the thing. I’m not sure I would have.” Again silence filled the air. Toran looked tense. “How do you mean?” he asked stiffly. Jeremy shrugged. “Interrogation methods can be harsh. I’ve seen it done and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy’s dog. I certainly didn’t want to have to watch Shannon interrogated, especially when she had sworn so hard against it. I think it truly would kill her. If worse had come to worse, I would have freed her.” Toran stared at the Dawn and shot a swift glance Shannon’s way. The surprise on her face revealed that even she had not picked up this turn of events. Not surprising, Toran thought in amusement. She took it into her hands before he could act. Toran turned to Jeremy. “Again I am thankful that you were there,” he said. “Had Shannon still been in their grasp when I found them...” he trailed off, casting Shannon a glance. “Well, I would not have been able to carry out my own orders.” Shannon smiled faintly. “I would never expect you to,” she said. She glanced at Jeremy. “So you will join us?” Jeremy hesitated, staring at the emblem of Dawn on his jacket sleeve. Biting his lip until it bled, he nodded slowly. * * * * Commander Gale sat easily in a large chair at the head of the conference table. The room was dim and only one shadow filled a chair down the right side. The slight flashing of a twirling knife flickered at the Commander’s gaze and irritated him, but he kept his annoyance at bay. The shadows stretched long legs up onto the table and turned wide, vibrant red eyes to the Commander. Light from the dipping sun washed across his face. Gaunt skin that looked as if he had been shoving arsenic down his throat glittered strangely in the sun, and strands of his hair was pulled into two low locks, one dangling beside his right eye, rimmed in violet paint, the other at the back of his head. The rest of his hair was cut just below his jaw-line, glittering in obsidian sheen. A violet slash of ink cut along his left cheek, accenting his high cheekbones and noble features. Huge dark wings of pure darkness curved along his back and he twirled his knife easily along his fingers. “Well what is it you wanted?” his deep rasping voice questioned. Gale swallowed slightly and leaned forward, gazing into a glass of amber alcohol. He drained it with one swallow. “If the two should fail in their quest for the girl, they all must be eliminated. I can trust the Raven to take care of this?” The knife flashing in the darkness stopped and the Commander winced as the shadow pierced his own finger with the keen blade, licking the blood from the tip. “It will be a pleasure,” he said softly. “The Raven has been hungry for a long time.” Gale leaned back, unease stirring in his chest. “Only if they fail now. I don’t want you killing them all before they have a chance to return. And bring the Dawn to me.” The Raven gave him a stare that said nothing before he stood, towering very well above six feet and rail thin. His long black coat drifted about his frame and he shoved his fingers in his pockets, sheathing his knife so quickly that at first Gale didn’t know where it had gone. Silently, as a shadow, the Raven slipped from the room. * * * * It was raining again. The four new acquaintances stayed deep inside the hut, a small fire lighting the windows with gold. On a tree outside, watching with a scarlet gaze, hovered the Raven. His hair fell dripping into his eyes and his many knives glittered in the faint moonlight. “Tick tock tick tock,” he muttered. “Just you wait, my knife will drop...”

The Prisoner and the Scout Shannon stirred and the bag was whipped off of her head. She was tied to a chair, sitting at a steel table in a white room. Panic began to fill her breast and she felt as if she were about to burst. She began to hyperventilate. Pain lanced across her left wing but she ignored it as she struggled. She began to scream. She lifted her legs and kicked the table across the room, writhing in her bonds. Outside the room, two Dawn watched her through a one way window. One was tall with white hair and blue eyes, his silver wings tucked tightly against his body. The other had russet hair and wings, and watched the girl with miserable golden eyes. The taller man turned to Jeremy. “You say she fell from the transport we apprehended two days ago?” Jeremy nodded and turned away from her. The sight of a table full of interrogation tools made his skin crawl and a surprising sensation of guilt filled him. “May I go in to her, General?” The General shrugged. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. Just be careful.” Jeremy shrugged and opened the door. Shannon looked up as Jeremy entered the room, watching her sadly. Enraged, she spat on the ground at his feet, still struggling with her bonds. “Happy now, Dawn?” Jeremy stared at the spit on the ground. “Not really, no. I told you not to run. I said you would be captured, but you didn’t listen.” Shannon relaxed, panting hard and glaring at him. “What are you going to do to me?” Jeremy shrugged. “They’ll want to know what you know,” he muttered, looking at the wall. “I can’t stop them and neither can you. They’ll find out where the Night base is, whether you want them to or not.” Jeremy shook his head. “I told you not to run,” he muttered. Jeremy stared down at the young woman as she fell limp in her chair, her hair falling around her face. Her shoulders heaved with sobs and she shivered violently. “Please,” she begged. “Please...just give me back my flute...” Jeremy frowned and cocked his head to the side. “Flute?” Shannon gazed up at him through a misty gaze of tears. “My flute. They took it from me. Give it back and let me play, that’s all I beg of you!” Jeremy turned and gazed at the wall where the window was. Though he could not see it, he knew the General was searching into the mysterious ‘flute’. Moments later the door opened and a Dawn entered, holding a long, slender, silver flute. Shannon gazed at her instrument eagerly, straining forward in her bonds, her eyes wide. Jeremy swallowed hard at the yearning and pain in her eyes. He bent and untied her hands, but left her legs bound to the chair. “Give it to her,” he said softly. “And leave.” The Dawn cast him a nervous glance and then handed the instrument to the trembling girl. She took the flute in her fingers and touched it reverently. “For you,” she muttered in a cold voice. She placed the flute to her lips and, with her eyes fixed upon Jeremy, began to play. Jeremy felt frozen in time. The notes trembled and wavered about his head, filling his senses. He did not see the ropes untie themselves from her legs, did not really notice when she stood close to him. Vaguely he heard shouts from without and banging on a suddenly locked door. How dare they disrupt such beautiful music...he thought, but the notes wiped the angry thoughts from his mind. He stared into Shannon’s dark eyes as she coiled one arm about his neck, still playing one-handed. She paused the notes, leaving Jeremy disjointed and confused. “How do we get out?” she whispered, the music still lingering in the air and on her lips. She spread her still usable wing wide. “Lead me and I’ll play again.” Jeremy nodded faintly. “If you’ll play,” he murmured. He wrapped his arms around her and launched himself up with a stroke of his powerful wings. The ceiling gave way before them, a flimsy fort in the middle of the forest, and then they were soaring above trees. Miles away and safe behind a large waterfall, Jeremy set Shannon down and looked at her earnestly. “Play,” he begged. Shannon smiled and clapped her hands twice, placing her flute in its belt-loop. Jeremy blinked and looked about him vaguely. Then his eyes fell upon the flute and his face hardened with dark rage. “You...you bewitched me!” he snarled in anger, his fists clenching at his sides. Shannon’s face went cold and she sat down on a rock. “I did what I had to do for my own survival. Don’t take it personally.” Jeremy’s face twisted with wrath. “You just made me commit treason!” he screamed. “I’m a traitor to my own people!” Shannon shrugged. “Then you won’t have any trouble guiding me out of this forest. The sun doesn’t make sense and my directions are thrown off course.” Jeremy sat down hard, his face pale. “They’ll be hunting both of us.” Shannon’s eyes glittered. “I know.” * * * * Jeremy sat silent and brooding staring at the water falling before them. Shannon unwrapped her wing and stretched it gently. The bones had mended, but the wing itself was still frail. She flapped it gently, exercising it to help it build its strength. She looked over at Jeremy. “Can you help me?” she asked. The Dawn turned and cast her a distant look. His face looked grey and sickly, and then he stood and took hold of her wing. He stretched it out and helped Shannon tuck it close and then draw it again, massaging and pulling it. Shannon winced and then Jeremy’s hand was dangerously close to her throat. Shannon froze, watching him. The Dawn stared at her with a confused, troubled look. “What have you done?” he whispered. “Are you still hexing me?” Shannon shook her head softly. “That spell has been broken long ago,” she whispered. “What’s wrong?” Jeremy looked out at the water again. “The guards of my people must be hunting then,” he breathed. “I can feel their search crushing down on me and filling me.” He glared at Shannon. “We cannot stay here. Can you fly?” Shannon stood slowly and stretched her wings wide. “I think so.” Jeremy exited the waterfall, Shannon close behind. The Dawn stared up at the sky. “We’ll have to be discreet,” he muttered. “They may not search the skies because of your wings, but there will be guards everywhere. Do you know where your base is?” Shannon nodded. “You wish to go there?” The Dawn snorted. “I’ll be no safer there than anywhere else. But I’ll go with you. You deserve my trouble after what you did.” Jeremy led the way, his wings spread wide to catch the hot air drafts that would carry them north and west. With a rope tied around her waist in case her wings failed, Shannon floated neatly below, wincing with each beat of her wings. The sound of whistling wind in their ears was eerily quieting, and an enemy seemed to hide behind every nimbus and storm cloud. Jeremy spoke not a word, his eyes scanning the horizon. Every now and then he wheeled in one direction or another, until Shannon could not tell north from south or east from west. The sun rode high in the sky and then dipped low until it became a tiny sliver. Still they flew. Shannon’s wings stopped beating and she tucked them tightly to her body. Jeremy grimaced and gripped the rope tightly in his hands, heaving her higher. He rolled swiftly in the air, coiling the rope about his chest until Shannon was no longer dangling fifty feet below him. Setting his teeth, the White flew on. Shannon woke no longer listening to the howl of the wind and the gentle sweep of Jeremy’s wings. The leaves rustled around her head and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. There was no sign of the Dawn. For one frantic moment Shannon wondered if he had abandoned her. Then a crunch in the forest behind her announced his presence, much like their last meeting. Shannon turned and watched as he carried in two rabbits, eyeing her sourly. “Dinner,” he announced, throwing them on the ground. “Do you prefer them medium, or well-done?” The sarcasm in his voice was evident. Shannon frowned, feeling her scalp prickle with rage. “Don’t be snide,” she snapped. “You could have left me in the woods to fend for myself. I’d probably be back at base by now!” Jeremy snorted. “With a broken wing and no sense of direction? Right!” Shannon tossed her hair behind her shoulder, scratching under the rim of her bandana. “I’m high rank in the Night,” she snarled protectively. “I can take care of myself!” Jeremy shook his head and sat down to skin the rabbits. Shannon wrapped her arms around her knees, watching him silently as his knife flashed expertly over the skins. “Where are we?” she asked. “About twenty miles from the range,” was the short reply. “We should be there by tomorrow morning if we leave after dinner.” Shannon shivered and set about poking dry twigs into a pile. Using flint against her flute, she struck a spark and coaxed it into a flame. She caught Jeremy’s infuriated glare at her instrument, and she blew a few notes, her eyes glittering wickedly. Jeremy spat on the ground and cast her another glare. “Some night I’m going to throw that thing into the woods,” he snarled. “If you don’t keep it in your pocket and silent!” Shannon made a face at him and thrust the flute into her belt loop. “You’re just being silly now.” Jeremy chucked a pile of bloody skins at her. “You enchanted me with that thing!” he growled softly. “Be glad I’m helping you at all!” Shannon picked a piece of skin from her hair and eyed it. “If you don’t want to help me,” she muttered, “then leave.” Jeremy paused, his back tight. Shannon watched him keenly, wondering if he would accept the offer to cut ties with her. He sighed and shook his head, eyeing her in turn. “Do you want me to leave?” he whispered. “Unless you had forgotten, which I consider quite unlikely, it’s because of you that I have no home anymore.” Shannon picked up a rabbit and thrust it on a stick. “Help me cook these.” Jeremy cocked his head, listening to the trees. “We have to be careful,” he muttered. “There are eyes in these woods.” “Yes,” a sibilant voice in the trees hissed. “And I think you might have stumbled upon one.” Jeremy leapt to his feet as a man walked from the woods. Shannon shrank back, tucking her wings in tight and putting a hand to her flute. But the man did not seem interested. He sat down on a log and stared at the flames. He was thin and lean, covered in a small layer of dirt as if he frequented the woods often. His wings were mottled white and black and he wore a fox tail lashed to the back of his belt. His face was covered by a white mask, painted with a widely grinning, sharp-toothed mouth. Tiny red swirls accented brow, cheeks, and nose. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and eyed the two before him. “A little jumpy, aren’t you? Are you going to share your dinner with your guest?” Jeremy sat down warily, and Shannon followed, still keeping her hand on her flute. The man eyed the two of them keenly. “You need have no fear of me. I’m not a guard for either side.” Jeremy frowned. “You have no side in this matter?” The man barked with laughter. “No. Where would I fit?” He spread his wings wide and grinned. “Dawn versus Night, light against dark, sun turned from moon...I belong in neither of these. I prefer neither light nor dark, and I am awake at all times. If I sleep, it is when I am tired, not when the sun goes up or down.” Shannon frowned. “What are you talking about? What does that have to do with the war?” The man cocked his head at her in surprise. “You mean you don’t know?” he asked in amazement. Clapping his hands together, he laughed again. “That’s rich! None of you know why you’re fighting!” Jeremy crossed his arms. “Well would you like to tell us?” he asked in a clipped voice. “Exactly why are we fighting?” The man stroked his chin, staring into the fire. “A long time ago, an Aronian of the night skies and one of the day met, through bizarre and random circumstances, and in the end, killed each other. Their argument is neither known nor is it documented, but the fight has been brooding ever since. Thirty years ago, when this bloody war began, something happened that brought the old fight back. Those who ruled the daytime skies joined one side, those who ruled the nocturnal life the other, calling themselves Dawn and Night. Those who are in the middle, neither nocturnal nor day-lit, nor predator, stay hidden and out of sight. Like me for instance. I just sit here and laugh at you all!” Shannon glared at the man. “Who are you?” The man tapped the mask where his nose would be. “Food’s not cooking fast enough. I believe I’ll take my leave. The less you know of me, the less you can tell when one side or the other catches you. And trust me, you’re not welcome anywhere any more. They’re calling one a traitor, the other a deserter.” Shannon’s hands were white as she clenched them into fists. “That’s not true,” she snapped. “Our ship was attacked and I was wounded. And I bewitched Jeremy here. He’s not a traitor!” The man stood and melted into the darkness. “Tell them that when they catch you,” he whispered. Soon all they could hear was the crackling of the flames. Jeremy shook his head as if to clear it. “Come on,” he grunted. “The food is ready.” * * * * Toran and Conrad walked briskly down a clean hall, their eyes haunted and thoughtful. The loss of the Lieutenant’s sister had hit him hard, and Conrad had been more than a friend. Their motions and duties were half-hearted and listless, and their commanders could do nothing with them. Pattering footsteps down the hall made them turn. A messenger, panting hard, approached them and handed them a slip of paper. Toran opened it and sighed. “Commander Gale wants us,” he muttered. “Wonderful...” Conrad glanced at the messenger through half-closed eyes. “Scat,” he growled. The young boy jumped and ran the other direction. In a few moments Commander Gale’s office door presented itself to them. They were ushered in by a pale-faced soldier, who eyed them warily. Commander Gale was a tall, emaciated man with slightly golden hair cut jaggedly about his head. His face was hawkish and his eyes predatory, his wings huge and golden with black bands. The Commander gestured to two chairs and leaned against his table once they were seated. “We have had news from one of our plants in the Dawn territory. There has been word that an intruder of the Night intelligence was found, and then proceeded to escape with one of their scouts who was enchanted by a flute.” Toran’s hands were white as he gripped the chair arms. “That’s Shannon!” he gasped hoarsely. Gale nodded gravely. “Aye, but it’s unlikely she’ll make it here safely. I want you two to enter the territory and find her! Bring her back before she’s caught again. If it happens that you find her and she is unable to follow you back, you know what to do.” Toran gaped and went as pale as death. “Commander...she’s my own sister...I could never...” The Commander glared at him with steely eyes. “Then Conrad will do it. Either way you know your duty, and she knows hers. This is a war we are fighting. We cannot afford any of our plans to be infiltrated, even if it means that you have to sacrifice some key pieces of the chess-board. Do not fail me!” Conrad and Toran stood, bowed sharply, and exited the room, walking perhaps faster than was protocol. Toran leaned against the wall outside the office. “We have to get her back alive,” he said. “Before anything else happens and the trackers start looking!”

Long ago in the land of Aro a race respectable and old with time began to war amongst each other. The winged humans separated into two groups: the Night and the Dawn. Their brutal fighting filled the skies with individual dog-fights, speeding assassins, and huge war planes that could fit a whole army. Their destruction and hatred seeped through the land and affected all whom it touched. The Night began to transport their new technology over the Dawn in a daring attempt to gain the upper hand and surround them. An Attack Gone Wrong The huge steel warplane thrummed as it floated slowly over the dulled cities that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars twinkled coldly around its clock-like face. Two tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the cities below. Large dark wings were folded against their backs, the silky feathers dancing in the breeze. The young woman adjusted her black bandanna and stared grimly down at the cities. Her hair was black and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her bandanna. She wore a long-sleeved netted shirt with a loose vest around her chest. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a silver flute was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver loop pierced through one of her ears and turned her dark eyes to the tallest young man. “How much longer, Lieutenant?” she asked in a bell-like voice. The young man smiled grimly. His skin was as pale as the moon above them, his face as open. Black hair hung in sharp locks about his face and he tugged on a strand aimlessly. His jacket of office was also black and his pants neatly pressed and cleaned. He too wore a small silver loop pierced in his ear. “An hour, half and hour maybe.” The other young man, a boy with silvery hair and pale green eyes framed by red tattoos, looked over at the Lieutenant. His sleepy, half-closed gaze made him always look off his guard, but it was a façade he was pleased to see work again and again. “Where are we going?” The Lieutenant pulled out a sheaf of papers. He scanned it with his obsidian eyes. “Just over the range and thirty miles northwest. The others will be waiting for us.” The young girl looked behind them into the shadows of the cargo hold with a small smile. “Maybe we should just drop it on top of them now. Why wait?” The Lieutenant cast her a sharp look. “We have orders, Shannon. Of course they deserve it, but if you want to keep your skin you’ll stay to the rules. Conrad here knows that.” Conrad grinned, his eyes glittering. “You want to see some scars?” he asked eagerly. Shannon wrinkled her nose. “No thanks. I have plenty of my own.” Conrad looked at her with innocent eyes. “Ooh where? Show me!” The Lieutenant punched him on the arm, his eyes hard. “Quit flirting. She’s my sister and you're being too loud.” Conrad rubbed his arm ruefully. “Why are you so tense, Toran?” Shannon peered down at the cities. “It’s being so close to the Dawn.” She spat contemptuously through the door. “It makes him itchy.” Toran shifted uncomfortably. His eyes glinted in the darkness. “We’ll get them soon enough,” he whispered Suddenly the plane rocked wildly and red lights flared in the darkness, lighting up the cargo bay behind them. Toran grabbed his sister’s arm to balance her and Conrad fell on the ground heavily. Sirens began to blast from below them and deep within the city. Toran swore extravagantly. “We’ve been spotted!” An intercom blasted on. “The Dawn are attacking! Repeat, we are under attack!” The plane heaved again and sparks flew as the room behind them lit up. Conrad stared openmouthed as flames crept towards the huge black orb sitting tied to the ground. Toran grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the door. “Jump!” he screamed, shoving his sister and the young man through the door. He followed between them. The three snapped their wings open and began a swift plummet towards the ground, dodging the lasers and huge missiles that speared upwards at the plane above. A huge explosion hit the air and they spiraled crazily. Metal and scraps fell around them. Conrad and Toran dodged wildly, but Shannon was hit by a huge sheet of metal. She cried out and began to fall, her wings stretching askew. Toran screamed and shot after her, Conrad quick behind in an effort to catch her. An explosion filled their ears and a laser shot just before them. The two pulled up hard in an effort not to run afoul of the red line, and by the time their vision had cleared, Shannon was nowhere in sight. Toran swore again, tears on his cheeks, and Conrad’s eyes were wide. Both were panting with adrenalin and horror. Toran swiped the tears from his cheeks and glared downwards. “Come on, we have to get to base.” They turned and soared off, becoming black specks against the moon. * * * * Shannon didn’t move. She didn’t think she could if she had wanted to. Her body was oddly detached from the rest of her and her head throbbed enough as it was. She groaned slightly as waves of pain assailed her eyes and she felt like she was going to vomit. A gentle hand touched her arm, very far away in her mind, and rolled her onto her side as she retched. Cool fingers touched her brow and one of her wings. Sharp fire rolled up her shoulder and she screamed, jerking away from their grip. She opened her eyes. A bright light seared against her eyes and she shut them quickly. The red on her lids faded and she opened her eyes hesitantly. A body swam into focus and she blinked rapidly to make out a male’s worried face. His eyes were golden in color and he had russet brown hair. His face was sharp and his cheeks high-boned. He gently placed a gloved hand on her cheek. His cold fingers made her skin tickle and she jerked away. “Where am I?” she growled. The young man frowned, raising one eyebrow, and turned away. “Your left wing was broken when you fell. I am trying to set it, but you’re resisting the sleep gas. Please don’t fight. If I don’t fix it now, you’ll never fly again.” The realization of her situation hit her hard. Shannon closed her eyes and took a deep breath to clear her mind. “Who are you?” She looked at the young man again. He poured a clear liquid onto a plain white cloth and let it soak for a moment. “My name is Jeremy.” He helped her to sit up a little and pressed the cloth against her mouth and nose. “Breathe deeply.” Shannon obeyed, letting the pungent fumes fill her senses. She kept her eyes on the man before her, watching him cautiously as her mind fogged and her lids dropped. She felt him lean her against the ground again and turn her over. Hands were on her wing but she barely felt them, and then she let the blackness take her. She woke again much later. The sky was pink with dawn and the grass rustled gently in a morning breeze. She felt stiff and sore. Slowly she sat up and looked around her. Her left wing was splinted and wrapped tightly. A campfire, still smoking, lay in the center of the clearing. A lantern lay beside it, and a pack of necessities. But the young man who had tended her was nowhere to be seen. Slowly Shannon stood and shrugged her wings tightly against her body. She wouldn’t be flying again for a while. Footsteps crunching in the brush made her whirl and she crouched low in a defensive position. Her memories sharpened and she realized she was still in Dawn territory. Jeremy appeared from the woods, carrying a bundle of dry sticks. He paused as he eyed her. “Are you feeling alright?” he asked. Shannon slowly relaxed, folding herself onto the ground. “Yes.” She watched him build a fire for a few moments. “Where am I?” Jeremy swallowed and glanced at her. “Dawn territory. But I assume you know that.” As he turned, Shannon gasped to see he had bronze wings folded across his back, their russet feathers catching the sun’s rays and glowing in the dawn. “You’re Dawn!” she exclaimed. Jeremy shrugged. “I am in Dawn territory. I’m on guard duty; who knew that a Night would fall right into my camp?” Shannon leapt to her feet, but Jeremy shook his head. “It’s no use,” he said sadly. “If you tried to run, I could catch you before you got far. And I wouldn’t hesitate to break your other wing in the process. I don’t want to do that. So just sit down and have some breakfast.” Shannon sat, trembling, and watched as he made oatmeal. “So I’m your prisoner?” she asked in a shaking voice. Jeremy shrugged again wordlessly. He handed her a bowl of oatmeal. The food was good, hot, and full of raisins and nuts. Shannon ate gratefully, but the meal sat heavily in her stomach and turned to dread. What was she going to do? Conrad and Toran probably thought her dead and had gone on to base. Now she was a hostage, a liability to her own people. The best thing would be to escape, and when escape was not possible... She couldn’t let them bring her to an interrogation site. She would die first. She glared hard at the Dawn. “What are you going to do with me?” Jeremy looked her over slowly. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I assume you would kill yourself before letting me take you to base. So I don’t know what the use would be. But I can’t let you return to your own base.” Shannon began to shake again. Would he try to interrogate her himself? “Why not?” Jeremy cast her a rueful look. “You know the answer to that,” he snapped. “It’s war.” He looked sadly at the rising sun. “I just don’t know,” he muttered. Shannon sat miserably at the corner of the camp and watched as Jeremy sharpened a long blade. Her position was futile and horrid. What she was going to do, she didn’t know. She cast a look at the thick forest to her right. If she ran there, Jeremy wouldn’t be able to follow her on wing. She cast her captor a glance. He stayed intent upon his blade. In a flash she was on her feet and running into the trees. She heard a clatter behind her and a sweep of wings, but she kept running forward, panting in harsh gasps of fear. She leapt over logs and darted around rocks, splashing over a small brook and through a brunch of willow branches. A shadow appeared over her and she cried out as a huge winged object landed on top of her. Jeremy’s face was tight with anger and pain. A long cut traced down the side of his face, his chin was bloodied, and he held one of his wings awkwardly against his side. He had flown into the trees after her anyway. “Why did you run?” he snapped. “I told you not to!” Shannon grinned wildly at him. “Go on! Break my wings! It would be just like a Dawn!” A stricken look crossed Jeremy’s face and he let her drop to the ground. He turned away and sat down on a rock. “Run then,” he muttered. “See how far you get. And then you’ll wish you had stayed out here.” Shannon ignored him and darted into the trees again. She ran until the sun was deep on the horizon and the shadows were growing cold and long in the forest. She sat on a large rock, panting. She glanced around her. No sign of the sun, no direction. She cursed softly and rubbed her forehead, running a finger along the edge of her bandanna. Suddenly a bag was shoved over her head. She screamed and kicked, but hands gripped her limbs tightly and picked her up. Something hard crashed into the back of her head and she fell limp.

Yvain and Gawain followed the druid and Gavid down the valley towards the settlements nearest here. When the trees had parted, Yvain inhaled sharply, and Gawain's eyes snapped with rage. Before them spread miles of ruined land, torn down trees, and smoldering ruins. The dead lay everywhere, from the old to the young. Not far from where they stood, Gawain could see a baby hacked to pieces lying near its similarly treated mother. His throat tightened with grief and disbelief. "Saxons," he muttered. Gavid leaned on his horse's saddle. "They've cut a bloody path along the coast, all the way from the North Monastery to here. We've managed to hold them against the Boar Mountains, but...as you can see we cannot stop them for long." Yvain turned to stare at the general. "They attacked the monastery?" he whispered. Gavid grimaced. "Killed the monks while they prayed. I've never seen such slaughter. Even the little apprenticed boys and nuns that were there weren't spared. They burned the whole thing down, and then moved on to the villages. I swear I won't sleep for a month, I've seen so many dead children. Their motto is 'never leave a man, woman, or child alive that can carry a sword'. Every now and then the Fey have intervened when they edged too close to the forests, keeping them from moving inland, but they haven't lifted a finger to stop this carnage." They moved their horses through the wreckage, taking in the horror of it all. Here and there fires still burned, and not far a house's roof fell in as the supporting beams gave way to the conflagration. A large pile of dead were burning at the center of the town. Gawain shook his head. "How could they be driven to do this?" he muttered. The druid looked pale, and he shook his head. "That's not the worst of it. A lone survivor ran to us, told us how they killed babies in front of their mothers and then raped the women and daughters in front of their husbands and fathers before killing them. Slowly. They killed sons and daughters before the parents, anything to torture them mentally before torturing them physically. I swear, when I get my sword into them..." Gawain turned to stare at the trees. He knew they could see him watching him. You see this? he thought. You did not prevent this. You did not care. Yvain looked on the verge of murder, his eyes wide and slightly glassy with tears. "Then let's not wait any longer," he growled. Slowly, the four of them turned their horses away from the massacre and moved back to the camp. * * * * Yvain and Gawain sat motionless on their mounts at the top of the hill. Mist from the Boar mountains swooped down the slopes like great animals, drifting forward to envelope them. Yvain could not stop a strange, slow smile from spreading over his face, a smile only his comrade in arms knew. "The mist will cover us well," he said, his hand on his blade. Gawain glanced behind him. Already the fog was inching around the Fey horde. There was a reason a good number of the more human-shaped Fey painted their skin with faded blue coloring. As the mist roiled around them, they disappeared into the dense blue-grey coverage, ready to attack. The knight grunted and turned back to look at the shore. Lazily he made a rough count of warriors. "It looks to me like well over forty score. That's a great number of fighters." Yvain stretched his jaw, his eyes lighting up, and he stroked a finger down one of the tattoos on his face. It glowed pleasantly at his touch and he could not help but baring his teeth in a wild grin. "I almost pity them." "Almost," was the cool reply. Not far from them, the dark-haired druid and Gavid stood with Lathr, watching the knights converse. "Is it really them?" Lathr asked. The druid did not take his eyes from them, but Gavid glanced at the Fey horde that had been swallowed up by the advancing mist. He felt a cool tendril of the fog touch his cheek and he shivered. "The Fey army should be enough evidence for you," the druid said. "And even if that is not, their horses and their blades are enough for me. As for their legendary powers, I can see it living in their very skin. I almost look forward to this battle to see what they can do." Lathr grunted. "Shedding blood, no matter how deserving it is, is never something to look forward to." The druid shrugged. "I am not a warring man, commander. I merely stated that their powers have been held at bay for a century. I am sure they are eager to take some revenge for their pains." Indeed, as he said it, the Saxon army took form and roared a challenge at the armies of Kilcad. Lathr saw the knights glance at each other knowingly. The mist swallowed them up. Lathr grunted. "Assemble the men. I think it's about to get very hot." Gavid bowed. "Yes, commander." The armies faced each other on the green grasses of Kilcad. A young boy, no older than 16, clutched his spear nervously, regretting ever lying about his age. A veteran beside him clasped his shoulder. "Don't fear lad," he said. "It'll be over soon." The young boy stared up at him, his face pale and sweat stained. The Saxons had begun to move forward, their chanting and drum beating shaking the earth. Their march turned to a run, and then a charge. The young boy whirled as two war cries split the air, entwined so perfectly they sounded like one voice. Upon the hill behind them, two knights upon to great horses held their blades aloft, their destriers rearing onto their hind legs. Behind them, a massive army of Fey screeched their approval. The knights urged their horses forward, and they charged down the hill towards the Saxons. "What are they doing?" the veteran muttered. "They'll be slaughtered." Suddenly the knight with the white hair drew his blade and began to whirl it about his head. A keening wail filled the air, and the Saxons ahead of them faltered, some screaming and falling to their knees. The scarlet-armored knight drew his own weapon and thrust it at the sky. Lighting snapped from the clouds and mist boiled forward, taking the shapes of ethereal ghosts. The Saxons screamed, and some stumbled back, only to be killed by their comrades who dumped their bodies off their blades in disgust. And then the knights had charged through the armies of Kilcad and were upon the Saxons. The Saxons could not see the knights through the fog. They held their swords and bows ready, but they could never be ready for the thunder that hit them. Feet from them, the knights would explode into sight, pounding down upon them. Fey leapt from everywhere, dragging some Saxon warriors into the ground. Some hugged a Saxon tight and then morphed into trees, trapping the Saxon forever. All over the battle field, plants, animals, and even stones were appearing. Suddenly Yvain was thrown from his horse. A great beast of a man, nearly seven feet tall, slammed into Turrien and made the horse stumble. Yvain rolled to his feet, hefting his sword and drawing a dagger, screaming a challenge. The Saxon laughed at him, swinging down a huge double-headed axe. Yvain danced nimbly aside, slicing through the axe's blades as though they were pieces of butter. The Saxon stared at his cloven blade stupidly for a moment before rushing the knight with a roar of rage. Even when Yvain's sword pierced him through, he bore the knight to the ground. Yvain screamed as something sharp pierced his side, but he shoved the Saxon off of him with as much strength as he could muster. He held a hand to his back and felt blood flow over it. With a grunt he put his fingers to his chin, as if picking at one of his tattoos. The golden ink peeled from his skin like wax, and spread into a great web of ink. Wincing, he pressed it against his side and it flowed into the wound, meshing over it and in it like new skin, mending both his flesh and his armor. Yvain punched himself in the chest and growled, standing up. He screamed his war cry at the heavens, setting out to find another Saxon. Gawain was surrounded by warriors, but none of them seemed eager to advance. The dark-haired knight held his slightly curving blade angled across his body, his piercing violet eyes fixed on the Saxons around him. A circle of dead surrounded him where foolish warriors had attacked. Then, almost lazily, he held up his sword and muttered in an inaudible voice. Great warriors of ghostly features leapt from the ground. They swirled around Gawain in a cyclone, wailing a dirge of the dead. The Saxons screamed as Gawain glared at them from behind their ghostly forms, and then they set upon the Saxons with brutal finality. Gawain walked out of the collapsing circle calmly. The sun broke through the mist, dazzling the land with light. Yvain saw a young boy trapped under the body of an older man, slain by a Saxon. The knight pulled the body off of the boy and lifted him to his feet. "And what are you doing here?" he asked, not unkindly. The young boy stared shakily at the dead man beside him. "He saved me," he whispered. "He would have lived through this fight if it hadn't been for me. But he moved in front of me...I didn't ask him to." Yvain looked down at the dead man and felt something deep in him shift. "No. We never do ask them to do it for us. They die for us and we never wanted them to." For a moment he paused. "But then, we must honor them for their sacrifice. Now, go find a Fey to look after you." The young boy nodded and, still shaking, moved swiftly across the battle field. Yvain watched him go for a bit and then looked about him. The battle was ending, faster than it had begun. The Fey Lord swept up to him from out of nowhere, his eyes glittering. You and your brother have saved Kilcad. Yvain grunted. "At great cost." He looked about them, saw the dead littering the ground. More Saxons were there than Kilcad warriors, but it did little to comfort him. Gawain stepped out of the mists, the green fog of ghosts trailing back into his sword. Behind him Turrien and Harfor stood shoulder to shoulder, covered in blood not their own. Over Harfor's back was slung a soldier who was groaning. Gawain sheathed his sword with a snap and looked over at the battle field. "It is over. Kilcad will lie safely again." * * * * Yvain sat before a small fire of sandalwood and lavender branches, staring into the distance. Behind him, Gawain stood watch. "I miss you," Yvain whispered. "I must go on in this life, a century of my true time laid behind me." Yvain pressed his fingers to his head and heart. "I will go on for you," he said. "And when it is my time to die, I will join you." Gawain bowed his head in respect for the dead. Then, in almost an afterthought, he drew his sword. Resting its tip on the ground he called softly. A pearly blue smoke floated from the blade and touched Yvain's shoulder. Yvain turned and looked up into the face of the ghost. He did not smile, but a little of the pain left his face. Gawain sheathed his sword and the smoke faded. "One can not truly bring back the dead," he whispered. "Only shades of their former selves. One day, it will be as you say, and you will be together again." * * * * Yvain and Gawain knelt before Lathr and the Lord and Lady of the Fey. Lathr bowed to them. "You have rescued us even when you were set against great adversity. You saved us again when before it caused you only grief. Our debt to you is unreachable. We can only begin to repay you." The Lord and Lady stepped forward, crowns of willow branches and silver in their hands. The Lord smiled, a strange occurrence that made him appear as a spring tree. Gawain, Knight of Minerin. You have earned your place among the Fey ten-times over with your bravery and your stead-fast courage. Our debt to you is strong. Rise, a Knight of the Fey. He set the crown upon Gawain's dark hair. The Lady looked deep into Yvain's eyes. "Despite adversity and great personal loss, you stood for what was right. When none other than your brother stood beside you, you never once looked back. Your flag will ripple on the wind for the next centuries to come. Rise, a Knight of the Fey." She set the crown upon Yvain's white hair, and the Knights stood. Light poured from their armor and the grass around them blossomed with tiny white flowers. The Fey screamed their approval and the warriors of Kilcad thrust their weapons into the air with a shout. The trees of the forest in the distance waved in the wind. Far over the forests and into the mountains, two hawks of white and black flew to the sun, their wild cries forming a melody on the wind. Below them, two horses ran, their strong muscles carrying them across the lush green grasses of Kilcad and far into the west. The End

Ivy I remember the night I left the calm of the cabin. It was full moon, and the silvery eye cast her glow, cold and distant, across the long summer grasses. My feet, bare in the heat of the evening, trailed dreamily through the long blades as soft as velvet. I cast a glance behind me, my long hair falling about my shoulders. The cabin stood sturdy and cool, lamp light glowing against the dark night, exuding coolness and respite from the summer blaze. It would be there when I returned. The forest loomed up before me, rustling gently in a welcoming wind. The stars glittered, drilled in the dark cloth that was the sky, revealing the light that was hidden from above. I pressed my feet into cool dirt with a sigh, running my hand along a smooth birch, a rough oak, relishing in the feel of cold stones and fuzzy moss between my toes. Wind played with my hair, pulling it free of the small tie at the end, tossing it gently about my face. The trees above reached their branches, fresh green leaves spinning on their tiny twigs in the zephyr. I was pulled in farther by a word, a sound, a command. Moonlight streamed through branches, dappling the ground before me. I needed no light: these trees had been my home forever; they were my second family. I knew every pathway, every new sproutling. I knew the animals of the forest, the fleet deer, the wild wolf, and the illusive bears. I bent and inhaled the scent of moon-bathed hydrangea and bluebells, of honeysuckle and bleeding-heart. Above me an owl hooted calmly, and more distant in the woods his mate sang a dusky reply. I could feel him pass overhead, no sound vibrating from his wings. A small breeze from his feathers was the only mark of his passing, a flash of golden eyes. Farther into the forest, the paths I treaded so often became wilder, governed by an other power than man’s feeble hold. I paused, sitting in the crook of a favorite tree, my long skirts falling about my ankles. I stared at my dirty feet, slender and calloused: a wanderer’s, forest-stained feet. I wiggled my toes, smiling and closing my eyes, tilting my head to the sky. A shift in the woods made me turn and look. It was the first time I had seen him, and I felt struck by lightning. His face was as cold and white as the moon in the sky, his hair a flowing mantle as deep and dark as the sky, highlighted in midnight and starlight. His eyes were the only truly visible feature on his face, burning with the intensity of the wolf, the wisdom of the owl. They held immeasurable kindness and love, the love that pours warmth to the frostbitten land and gives life to the dormant flowers, pressing them to shove forth their tiny buds and burst into blossom. And then there was also cruelty, the cruelty of a smile that burns and draws the moisture from the ground until it cracks and begs for mercy and moisture, humbled and broken to his will. The rest of his face was hidden in the shadow of his night, a flicker of an ear, a straight nose slipping into firelight, the curve of a strong jaw gilded by sliding silver. He appeared robed in granite, stone that moved and slid into tree, bird, plant, ground, everything at once. Large wings stretched back from his shoulders, black as obsidian. He stretched out a long-fingered hand to me, a silent question. How? Stunned, uncertain myself of the answer, I gave him my only words. “I don’t know,” I whispered. My own question bit my tongue, pressing forward against my lips. “Who...who?” I echoed the owl. His eyes held a snarl of humor, as unlike his face as a knot in a blanket. Tree, he answered. Wolf, owl. Rock. He reached over and touched a tree. Green light blossomed from his fingers and spread through the tree. Flowers poked early from the branches, their heady aroma filling my senses. He turned and looked at me again, piercing me with his eyes. I wanted to curtsy stately, bow wisely, throw my arms about him like a child, and grovel before him. He saw me, peeled me apart and studied me. Leaves swirled in a sudden wind, blending with him and his hair, and I was again unable to distinguish between him and his world. Distant from me now, his last words. You’ll do. I woke in the crook of the tree. Someone was touching my shoulder and scolding. “Really, Ivy, I don’t know why you do this. You’d think we’d be used to it by now, but some warning after such a long winter...” I opened my eyes and groaned as feeling came back to my limbs. I was crumpled up in my tree, my skirts falling to the ground and muddied. Leaves and bracken clung to my hair and I was slightly damp with summer dew. Before me my elder sister held a large blanket and shook her head at me, her dark brown eyes disapproving. “What could have happened to you, I wonder, had I not found you?” She brushed back a strand of dark red hair that had escaped her neat braid. I swung my legs from the tree and felt something pop. I winced and brushed bracken from my own fiery red hair, several shades of fire deeper than my sister’s. My own eyes, the green of spring, were blurry with sleep and irritation. “I would have walked home and you would have thought nothing more of it,” I grumbled. “This isn’t the first time I’ve slept in the woods.” My sister, Willow, shook her head. “No, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. Not every rogue wolf is your friend, Ivy. You need to be more careful. Promise me you’ll be more careful.” I rolled my eyes and pressed a hand to my brow. All of a sudden I had a headache, I didn’t want to debate with my sister. “Fine, fine,” I conceded wearily. “Whatever it is, I agree.” I stood and nearly stumbled, my legs cramping viciously. “Do you think I could have that blanket now?” Willow sighed and draped the blanket around my shoulders. “Come then,” she said. “Breakfast is waiting, and so is Barin.” I grimaced, my appetite gone. “You know, why bother, I’m just coming back out here later anyway, so I’ll just stay and-” Willow gripped my elbow firmly. “No, he especially came to see you, though why I can’t imagine with you running wild all through the trees. Here, I brought a comb, get some of the bramble from your hair.” I cast as withering a glare her way as possible, yanking the comb through my tangled hair. My one pride, my hip length scarlet hair, released its captives of bark and moss unwillingly. Still grumbling, I followed Willow through the paths towards the cabin. Smoke pumped cheerily from inside, revealing the hearty cooking that was in order. A table had been set up on the deck, away from the unwanted heat of the stove. I cast a longing look over my shoulder at the trees, and saw his face staring back at me. All at once he seemed so huge, and visible to me alone. His eyes glittered and his words echoed in my mind again. You’ll do. For what? My memories of the previous night left me as I picked up my skirts to sit on the steps, as far from the table as I could be without being impolite. My father, content and clean-clothed, sat comfortably in a chair beside the large table, set neatly for breakfast. Willow cast me an unladylike glare, but I blinked back at her prettily. Beside my father sat Barin, tall, handsome Barin the blacksmith, his long blond hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. He smiled easily at me. “Good morning, Ivy,” he said conversationally. “How was your night in the woods?” I saw the Lord of the Forest. I saw where green things begin. I saw where owl and elk join, where stone becomes tree. I was told I would do. “Fine, thank you,” I replied, brushing a strand of hair from my face and tucking it behind my ear. “How is your work?” Barin nodded. “It is well. There is never a lack of horses to shoe.” I nodded back, my lips tight with unwanted conversation. Willow was watching me closely, however, and I could not slip away to eat in peace. This was sure to be a long morning, forced to sit here until Willow had squeezed every ounce of friendliness and conversation out of me. As she usually did. But then I would be free to wander the forest. I had not yet found a man who would follow me into the secret places of the wood, and I didn’t ever expect to find one. The talk went to horses between my father and Barin, and then to the harvest as breakfast was brought out by our housekeeper. I stared at the trees, twirling my hair around my fingers, not touching my food. A sudden bout of laughter made me turn and I found all eyes on me. Barin grinned, rubbing his chin. “Staring into the woods like that, you’d think it were your bread and butter. What do you see out there that is so alluring?” I felt color rush to my cheeks and I remembered a pair of burning eyes, raven hair falling silken over dark wings and granite robes clothing a hidden fey. “It’s quiet,” I said tartly, not at all the polite reply. I could see it in Willow’s face, but Barin looked amused. He grinned at me. “So you enjoy the lack of talk?” “Not at all.” I snorted. “The trees have plenty to say. They just say it in a better, more efficient way than humans.” Willow sighed and placed a hand on Barin’s arm. “Don’t listen to her,” she laughed. “Head in the willow trees.” Barin laughed, his eyes on Willow, but throughout breakfast they kept straying back to me, a question in their depths, a question to which I didn’t know the answer. The Lord of the forest’s words echoed back to me over the nights. I could never fully decipher their meaning...what had he wanted? For the comfort of my sister, and to stay my own misgivings, I stayed away from the forest by night, only daring to wander the paths when the sun rose safely in the sky. But even then I could see a flicker of his eye. Barin took his horse and his pack on the hottest day of the month through the forest to answer the call for a blacksmith. Farmers across the way with no horses had a broken plow, and they certainly were not about to ride their oxen through the woods. We sat around the house, lazing in the heat. And then...Barin did not return. At first my father cast it aside as extra work, but he could not hide the worry in his eyes, and Willow paced that night. But she just paced, while my father worried. I went through the trees to find him. The paths were the same to me, but they twisted around to new places. The crooked tree and the pond did not come to my sight. Instead, an ethereal palace cut through the woods, with a tower at the center stretching as high as the clouds. I was amazed that none of us could see it from our cottage, but that’s magic for you. I saw Barin’s horse tied at the trough, sleeping on his feet, but there was no sign of Barin. A whisper at my back made me turn and I saw the eyes of the forest. Within is my son, the lord breathed. To free your mortal friend you must first free my son. And then he faded. So that was what he had wanted. I shrugged my cloak higher around my shoulders and shivered. “Well,” I said. “Nothing for it but to see who’s home.” I took Barin’s horse and put him in the stables, stroking his soft nose gently. He nickered at me, blinking through his long lashes. I took the servant’s door, or so I suspected, into the castle. The stables adjoined directly to a storage room, and it to the kitchens. The fire glowered low at me from the huge hearth, and I could almost see demonic, fiery glares watching me and snapping a demand of an explanation. What appeared to be a rose and a key floated suspended in the coals. I draped my cloak on a hanger of deer antlers and sighed, looking around me. Books were strewn everywhere, as were dried herbs and fresh roses. Their heady scent filled the room, spread and teased by the heat of the fire. I pressed my face into their rich red petals. Of all flowers, roses are my favorite. Removing my dirty boots, I relished the feel of cool stone against my hot dusty feet. I crossed the room and opened the great oak door. There was a large hall. Cloth hangings and paintings, depicting hunts and great feats of wizardry, were hung all along the walls. I felt as if I had stepped into an old knight’s hall. Swords and weapons were suspended along the upper part of the wall, and the table was set as if for a large host. No sign of anyone yet. I continued my search up the long tiered stairway that seemed suspended in the corner of the hall. It circled up and up and I knew at once that I was moving into the tower. It grew darker up here, the candles guttering and spitting as I startled their shadows. The doors along the halls were all closed, and I dared not touch any of them. I heard a noise and froze. Someone inside one of the doors was pacing. Hesitantly, fearing I had found the Lord of the forest’s son, I knocked. The pacing stopped, and I heard something crash into the door. “Go away!” a hoarse voice screamed. “Barin?” I whispered. Suddenly something else slammed into the door and I could almost feel the heat of Barin’s hands pressing against the wood. “Ivy!” he gasped. “How did you get here?” “T-the...er...Well you’ll laugh but I was called here. Whoever lives in this palace, he’s got a very concerned father. He told me to free his son and then you would be free.” Barin sighed deeply. “Yes, the paths twisted around until I got here. I never arrived at the farmers’ place. I stopped in to see if I could stay the night, and then...I was trapped.” “Did you see who it was?” “Only a great number of blue feathers and sparks,” Barin growled. I shrugged inwardly. “Well, I’ll find him, don’t worry. He can’t be hiding anywhere downstairs or he would have come out and found me. All I can do is go up.” Barin’s voice sounded strained. “Be careful, Ivy. He’s not human, whatever he is.” I laughed, but the laugh itself seemed misplaced in this cold and lonely hall. “Oh, don’t worry, I know that.” I reluctantly pulled away from the door and headed off down the hall. I knew that the Lord of the forest would not let his son kill me, but...blue feathers and sparks was not exactly an encouraging description. It didn’t take me long to find the door. The hall ended at a grand door that took up the rest of the rear wall. The forest, teaming with life, was carved into the wood, and as I looked it changed, slowly. The deer shifted across the wood, the hawk turned to look at me. It wasn’t long before every pair of eyes, physical and not, were fixed on me, and I knew that my presence had finally been detected. I pressed my hands against the door, shoving it open. Within was a wide room that was filled with sparkling things of color and metal. I could not distinguish one thing from the other, magical devices and things of the forest. Aimlessly I wandered until I stepped out onto a marble floor and the things disappeared. Great gauzy cloths fluttered across the opening to the balcony and I could see a shape through them. Hesitantly I pushed my way through. The son of the forest turned and looked at me, and I could not help gasping. Great blue-feathered wings were folded across his black, and his hair seemed to be comprised of the same feather, as were his clothes, which covered every inch of his skin up to his neck. Only his face was untouched by the feathers. His hands and feet were clawed and scaled, and his great wide eyes watched me warily. He turned from the balcony, his wings spreading wide in agitation and perhaps a hidden fear. Suddenly his talons looked very sharp. “Oh!” I said. “Are you the Lord’s son?” He lifted a lip in a half snarl and watched me from the corner of his eyes. I could see the forest watching us from across the space of the balcony. I looked hard at the young man’s face and noticed that his eyebrows and just along the corners of his eyes were comprised of tiny blue feathers. He lifted a clawed hand and pointed a talon at me. “You are the Ivy?” I curtsied as prettily as I could. “Ivy, yes, though not the Ivy.” He cut me off impatiently with a wave of his hand...erm...claw. “You wander all across the forest and obey no natural law. You are the Ivy my father spoke of.” “Alright then,” I said if a bit testily. I could immediately see there would be no arguing with him. “Yes, your father sent me.” He grunted and made his way towards me. I flinched, but he brushed past me, and as his feathers struck the gauze they chimed and sparks fluttered into the air. I touched one as if floated, as light as a bubble blown of glass, and it burned with a tiny cold light. I followed the man into the magpie’s room. “What is all of this?” I asked. He turned and cast me a disparaging glare. “Things,” he answered shortly. “There is a dress for you in the closet. Change and come down to the dining hall. I have dinner for you.” I cocked an eyebrow curiously. “Don’t you think dinner a little superfluous in your current state? How about you tell me how to, well, free you?” He whirled, his eyes flaring with fire. “Just do it!” he roared, and I felt like a doll battered under a storm. Immediately a wind from outside whirled in on us and circled him, ruffling his wings, and I thought I heard a voice on the tongue of the zephyr. After a moment it died and he stared into space for a while. “Please,” he said in an attempt to be polite, sounding very much like he meant it. “Alright,” I said. He left the room with a nod and I moved to the closet. There was a dress of scarlet, adorned with roses and black silk thread stitched into what looked like ivy patterns. I sighed and slipped it on, feeling completely ridiculous. There were so many mirrors glittering in the room that I saw every angle of my new rose and ivy clad body, but I tried my best to ignore them. “You’re not me,” I said. “Just a pretender.” Still barefoot, I walked down to dinner. The son of the forest was sprawling in a large chair at the head end of the table, one of his legs dangling over an arm rest. He watched me as I descended the stairs, like an avid bird. I sat in a chair next to him. He stared a little more at me. “You look...lovely,” he said in a strained voice. I shrugged. “You don’t have to complement me if it’s not true,” I said. He made a strained noise, a little glimmer of fire sparking in his eyes, and suddenly he was out of his chair and kneeling on the ground, one of my bare feet in his hands. I was startle and a little mortified, but I dared not tug from his grasp lest his claws cut me. He stared intently at my toes, one of his talons trailing along the sole of my foot. It tickled and I twitched. He looked up at me in surprise. “You came here without shoes?” I shook my head. “No, I was wearing boots.” “Then why do you have calluses?” “I usually go barefoot, yes,” I responded. “It’s just my way.” “Your way,” he muttered, and dropped my foot. He slid elegantly back into his chair, staring into the distance. He clapped his hands and suddenly ethereal beings of fire appeared, filling our plates and glasses. They kept their coal eyes fixed on me, but soon they disappeared from wherever they had come from, leaving me alone in the room with the son of the forest and a slight smell of roses. I looked at my plate. It was filled with things to be found in the forest, roast venison and mushrooms, fresh raspberries and blueberries, and nuts. A soft, warm roll sat on the edge and I picked it up, taking comfort from its heat. “What is your name?” I asked. “Oturan,” came the brief reply. I glanced up at him and he was eating slowly, not really interested in his food. It was then that I noticed he was skeletally thin beneath all of the feathers. “What happened to you?” I asked. “What is it that you need from me?” Oturan looked at me slowly, dropping the meat that was in his claws. I immediately felt my jaws close up and my muscles stiffen. He was working some magic on me. “Stop,” I gasped. “Stop!” The tension eased and he went back to his food. “Will you...will you marry me Ivy?” I gaped at him. This had to be some awful joke, but I knew it couldn’t be because it involved the lord of the forest and his half-monster son whose feathers chimed like metal and sparked like fire. “Wha- no I can’t!” His neck muscles worked hard for a moment before he flung himself towards the wall. He had a sword in his hands and was preparing to thrust it into his chest by the time I caught him. My hands wrapped around the naked blade and I pulled, trying to get it away from his bare breast. I screamed as the metal bit into my hands and he dropped the blade, staring at me in horror as my blood streamed to the ground. I collapsed onto my knees, holding my hands close to my chest, bloodying the already crimson dress. He gripped my arms. “Are you alright?” he asked, and then he was sobbing. “Why did you do that? Why?” “Because you don’t deserve to die!” I sobbed, the pain making my hands blossom with fire. Oturan froze, staring at me, and then he took my hands in his own, examining the lacerated flesh of my palms. He passed his claws over them, and the skin erupted with more fire. But it was brief and when I looked at my hands they were whole flesh. I stared up at him in wonder. “How did you do that?” He looked sadly down at his hands. “A little of the green magic is still available to me. But...” He turned away, but I caught his chin in my hands and forced him to look at me. “What happened?” I asked firmly. Only then did I notice that his eyes had flecks of gold in them. Oturan stared at me almost as if he couldn’t make out what I was. Then he touched my hands again, wondering at the feel of my fingers on his skin. “I am cursed,” he said. “I do not know how to break it. It was...I'm not sure. But I feel bound in this body, locked somehow. And the odd thing is, the cage is made of a mixture of green and black magic. Whoever did this used some of my own power against me.” “What is with the marrying you bit?” I asked. He shrugged bitterly. “It was all I could think of.” I thought hard to myself, my knees drawn up to my chest. I stared at my bare feet. What could break a curse on the son of the forest? I picked up the sword again and looked at it. Roses were carved up its side and I gripped its hilt, wishing. How do you break a curse on the wood? Fire. It popped into my head like a rose bursting from its bud. I looked at Oturan. “That fire in your hearth...it had a rose in it...and a key. What are they?” Oturan shrugged. “The key is the key to the forest. The rose is its lifeblood. They...” he paused, his throat tight as he stared at me. “What are you thinking?” I leapt to my feet and charged past him. “Ivy!” he cried and charged after me. The fire still glowered at me when I faced it. Oturan’s dark shadow behind me gave me a little comfort as I looked deep into it. Yes, the rose was still there, as was the key. I turned to Oturan and looked him over. There must be something...there! I saw around his neck was a small gold chain with a heart shaped lock. I touched it, the feel of his feathers giving me a little jolt. “This lock, could the key fit in it?” He shrugged. “It would explain the green magic...but could it really be that simple?” I saw hope flicker in his eyes, veiled by doubt. I shook my head. “Well, you never know.” I thrust my hands into the fire, and strangely it didn’t burn. The fire language snapped and filled my head with a roaring, chiming noise as I grasped the key and the rose in my hands. The thorns on the rose were real enough and I winced as they scratched my skin, but I pulled them out of the fire easily. Looking at the key closely I read on the side Wood and rose, key and lock. This unto all things does undo. Seemed like an answer to me if anything. I stood on my tiptoes to get the key in the lock, and Oturan bent so that it would be easier. Our foreheads touched as the key turned and a felt a zing of magic run through me. Oturan suddenly filled with light and I was shoved back as though with a great wing, the rose still clutched in my hand. I watched as he writhed, his back arching and his wings spread wide. Fire boiled over his skin, and roses fluttered and filled the hall. An explosion rocked the castle and feathers burst before my eyes. When I opened my eyes again a single rose and long blue feather sat on the stone floor. Footsteps came clattering down the stairs and Barin appeared in the doorway. “Ivy!” he cried. “Are you alright?” “Yes,” I said faintly. “I think it’s all over.” He followed me outside where I stood staring up at the stormy sky and the trees dancing in the wind. This time two pairs of eyes stared at me and then the Lord of the Forest appeared in all of his previous splendor. This time beside him, robed in a mantle of blue feathers, was Oturan, his eyes alive with fire and roses draped in his long dark hair. The Lord of the Forest reached out a hand and plucked the rose from my grasp and bowed his head to me. Little ivy. Oturan turned his eyes to me and then bent, caressing my cheek and kissing it. Wild ivy. Fire ivy. He reached into a deep pocket in his robe of feathers and pulled out a strand of ivy. Its stem was glowing like coals and the curling leaves were dancing with fire. My eternal thanks. I took the burning ivy in my hands and they disappeared. The castle behind us shook and then seemed to disappear into the sky. The trees whirled around us, there was the faint sound of a wolf howling and then we were standing in the field by our cottage. “Ivy! Barin!” Willow was running towards us. I hid the fiery ivy behind me as she embraced both of us. “Where have you been?” Barin glanced at me and I stared back at him. We both shrugged. “In the wood.” Willow rolled her eyes and ushered us into the hut. Now I wear my fire ivy everywhere, tied around my ankle. It grows constantly and I place trimmings around the place where I suppose the castle used to be. Briar roses grow there, as do my ivy trimmings. And every now and then I find a long blue feather among the vines.

Autumn Wings Once upon a time in land not too far from here, there lived a young girl who loved her father very much. He was a merchant of a manor called Goldenlake, transporting exotic and valuable goods across the country to buyers who paid well for them. He became very rich from this work, but his money was invested well, for he loved his daughter as deeply as she loved him, and he wanted to provide a good life for her. Now it was that the girl had no mother, for she had died when the girl was too young to remember. So the merchant married a duchess and brought her out to their little farm to live, along with her two daughters. The duchess smiled and was polite to the merchant’s daughter, but deep inside she was jealous of her because she held a special place in her father’s heart, a place the duchess could never be let into. The merchant fell very sick one night. It was no secret that he was growing old, and he called his daughter to him. His wife was already there, and when the girl came in, her eyes red with weeping, she was astounded by her courage. Her back was straight and her tears wiped away. This only made her hate her more, for she was crying herself. The merchant took his daughter’s hand and smiled at her. “My child,” he whispered. “Take good care of all of them. It will be hard, but I know you can do it. I love you.” And he closed his eyes and breathed no more. The funeral was a private one, quiet and serene. They buried the merchant beneath a great oak near a corn field and the entire village came to see him off. The duchess and her two daughters were dressed all in black, but the merchant’s daughter dressed in an ivy green dress, because it had been his favorite color. When the service was over, the duchess came right up to stand before her stepdaughter, her face stiff with dislike. “You must move your things directly into the cellar. I won’t have the best room crowded up by you and your dismal things, and my daughters must have their own rooms as well.” Turning to a woodsman who was part of the household, she waved at him impatiently. “And cut this tree down! I won’t have its ghastly leaves covering my husband’s grave.” Biting back tears, the merchant’s daughter slowly went back to the house and went to her room. Her stepsisters were already there, and they were handling her things and gloating over them. “These are much too nice for a mere servant girl,” they jeered. “Here, you can take these.” They handed her her very lowliest clothing for when she was at work, and pushed her out of the room very rudely. The merchant’s daughter, still fighting tears and standing straight, walked down to the cellar where she arrayed her few things on a blanket beside a pile of potatoes. Finally in private, she cried and cried and cried, where no one could hear her. Not a season past and a summons came that the Prince was holding a series of balls to find a wife, and that every woman of every household was invited. There was great ruckus in the house over this, and the stepsisters and the duchess immediately began to prepare. The duchess was absolutely radiant. “One of my daughters will be Queen!” she exclaimed. “We must make preparations immediately!” The next day the duchess took her daughters to market to find the very best in fashions for them, leaving the merchant’s daughter alone at home. She finished her chores quietly and went out into the corn field, which had grown over where the old oak tree had once been. A scare-crow had been placed over the grave and his great smile seemed out of place. The merchant’s daughter fell to her knees before him and felt tears stream down her cheeks. “Oh scare-crow,” she whispered. “I know you aren’t alive, but I wish you could help me.” “A scare-crow may be unsuitable, but certainly a fairy is not, good child,” a kindly voice said. The merchant’s daughter looked up in surprise and there before her was a fairy, her dress made of scarlet and gold cloth, with autumn leaves wound in among the stitches. Her hair was dark as ebony and her wings stretched out behind her with the curling, crackling shape of oak leaves in the fall. The merchant’s daughter cried out in surprise. “My, but are you really a fairy?” The fairy smiled graciously, and her whole face lit up with delight. “I am truly,” she replied, “and I would like to help you. What is your name, child?” “Estell,” replied the merchant’s daughter. The fairy smiled. “Estell, you have a kind and brave heart. You will go to the prince’s ball.” She waved her hand and smiled again. “Come here each evening before the masques, and you will find what you need. But be sure to return every evening before midnight, for that is the time the spell fades and even I will not be able to hide you then.” A gust of wind blew past the merchant’s daughter, and when she looked up the fairy had gone among the swirling leaves. The next evening the duchess and her daughters swept out in the most elegant finery and glittering masks, chattering and excited about meeting the prince. Estell watched them go patiently and then hurried out to the cornfield. She knelt before the scare-crow, holding her breath. What if nothing happened? A few moments passed and a glitter caught her eye. What was that in the scare-crow’s pocket? She shook his pole gently, and gasped as what looked to be scales and leaves of gold fell from his coat and hat, covering her up until she was adorned in the most brilliant golden dress. “Thank you scare-crow!” she cried. “Though I know this is really the fairy’s doing.” There beside the pumpkins she found a pair of slippers made entirely out of glass, and they tingled when she put them on her feet. Suddenly the fairy appeared before her, holding a mask of feathers and leaves of ivory and yellow. “Here, Estell. And now we must have a carriage.” She twirled on the spot, her skirts flying out about her, and a pumpkin beside them swelled and turned gold and ivory. “And some coachmen.” The fairy raised her hands and three mice scuttling into the corn immediately grew into tall men who hopped onto the carriage. “A driver,” said the fairy and she gestured at the scare-crow who leapt from his pole and jumped to the seat. “And off you go!” cried the fairy, helping Estell into the carriage. “Remember, midnight!” The driver snapped the reigns, his smile glittering in the moonlight, his hat lined with gold. The horses leapt forward, their legs as thin as spindles and their fur as fine and shining as silver filigree. They danced through the night towards the castle which was lit up like a great gold and plum dessert on the hill. Stars speckled the sky and Estell stuck her head out of the carriage, her cheeks soon pink with the cool summer breeze and excitement. Her sky blue eyes glittered and reflected the stars and she clutched her hands excitedly. The carriage went through a gate as high as two houses and adorned with curling iron in the shapes of horses, foxes, elk, wolves, bears, and hares; all manner of animals ran and lived among the metal, and their eyes followed Estell as she went through the gates. There is a blessed child, they whispered to each other. There is a princess. The carriage brought Estell up to a grand staircase where a footman opened the door and lent her a hand to descend. For a moment Estell could not breathe, staring up at the great ivory stone walls painted scarlet and gold by the flickering firelight. Pink and royal purple draperies had been hung everywhere, emblazoned by the Prince’s mark of the griffon. “This way, my lady,” a courtier said. “A young lady should not enter unescorted.” Estell took the arm the young man offered her and smiled graciously at him. “I thank you, kind sir.” The young man bowed. “No, my lady, it is I who thank you for letting me be the companion of so fine and elegant a princess.” Estell ducked her head and blushed, stepping up onto the stairs in her glittering glass slippers. Estell was led up through the great hall and to the top of another great staircase at the top of the ballroom, which was adjoined to three other smaller ballrooms. A great chandelier of candles and gold and crystal hung above their heads, though it was not attached to the ceiling. Estell gasped with delight. “Fairy magic!” she exclaimed. The young man smiled. “Yes, I do hope it stays. It took me so long to get it up there.” Estell turned to the fairy in amazement. “You’re a fairy?” The young man bowed again, and now in the light of the great chandelier Estell could see his face. His hair was ebony and pulled back into a horsetail tied with an emerald string. A few stands fell loose about his face, and he tucked them behind an ear impatiently. A tiny silver loop earring glittered in his right ear. He smiled at her with twinkling violet eyes. He had a long mouth that seemed used to smiling and a straight nose. His slightly tanned skin shone like honey in the candle-light and he wore a neat tunic of violet and gold. “My name is Andrion. I am the King’s magician and, yes, I am a fairy.” He held her at arms length and grinned. “And I must say, you are the most beautiful young lady here.” Estell smiled as he led her to the dance floor and swept into a waltz with him. She was asked to dance by several other young men, including the prince, but somehow she could always see the fairy watching her from the sidelines, and she always ended up back in his arms, spinning around the hall so elegantly she felt as if she had been born to do it. Breathless from laughter and excitement, Estell let Andrion lead her nearer to the door. He bent close to her and breathed into her ear. “My dear, shouldn’t you be careful of the time?” At her curious glance he raised his eyebrows knowingly and jerked his head in the direction of the grand hall clock. To her horror it was nearly midnight! “Oh! I must go!” Estell cried. The fairy bowed to her. “It was a pleasure dancing with you, young lady. Will I see you on the morrow?” Estell smiled, her fingers lingering in his hand and she suddenly felt very breathless. “Yes,” she whispered. Andrion kissed her fingers and smiled at her. “Until then,” he murmured, and watched as she hurried up the stairs. Estell found the carriage waiting for her and she scurried in. They seemed hurried on by the wind and moments later they were back at the manor. Estell hurried to the cornfield and watched as the carriage shrank to a pumpkin. The footmen scuttled into the corn, fur sprouting from their coats as they turned back into mice. The driver leapt onto a pole and froze, his face taking on a hazier, cloth-like shape as he shifted back into a scare-crow with a glitter of gold and magic. Estell felt the gold dress of scales and leaves flake from her shoulders and soon she was standing only in her work gown. She brushed it with a sigh, and then, biting her lip, she went to the basement to dream about the magician Andrion and his kiss upon her fingers. The dawn could not come soon enough. And after that, the evening seemed to approach as slowly as a snail. Estell hurried through her chores so breathlessly that the duchess snapped at her when she spilled the pail of water. “What is the matter with you, brainless child?” she hissed. Estell, with shaking fingers, mopped up the water. “I-I’m just so excited for you all tonight. Did you see the prince yesterday?” One of her stepsisters approached, gushing. “Yes! He was just so handsome and brilliant! I danced with him three times!” The other stepsister arrived, shoving her sibling out of the way. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she sighed coyly. “I danced with him five times!” Blushing fiercely, Estell thought, I danced with Andrion nine times. Again she was forced to bite her lip so that she would not laugh with giddiness, and two drops of blood fell from her lip onto the floor. That evening, the duchess and her daughters left looking so delicate and beautiful that one would fear they would break. Estell went out to the cornfield and watched as the glass slippers appeared, the pumpkin swelling into a carriage. Three mice appeared and turned to footmen. Estell gently shook the scare-crow’s pole, kneeling before him, and what looked like the most scarlet cardinal feathers and maple leaves fell all over her, covering her until she was dressed in a sweeping dress of brightest red. On one of the nearby pumpkins was a scarlet mask with obsidian droplets along the brow and eyes. Two glittering drops of red flew from the house, and Estell recognized the blood she had drawn from her lip in excitement and love. The two droplets landed in her hands as ruby earrings, and Estell put them on. Her blue eyes stood out shockingly against the red of her dress and she clambered into the carriage. Off they went, as fleet as the hounds of the wind, until they came up to the castle. As Estell was handed out of the carriage, there was a young man by the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His face and features were cast into shadow by the flickering torches above his head, but Estell could clearly see his violet eyes watching her. Estell held her breath as she walked forward, and Andrion peeled himself from the wall. He sucked in air, as if filling his two-dimensional form and forcing his limbs to become real and whole. He offered her an arm, a smile gracing his face again. “Shall we, my lady?” The night passed in a whirl. She danced only with Andrion that night, and for some reason all eyes were on her. She had only eyes for Andrion. Again, nearing midnight, the fairy led her to the stairs, looking a little different than yesterday. He held her fingers more tightly as he kissed them. “My lady, I beg a name.” “Estell,” the merchant’s daughter whispered. “Estell of Goldenlake.” Andrion bowed his head over her hands. “Goodnight, Estell. Until tomorrow.” “Yes,” she said breathlessly, and forced herself away. Again she rushed to the cornfield to return all of the adornments and companions of the night. Again the leaves and feathers of her dress fell as if they had been only sewn together by magic. Her glass slippers she hid beneath the vines of a pumpkin, the mask she placed under a large squash. And again, she went to her basement to dream of the gold and plum dessert of a castle on the hill, and the violet eyes of Andrion the fairy. The next morning the stepsisters were cross. One even slapped Estell when she caught a knot in her hair. “Can’t you tell I’m in a greatly distressed mood!” she shrieked. “Some hussy at the ball caught all the attention. Luckily she didn’t snatch the prince away, or I would have torn her eyes out!” Estell covered her mouth in horror, for she believed her sisters probably would have. And if they found out it was her, they would not hesitated to murder her. The duchess entered the room, frowning at the ruckus. “What is all this noise?” she asked. The stepsister flounced in her night-clothes, pouting prettily. “She tugged my hair,” she snapped. “And it isn’t evening yet! This is the last night to make an impression on the Prince! Can’t you make time go faster?” The duchess sniffed. “I have no magic and disapprove of any such thing. Wait patiently like all the normal, stately girls out there. If you appear at a sprint at the ball the Prince will never pick you!” Her daughter calmed down immediately and sat as still as she possibly could. Slowly, the sun sank to the horizon and it was time for the ball. Estell watched the duchess and her daughters move away in their carriage until she could barely stand it. Then she rushed out into the cornfield and sat under the scare-crow. “One last time, scare-crow, and then I promise I will never ask for another thing!” She shook the scare-crow’s pole. Nothing happened. For a second Estell sat breathlessly. She felt tears sting her eyes. Had it been some cruel trick, to let her meet the magician of the king and then force her to never see him again? She swiped at her eyes and shook her head. “No matter what,” she said fiercely. “I will act as father would have wanted. I appreciate the two nights I had.” “Kind child, that is the answer I was longing to hear!” Estell gasped as the fairy from the woods appeared, her kind face dazzling in the night. “And, I wanted to give you this dress myself.” She threw something at Estell, and emerald and sapphire scales, feathers, and blossoms rained down upon the young girl, coating her in a dress even more magnificent than the last two. She handed her a mask of iridescent blue and green feathers and gems, long sapphire plumes trailing from the right eye corner. The glass slippers appeared on Estell’s feet and the carriage appeared and the scare-crow hopped to his place and the mice jumped to their posts. Estell swiped tears away again. “Thank you, fairy. I do not even know your name.” “My name is not important, dear heart,” the fairy said. “Go and find your love.” The carriage drew up to the castle in record time, and again Andrion was there to accept her. True happiness that Estell had not felt in a long time, since her father’s death, filled her and as she danced she knew that she had met her true love. The clock seemed enchanted, and every hour seemed a minute on the dance floor. Too soon it was near midnight and Andrion led her to the stairs. He hesitated for a moment, and then pulled her close and kissed her, a little nervously. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “I know that if you do it will fade, but please...stay...” Estell could not stop the tears from running down her face. She was so overwhelmed by emotions, love and joy, and pain at having to leave and possibly never see him again. “I must go,” she choked. “If I don’t my stepmother and sisters will see me and they will surely kill me!” Andrion’s eyes lit up with an emotion, it could have been shock and rage, but Estell pulled away and fled to her carriage, weeping. In her haste she left one of her glass slippers on the stairs, where Andrion could find it and pick it up. For a long time the fairy stood staring at it, his violet eyes cold and calculating. Morning came and the stepsisters fluttered about, eagerly awaiting a prince’s summons. When the doorbell rang Estell looked up wearily from her scrubbing and the stepsisters sprinted to the door with squeals of glee. The duchess beat them too it, forcing them back and silencing them with a mother’s glare, before she opened the door. Estell could not breathe. She felt as if she would faint, but as the stepsisters and the duchess were facing the visitor, they could not see her falter. However, the purple eyes of the magician at the door saw her clearly, bent on the floor among the washing water in a dirty dress. His knuckles turned white about the glass slipper he was holding and his eyes narrowed. It was a shadow that passed over his face in an instant, missed by the unseeing, uncaring duchess and her daughters. “Well?” the duchess demanded, impatient of the second wait. “Which of my daughters has the Prince chosen?” The magician turned to her, a smile pulling at his face. “None. He chose a young girl from the village not too far away. Something about her being a chimney sweep’s orphaned daughter and living in a hut. Apparently he found her by using the mask she left behind. Quite handy spells you can use to track someone down when they’ve left something.” The fairy turned and held Estell’s eyes, openly and fully. Here I am, he seemed to be saying. Only for you. The duchess was ignoring her wailing daughters behind her. “Then why are you here?” she snapped. “What business could you possibly have brought? Be gone before I force you out with a broom!” The magician bowed. “I am here, my lady, about one of your daughters, Estell. I am asking for her hand.” The duchess stared open-mouthed for a few seconds. “And who are you?” “The King’s fairy, lady duchess.” He ignored Estell’s frantic shaking of her head and continued. “I met Estell at the masques these past three nights.” The duchess whirled on Estell. “YOU!” she shrieked. “You have been sneaking to the palace! I’ll beat you so hard...” she slammed the door in the magician’s face and started towards Estell, grabbing the rod she used to beat her servants. Suddenly there was no door. It simply disappeared from its hinges and the sun seemed to have gone down outside. Andrion stood there, one foot inside, and a great shadow had passed over his face. His hair blew in a wind that was not of nature and what looked like ethereal black horses with violet eyes danced around the duchess, biting her and whirling her in circles. “Don’t touch her,” Andrion commanded in a voice that shook the very foundations of the house. The Duchess screamed and stumbled back, batting at the phantoms. Andrion rushed into the house and helped Estell to her feet. He pulled her into his embrace and kissed her. “Come away with me,” he whispered. Estell felt her knees give way, but the fairy did not drop her. “Yes,” she wept. “Yes.” Andrion smiled at her and led her from the house. A fairy from the woods watched them leave and she smiled. And they lived happily ever after. The End

Knights' Return Yvain could not help but whoop with jubilation as Turrien sped down the mountain, practically flying so great were his leaps. With a glance Yvain saw his comrade's face, alight with fierce joy and anticipation for the upcoming battle. They were headed for the coast, where the Saxons would have first landed in their war ships. The forests disappeared and suddenly there was the ocean. Neither horse balked, thrusting their feet straight out into the spray. Kicking up water, the horses sped across the surface of the ocean, their manes streaming in the wind, salt flecking their chests and necks. They ran until night fell, keeping just along the coast. Wild energy crackled in the air; somewhere in the forest to their right-hand side, the Fey were preparing for battle. Burning stars fell from the sky, hitting the water with the sound of chimes and bright explosions of color. Farther out to sea the mermish began a keening cry to the knights. The word spread like wildfire over land and sea. The Knights of Minerin had returned. Dawn was turning the eastern sky rosy when the ships came into view. Yvain yelled encouragement to his charger, watching the ships eagerly. Gradually the horses moved until they were speeding across the beaches. Their footsteps slowed and they trotted into the woods, taking the knights deep into Fey territory. Foriyu appeared next to them, trotting to keep up with the horses. "The Kilcad armies are on the eastern side of the Boar Mountains. Their plans are to face the Saxons this day and drive them from the shores." A cynical smile twisted his face. "If not for you two, that would not come to pass. The Fey elders are proud of you, Knights. They will stand beside you in this battle." Gawain grinned. "Then let it come!" * * * * "I don't care if they have catapults!" roared the commander, slamming his fist onto the desk before him. The lower ranking soldier withered under his ferocious glare. "The priests can spout all they want to! We're losing this war and if something drastic doesn't happen soon..." The sound of thunder drowned him up and the commander frowned. Shoving past the two soldiers before him, he pushed the tent flap away. All eyes were turned to the forests, all mouths gone slack. Following their gaze, the commander felt his jaw drop as well. The thunderous sound was not weather at all. It was a horde of Fey, roaring and shrieking at the top of their lungs, advancing on the camp. At their head were two Knights on horse back and two tall Fey, one a lady, the other a Lord. All around them, war-painted warriors gave off their keening shrieks, magic curling in a haze above their heads there was so much excess. The commander of Giant's Thimble, Gavid, approached the armies, the dark-haired druid at his side. A grin stretched across his features. "So you were telling the truth," he said, eyeing the long blades at their sides and the great horses they rode. "And now the Fey are here to back you up on it." The dark-haired druid grinned and beckoned. "Please, our commander would be greatly honored if you would counsel with him." Gawain and Yvain nodded. Without a command their horses strode forward, as if they had understood the druid's request. The Fey army followed, an assortment of half-humans, elementals, and powerful warriors of the trees. A spluttering noise went ignored by the majority of the force. "B-but it cannot be!" a white-haired druid insisted, turning his head in an attempt to find anyone to listen to his plea. "The Knights of Minerin are long gone, someone must have stolen their statues! This is preposterous to claim-" He was broken off as a tall Fey backhanded him, knocking him over. Clad in naught but a ragged warrior's skirt, the Fey snarled down into his face as the druid touched the part of his cheek that had taken on the consistency of bark, his eyes wide in horror. The Fey pointed a sharp-nailed finger at the druid. "You question the authority of the Fey with your prattling, old fool," he hissed, his voice swaying like branches in the wind. "Keep your trap shut or I'll close it for you, and that'll be a curse you won't wake up from!" He moved on, leaving the druid stunned on the ground. The commander of the army, a man named Lathr, watched as the Knights rode forward. Reports before had told him of two warriors, travel worn, nothing new. But these before him were clearly warriors born. Their armor was no longer travel dirty: it shone with a bright luster and appeared as if it were woven as part of the knights' skin itself. Their horses gleamed with power, their intelligent eyes fixed on the commander before them. The Knight's themselves were impressive, hardened, their eyes glittering with Fey power and their hair swaying in the breeze. One had hair the color of obsidian, glittering with a bluish light in the sun; the other had hair the color of silver, his golden eyes matching the color of the tattoos that slanted across his face. The commander felt a chill run through him when the golden-eyed knight looked at him and he gritted his teeth. "Who then are these?" he asked, now looking behind them. His eyes widened as he saw the Lord and Lady of the Wood, but he politely turned his eyes back on the knights. The dark-haired knight nudged his horse forward. "I am Gawain, a Knight of Minerin." The other, the silver-haired knight, grinned. "I am Yvain, a Knight of Minerin." Gawain patted the sword slung across his back. "I believe you have a Saxon problem."

Ander pulled the trigger. There was a bang. "NO!" a harsh voice screamed from the stairwell. Suddenly the released bullet slowed and stopped inches from the old man's forehead. Escaping death by barely a breath, the old man collapsed in sobbing. Ander looked around, rage filling his eyes. A young girl was standing in the doorway, her face white and one arm outstretched. Her tiny white wings were drooping at her back, and behind her was a tall man with horns protruding from his brow. Dos' mouth dropped open. "Laura! Rufus!" he cried out. "How...?" Rufus grinned. "I finished my business and hurried here with all haste. When you and Myrn did not come back from your journey, I worried. It did not take me long to find you, did it?" Ander turned to all of them, enraged. "What are you doing?" he growled. "This man deserves to die!" Rufus nodded. "That he does. But not at your hand. You do not hold the justice for what he has done. That power resided only with the Lady of the Wood. This affront has been against the land and the people of that land. We will let her decide." Dos strode forward and flipped the man onto his stomach, pressing his boot against his head. "Don't move, slime," he snarled. "Or I'll give you a better taste of that floor!" The old man whimpered as Dos bound his wrists mercilessly. A crash from above reminded them the reason they were there. Heat made the pipes above them shudder and some of the metal turned bright red. "Vincent!" Dos cried. They raced up the stairs. With one hand, Laura lifted the old man into the air and followed them, her eyes bright as she watched the murderer's every move. The two Fire-weavers were circling each other, fire steaming from their breath and blazing off of their hands. Myrn stood in the corner, looking on helplessly. A door in the back of the room swung loosely on its hinges, apparently scorched by the battle. Vincent was grinning with apparent insane anger. "I'll tear you apart!" he snarled. "You'll pay for my daughter's death!" Shriek cackled. "You can't touch me, old man! You have no power!" He arched back, fire filling his arms and branching from his chest. The sheer quantity of fire building around him made Vincent's eyes widen. He crossed his arms across his body, prepared to block the fireball. But the flames kept growing. Myrn yelled. "He's going to light the whole building up!" Suddenly something struck the Shar-hudor and Shriek fulfilled his name sake, raising a cacophony of howls as steam erupted from his body. The flames doused and he collapsed to his knees, drenched. Leaning against the door frame across the room was a punkish young man, piercings in his right eyebrow, tattoos slashing down his face. He held one of his sides weakly, his eyes sparked with rage, and his free hand was outstretched, suspending the water. For the second time that night Dos' mouth dropped. "Kida!" he cried out. "How did you survive?" Kida's lips twisted in cynical pain. "Not easily," he said. "I cocooned myself in water until it had stopped, but even then a rusty pole jabbed through and got me." The punk pulled his hand away from his side. It was coated in blood. "Opened it up running here. So what did I miss? This little fire-demon causing issues?" Kida nodded to Vincent. "How're you doing, noob?" Vincent glanced at his enemy, unsure of how to take this sudden turn of events. Finally he grinned at the likeable character. "I'm glad you're alive, Kida," he said finally. "We never did get to spar." Kida grinned. "Water beats fire, every time." * * * * The Faery stood in the center of the mushroom circle, watching the old man before her blubber shamelessly. Dislike was etched into her ethereal features, but pity hung on her shoulders. "You have committed unforgivable deeds," she murmured. "And yet you are to be pitied. You have created a monster of nature, you have destroyed lives, you have ruined countless futures. Perhaps the forest can teach you something." She gestured at the trees and four Caracak approached, Rufus at their head. They gripped the man by his arms and dragged him away shrieking, their grips firm but gentle. The Faery watched them go for a moment before turning to the group before her. "What became of the other fire-weaver?" Kida, his side bandaged and scabbing nicely, rubbed his head awkwardly. "Well, when I doused him...he kinda...erm, turned to ash and disappeared. I guess he was too much fire to be human any more." The Faery sighed and shook her head. "Sad. It was not his own doing that made him that way. But now the true villain will be taken care of. It is over." Vincent turned to Myrn, Dos, Kida, and Laura. "We will make a new home," he said. Dos grinned. "I know of a place, not far from here." Laura hugged herself. "Can it be near trees?" "And a river!" Kida added excitedly. Myrn grinned, beside himself. "I believe all of this can be arranged." The End

Vincent lowered his hands from the blast, peering past the smoke as a tall, thin shape emerged. His eyes widened in surprise and Ander placed a hand on his gun, backing up. Fire flickered off of his hands, lighting up his body with ghastly shadows. Each inch of skin seemed covered in soot, or feathers, or a mixture of the two. His eyes were coal black, burning within with his inner heat. Hair the color of fire draped down his shoulder, steaming and hissing as if it had a life of its own. Large wings that smoked were spread from his back and a cynical smile twisted across his face. Vincent stared the man up and down. “What are you?” he hissed. Ander kept his eyes fixed on the man. “He’s what you are, Vincent.” Vincent’s eyes widened. “I’m going to look like that?!” The man stepped forward, leaving soot on the ground and spreading his wings. From behind him an old man cackled. “Ander, I thought you’d be behind this. I am surprised though: such betrayal from you almost caught me off guard. Yes, Vincent, this could be you, if you let the fire consume you. You almost did in the lab not too long ago and then it would have been all too easy to take you.” Vincent’s mouth opened with understanding. “Then it’s been you this whole time,” he snarled. “And that thing is what’s been making these storms!” The fire creature stepped forward again, his eyes narrowing. “You do not like them?” he purred. “I find them quite beautiful.” Vincent threw himself forward but Ander wrapped his hands around his chest, pulling him back. “You killed my daughter you demon!” Vincent screamed, struggling against Ander’s hold. “You killed them all!” Wind burst through the windows, shattering the glass and dumping Dos and Myrn on the ground near them. Myrn leapt to his feet, his legs shaking with weakness, but his gaze was firm as he glared at the creature. “Shar-hudor,” he snarled. “Fire-demon. What is your name?!” The Shar-hudor turned to pierce Myrn with his burning gaze, as if testing him. “Name?” he whispered. His wings spread wide, causing ribbons of smoke to curl about his body. “Call me Shriek, if you like. I have no name.” Dos stepped slowly to stand behind Vincent, his eyes fixed on the old man behind the demon. Myrn did not take his eyes off of it. “Shriek, then,” he said. “What has this decrepit old man promised you for your fire?” Shriek lifted his hands, and blossoms of red flame sparkled in the light. “Did he need to?” he hissed. “Leave to burn is all I wanted. And it is all I am granted. But,” he stared at the fire in his coal-blackened hands, “it is all I need.” With a shout he threw the fire forward. Vincent yanked free of Ander and stepped into the blast, pushing his own heat forward. The blistering heat forced Myrn, Dos, Ander, and the old man back out of the way as the two fire-wielders pressed against each other. Dark smoke and red fire spat around their bodies, their arms pressed forward in a battle of wills. “Fool!” Shriek howled. “You have no power!” Vincent’s lips were pressed tight in fury and strain. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his eyes were narrowed in concentration. He took a step forward. Ander glanced behind the Shar-hudor and gasped. The old man was gone. His face darkening in rage, Ander sped through the door after his former master. Dos, with a shout, leapt in pursuit. * * * * Ander clattered down stairs and burst through doors, following the wheezing sound of the old man’s retreat. His gun was in his hand, his hair streaming behind him. As he passed a computer door lock, he slammed his fist on it. Red lights began to flash through the halls and sirens bellowed through speakers. Up ahead he could hear the sound of someone crashing their fists against a door that had shut in the lockdown. Ander slowed his pace as he came up behind the old man. Dos, just behind the young soldier, watched cautiously. The old man turned, heaving, his eyes wide with horror. “What are you going to do, Ander?” he whined. “Kill me?” Ander pointed his gun at the old man. “You’ve bred an abomination and killed thousands,” he said calmly, though his voice shook. “Your greed for power killed the woman I loved and twisted two men into fire containers, one who doesn’t even know his name anymore he’s so choked with fire. I will have no trouble killing you.” Dos took a step forward, watching the exchange. The horrible old man was sweating now. Dos grinned. “Afraid of death?” he whispered. “Surely not! You’ve killed so many people; you must know how it goes. Perhaps you’ll meet some of those you’re responsible for. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.” Ander cocked the barrel of his gun, his eyes narrowed. He reached up with his other hand and ripped the company emblem from his chest. “There,” he said. “I’m no longer part of this power. It’ll not be treason to kill you. I’m merely an assassin, doing the job I should have years ago.”

Lady of the Wood The largest and final gate was not far from the four siblings. Yvain and Gawain trudged up the mountain-side, glancing over their shoulders as they watched the nine siblings follow them, their Fey eyes glittering in the afternoon light. Yvain grimaced and turned his eyes back to the mountain-top. “What do you think is up there?” Gawain shook his head. “I don’t know. The Lord is there, I can feel him now. There is another force though, a foreign one that I have never felt before. It is as powerful as the Lord, but in a wilder sense. I do not wish to guess what it may be.” Sweat had begun to collect on their brows by the time they reached the top. A circle of trees and mushrooms in iridescent colors filled their vision, and indeed the Lord of the Forest was reclining against a tree, one of his long arms curled around it leisurely. He watched them; as if he watched long-cursed knights trudge up Fey mountains every day. No longer did his gaze burn them, but it felt warm and tingled across their renewed Fey powers. Standing in the middle of the faery ring was the Lady of the Wood. Her dress was silvery, made of spider webs and snow icicles. Ivy curled up her waist and around her delicate wrists. Her hair was golden and fell to the forest floor in delicate spirals. A crown of twigs and buds was upon her brow, and her wide, dark eyes watched them from beneath long silver lashes. On her shoulder a hawk perched, watching them with the same keen gaze, keening quietly at the silence. The knights stood straight, keeping their eyes respectfully on the ground. Gawain cleared his throat, the unofficial spokesman. “Lady, we are the Knights of Minerin.” The Lord of the Forest grinned, his lip curling in a very wolfish baring of sharp teeth. His eyes glittered wickedly with humor. Assuredly, he sneered. The Lady of the Wood cast him a humored glance, a small smile curving her pink lips. In a clear, commanding voice she addressed the knights. “You have come this far,” she said. “And you have proved yourselves to be the knights we know you are. You have but one final test for us. Now that the Lord of the Wood has given the powers that formally belonged to the Knights, restoring your should you truly be the ones we know, you must prove your ability to control such power.” She turned and beckoned to something in the trees. Four Fey appeared, their long gossamer wings revealing their royalty, as did the crowns that adorned their brows. Two maidens led them, carrying swords. They knelt before the knights. “The swords, Danalin and Zephyrind, forged by the Fey from the metal of falling stars. Danalin, called the Mourning Sword, and Zephyrind, the caller of the dead.” Yvain took Danalin in his hands, his eye gleaming as he felt the perfect balance that had been made just for him. He drew the magnificent blade from its sheath and looked at it. The hilt was made of silver, its hand-hold wrapped in midnight-blue leather for grip. A black stone was set in the pommel. The blade itself glowed with a multicolored light, glittering with the fires of the star it had once been. Five holes were pierced straight through it. Yvain gave the sword an experimental whirl and a wail split the air. With the same stroke Yvain cleaved his stand-in sword in two. The Lady smiled and bowed to him. “No one but Yvain of Minerin could have made the sword cry and break all over blades. Welcome, brave knight.” The knight grinned, snapping the sword back into its sheath and buckling it onto his hip. Gawain held his sword tightly, staring at it. Its hilt was fashioned alike to Danalin’s, save that the leather around its hand-hold was scarlet and the stone was ruby as well. The blade was long, almost as tall as Gawain, and curved slightly at the end. Runes were carved into its blade, charms to wake the dead and call them against his enemies. Gawain hesitated, glancing up at the Lady, knowing what he was expected to do. But hesitation would be deadly, and he would be labeled an imposter. Setting his teeth, Gawain gripped the hilt strongly and spoke Fey words deep in his throat so that none could hear. The sun seemed to dim and the trees whipped about as a stale wind curled up from the ground. Mist the color of death rose from the grasses, pulling away to form stricken faces with gaping mouths. The whispering of the dead filled the air and Gawain lifted his blade, directing the spirits upwards. With a shriek they soared into the clouds, disappearing again with a thunderclap. Gawain placed the sword carefully back into its sheath, swinging it across his back and strapping it there. The clearing was breathless for a moment and then the Lord approached, his eyes glittering wildly. Dead ought not walk again, he intoned. Take care how you use the blade in this upcoming war, Minerin Knight. Gawain bowed, a hand on his heart in acquiescence. The two maidens handed them their daggers as well, returning every blade that had been lost to the two knights. Then two male Fey dressed in long silver robes led forward two horses. Yvain and Gawain could not keep their cries from their throats. As soon as the horses neared, the knights threw their arms around their necks, weeping openly. Gawain rubbed his midnight black horse gratefully, tears stinging his eyes. “Harfor,” he murmured. “My dear Harfor.” Yvain slapped his silver horse on the neck in camaraderie. “Turrien!” he said. “Have you been fighting?” Turrien opened his mouth, baring yellow teeth, and squealed, pretending to bite Yvain. The knight laughed, pulling on the great steed’s forelock. “That’s my boy!” The Lady of the Wood smiled at them. “Go now, Knights. Save Kilcad from the Saxons.” Yvain and Gawain mounted their horses, their ecstasy only challenged by their battle-rage. They bowed their heads to the Lady of the Wood, and then disappeared, their horses flying them down the mountain on winged-feet.

Wolves of Ambewein The forest twittered around them, shifting in the early morning breeze. Sunlight peeked through green leaves, tainting the air around them emerald. Great twisting oaks and slender willows waved in the wind, their leaves fluttering and spinning like pin-wheels. A deer watched them pass, large liquid eyes glittering with knowledge. When Gawain looked again, he saw not a deer, but a young boy clad in deer skin with large dark eyes and stag horns leaping away through the bushes. Large flowers of paradise cast their heavy scents through the woods, and the very air was heavy with magic, a tangible substance that made Gawain and Yvain sigh with contentment. Half-carved, stone faces of giant boulders lay among the trees, the remains of an old quarry. Wind-chimes, the sign of the Fey, sang in the highest branches, and large bejeweled creatures moved along the ground, there a snake, there a turtle. The forest faded and a large field of grass stretched before them. Not too far across the field glittered the continuation of the forest, but to their left and right the grasses continued in a never ending plain. A large herd of silver stag started at their approach and took flight, leaping through the field and beyond into the distant sun. The knights continued their journey into the forest, walking fast and sure. Every now and then they heard a whinny, and their fervor increased. A second gate appeared before them. Three young women stood before it, their eyes large and silver, their hair the rich auburn of the twisting forest trees. From their backs sprouted wings that seemed woven from gossamer and silver filigree. Their garments were dusk purple and their skin seemed covered in silver gloss. Large moths with fake-eyes on their wings settled among their hair and dressed. Before them was a large board. "Welcome, travelers," they whispered. "You have come past Lumiere and Foncee. We are Bomba, Tula, and Alba. Sit here." Gawain and Yvain lowered themselves onto the grass warily, staring at the women before them. Suddenly a dark blackish-blue wolf approached from the forest, watching the strangers cautiously, but running her head along Bomba's bare arm. The Fey ran her hand under the wolf's chin, a hint of a smile touching her features. "This is Ksud. She is the alpha wolf of a large pack at the high rock of the forest, called Ambewein, not twenty miles from here. She is the only one who will come to us; the others cannot speak our tongue as she does. The knights of Minerin were known for their ability to tame animals and commune with them. Your task will be to locate the alpha male, Nwad, and face him before tomorrow night." Gawain bowed his head. "We shall." The knights stood and followed Ksud into the forest, their eyes keeping track of the stealthy wolf by the tip of her tail. * * * * Night fell swiftly in that part of the forest. The trees loomed up before them, rustling gently in a welcoming wind. The stars glittered, drilled in the dark cloth that was the sky, revealing the light that was hidden from above. Gawain pressed his feet into cool dirt with a sigh, running his hand along a smooth birch, a rough oak, relishing in the feel of cold stones and fuzzy moss. Statues didn't feel. Wind played with the knights' hair, pulling it and tossing it gently about their faces. The trees above stretched their branches, fresh green leaves spinning on their tiny twigs in the zephyr. Gawain was pulled in farther by a word, a sound, a command, drawn by the wolf. Moonlight streamed through branches, dappling the ground before them. The knights needed no light: these trees had been their home once; they were their second family. They knew every pathway, every new sproutling. They knew the animals of the forest, the fleet deer, the wild wolf, and the illusive bears. Gawain paused, his eyes half closed; bent and inhaled the scent of moon-bathed hydrangea and bluebells, of honeysuckle and bleeding-heart. Above Yvain an owl hooted calmly, and more distant in the woods his mate sang a hoarse reply. The pale-haired knight lifted his head to watch the dusky shape swoop past, no sound vibrating from his wings. A small breeze from his feathers was the only mark of his passing, a flash of golden eyes. Farther into the forest, the paths they had treaded so often became wilder, governed by an other power than man's feeble hold. The knights paused, wariness filling their bodies. The wolf had stopped here, lying down with a sigh. Her mouth stretched into a panting smile as dark shapes with glittering eyes appeared around her, leaping from the trees and foliage like hidden acrobats, their legs longer than that of normal wolves, their fur thick and starry. A shift in the woods made Yvain turn and look. He inhaled sharply and pressed a hand against Gawain's arm. His face was as cold and white as the moon in the heavens, his hair a flowing mantle as deep and dark as the sky, highlighted in midnight and starlight. His eyes were the only truly visible feature on his face, burning with the intensity of the wolf, the wisdom of the owl. They held immeasurable kindness and love, the love that pours warmth to the frostbitten land and gives life to the dormant flowers, pressing them to shove forth their tiny buds and burst into blossom. And then there was also cruelty, the cruelty of a smile that burns and draws the dew from the ground until it cracks and begs for mercy and moisture, humbled and broken to his will. The rest of his face was hidden in the shadow of his night, a flicker of a wolfish ear, a straight nose slipping into firelight, the curve of a strong jaw gilded by sliding silver. He appeared robed in granite, stone that moved and slid into tree, bird, plant, ground, everything at once. Large wings stretched back from his shoulders, black as obsidian. He stretched out a long-fingered hand to the knights, a silent question. How? Stunned, uncertain, the knights glanced at each other. "Are you the alpha-male?" Yvain asked in a bare whisper. Almost as an answer Ksud stood and trotted over to the Fey, rubbing her head up under his hand. Yes, was the simple reply. His eyes held a snarl of humor, as unlike his face as a knot in a blanket. Tree, he answered. Wolf, owl. Rock. He reached over and touched a tree. Green light blossomed from his fingers and spread through the tree. Flowers poked early from the branches, their heady aroma filling the two knights' senses. He turned and looked at them again, piercing them with his eyes. Gawain fought the urge to bow or fall to his knees, while Yvain whished only that he did not have to look into his terrible eyes. He saw them, peeled them apart and studied them. Leaves swirled in a sudden wind, blending with him and his hair, and the knights was again unable to distinguish between him and his world. Distant from them now, his last words. You'll do. The wolves disappeared after him, their hunt yelps filling the air with blood-curdling cries. Storm clouds thundered over the sky so quickly it would make the mages on the coast wonder for months. Rain poured down, drenching the two knights as they sat in stunned silence. Yvain collapsed against a tree. “The Lion’s Gaze,” he gasped hoarsely. Gawain shivered. “The Gaze of Discernment. So he is the father of the forest...the alpha-male. I have heard stories...” he broke off, staring into the trees. Yvain bowed his head. “Was that it?” he whispered. “Was that the task? I’d rather have fought all three of the sisters.” Gawain did not move his gaze from the trees. He felt wrung, like laundry out to dry, as if something had gnawed at his willpower. “He was testing us...we will see him again.” The knight jerked himself from his revere and looked at his companion. “We must head back. We need to cross the gate.” * * * * The three sisters smiled at the haggard knights knowingly when they returned and moved aside, bowing to them. “Welcome, brethren,” they murmured. “Move ahead.” The trees dissipated slightly as the knights moved on. The ethereal whinnying they had heard increased, whipping Gawain into a near frenzy. Yvain did his best to keep his companion from bulldozing through the island towards his steed’s cries. The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the third gate. This time four Fey were standing in their way, two boys and two girls. The boys were naked save for deer fur that covered them from the hips down, their long hair mud brown and curly. Gilded horns arched back from the tops of their heads, and twisted earrings hung from their slightly pointed ears. Their gloved hands held long spears of silver wood. The girls were dressed similarly, their bodies covered with deer hide, their hair hanging to their hips. However, they had no weapons. One had her entire right side tattooed with black symbols and curling vines; the other, her left. Gawain’s eyes were red with weariness and pain. His arm was worse, not healing as it should with their Fey blood. Poison was all Yvain could think of, and he knew he would have to deal them through this gate on his own. The two boys approached with long, gliding strides, their eyes sparkling with a mischievous gleam. “You have come this far, I see.” One said, a grin stretching across his face. “I suppose that means you really are the Knights of Minerin. However, we were brought here for the very reason that we do not know you. You have proved yourselves against the first two gates: now prove yourself against us!” Yvain held out a hand to stay the eager youngsters. “My companion is wounded,” he said. “There was poison in one of the blades that struck him earlier. If you have medicine he might use while I fight you...” One of the girls shook her head. “We are not allowed to give aid of any kind until you reach the last gate. Only then will you be cared for before your final battle. Assuming you get there, of course.” Light flickered across her skin and she seemed to disappear, her tattoos glittering bluely with magic. Her twin twirled a leaf in her fingers idly, staring out at the fields. Yvain grimaced. “Fine then,” he muttered. “I’ll fight you all myself.” The four Fey advanced, the boys holding their spears ready, the girls their hands stretched ready.Yvain drew his blade, prepared to take them all, when a flicker of motion caught his eye and he turned his head. A raven feather fluttered in the wind, a lock of midnight hair, the golden eyes of an owl, and Yvain was again struck dumb and senseless. Only the sharp, tearing pain of a spear entering his thigh brought him back. Roaring with agony and rage, Yvain ripped the spear from him, throwing it far into the forest. His eyes were wide with pain, the Lion’s Gaze making the air sizzle and snap. One of the Fey fell back momentarily with a cry as Yvain’s gaze pierced him. The girls flew at him, gripping each other’s hands. One leapt, using her twin’s still gripping hands as a balance, and kicked at his head. Yvain ducked, and the twin let go of her sister’s wrists to come in with several sharp jabs to his ribs. Yvain jumped forward, catching her under the chin with his forehead. He jaws snapped together and she collapsed, pushing herself back to her feet over her shoulders. Yvain turned, his teeth bared as he sought to gain his balance. Suddenly he felt the piercing gaze again and he went rigid, agony lancing through his skull and spine. What you have lost now returns, warrior, the Lord of the Forest said. Yvain dropped his sword, his Fey senses swirling around him. Suddenly everything seemed to enter slow-motion. The young Fey charging him seemed to be walking at a leisurely pace. Easily Yvain dodged the spear thrust at him, gripping it in his hands and heaving the young man over his shoulder. One of the twin girls launched her foot at him. Yvain caught it with one hand, grabbing her knee with the other and throwing her after her brother. The two remaining siblings converged on him simultaneously. Yvain dodged them lazily, blocking their attacks one-handed. In a matter of moments they were sitting on the ground, eyes wide. “Minerin!” one of the young men whispered in awe. Yvain turned to see Gawain standing, his wounds healed completely. He was grinning, and picked up a rock. Easily he smashed it in one hand; his powers had been returned as well. Yvain felt his mouth stretch into a wide grin, but it was wiped from his face when he turned to see the four Fey bowing at the knights’ feet. “Oh stop it,” he grumbled. “It’s nothing big.” The gateway creaked open and one of the young women stood, smiling. She pressed her fingers to a tattoo along her side. It flashed blue softly and then she peeled it away. Taking Yvain’s hand, she laid it on his palm. The tattoo flashed again and Yvain rubbed it; it was firmly meshed in his skin. He turned and saw Gawain examining his own tattoo from the Fey’s twin. They bowed again. “The Lord of the Forest favors you,” one said. “Enter to the next gate. You are almost there.”

Road to Mvien Gawain and Yvain called upon a ship of the Fey. This, at least, they could claim from their kin. It was a proud ship, slender and carved from the trunk of a silver oak. Its sails were dawn in color, blending with the rising sun on the sparkling waves. A great dragon’s head grew from the prow, arching proudly forward and breathing a tongue of intricate flames from between its jaws. The ship flew along the waves with no aid from the two knights. A whispered course and away it went, an unearthly wind filling the sails. They sailed all day, with no sign of land on the horizon. The isles were farther out than many expected, a good fifty leagues and more. By night the ship slowed and drifted, allowing the knights a semblance of sleep. The moon was full on the waves, glittering back from the depths and winking at itself. Gawain was awoken by an illusive sound on the sea. He sat up, his eyes narrowed in sleep and confusion. Beside him, Yvain dreamed on. A slap hit the side of the ship and it rocked precariously. Something bumped the hull and stern of the boat, and Gawain sat up, clutching for his sword, a sword that was not there. He leaned over the side of the ship and looked into the sea. Small algae in the sea glowing from the moon’s light made the ocean a faerie pond. Tiny fish circled the boat, flittering back and forth. A late night sea turtle drifted beneath them. A pair of luminescent golden eyes, eyes of the sea, blinked at him as the turtle passed. Gawain gasped and lurched back as a woman rose from the sea, her face oddly shaped and slick with scales. Her eyes, large and pale and knowledgeable, gazed at him with faint amusement. Her hair was dark blue and turquoise as the sea, and fins sprouted from her shoulders like aquamarine wings. Her ears were finned as well, angling out of her hair. Instead of legs, she was serpentine and scaled from the hips down, ending in a wide-finned tail. Seaweed dripped over her shoulders, providing a semblance of modesty, though her silvery skin slipped through the shifting vines seductively. She ran a webbed hand through her hair, smiling at the knight, her teeth slightly sharp. “Why do you come here, knight?” she questioned in a musically husky tone. At her voice Gawain shuddered: her tones were that of a Siren, alluring and dangerous. Gawain clutched the rail of the ship hard. He would not, could not let her sing to him. “I am a Knight of Minerin, and I seek my sword and horse.” The Siren touched his cheek, her eyes sharp but her hand gentle. “You must be weary from such a long journey of toil,” she crooned, shifting so that more of her skin showed. “Perhaps a lullaby to aid in your dreams?” “No!” Gawain said sharply. “That won’t be necessary. I was sleeping before you bumped our boat. I will rest again once you leave.” The Siren smiled, and the change in her face made Gawain shudder again. She opened her mouth and began to sing: “Over the mountains and cross the seas, He waits far under, within the valleys, Bullabylu, Bullabylu, His whispering name travels far on the wind, Hovering deep in a song through your mind, Bullabylu, Bullabylu, And sleepy children pleasure take, That not a nightmare will slumber break, Bullabylu, Bullabylu, Bullabylu your lids will touch, And dreams of fantasy and other kinds such, Bullabylu, Bullabylu, Will bless your dreams as you rest so deep, So close your eyes now, rest and sleep.” Despite his great efforts against it, Gawain felt his heart snagged as though by a fish hook and he stumbled towards the edge of the ship. The Siren stretched her arms out to the knight, and, gripping his wrists, pulled him into the sea. Yvain woke with a start as a splash startled the calm of the boat. Gawain was nowhere to be seen. With a shout the knight leapt to his feet, causing the boat to rock precariously. Beneath the ocean he could see the flash of Gawain’s black hair and red armor. A pair of pale eyes looked back at him; a sharp smile flashed through the water. Yvain cursed, yanked his boots off, and dove into the water, setting out with powerful strokes, his eyes piercing through darkness and swarms of fish to follow the Siren and her captive. Hundreds of feet down, nearly to the bottom of the ocean, a great city swam into view before him. Towers of pearl and walls of coral hardened stronger than steel formed the massive city. Fish darted in and out of windows, seaweed drifted from small perches. Not so far off a whale sang its song, casting a critical eye over the mythical, iridescent city. Faintly Yvain could see the Siren pulling Gawain’s limp body into the gates, greeted by two muscular guards holding long pikes. As Yvain approached, the Siren female turned back, her seaweed garment swept away by the current, and sneered at him, holding Gawain’s face close to her chest. “He is mine,” she spat through bubbles. Yvain darted forward, kicking hard, his face twisted in hatred. “Give him back!” he yelled, releasing his precious air. He clamped his mouth shut, his lungs straining. The Siren laughed, and flicked her hair over her shoulder. The guards let her through the gate, dragging the pale Gawain after her. Yvain shot forward, but the guards slammed their pike shafts together, laughing at him. “Go back to the surface and thank any gods you praise that you were not chosen,” they jeered. “Go back, mortal!” Yvain felt rage fill him and his eyes snapped through the water. Around him the sea boiled and the guards shrieked under his gaze, covering themselves with their arms and cringing towards the rocks. Yvain shot past them, his eyes wide with rage. The Siren was not far into the city. She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes widened. With a flick of her tail she shot farther into the city, shrieking in rage. From the small houses poked the heads of more Sirens, with eyes of all colors and hair that floated about their heads on the current. Yvain blinked in dismay, gritting his teeth. Beyond the crowd that had gathered before him, he could see the female Siren binding Gawain to a tall spire of stone in the middle of the city. The knight’s hair floated about his head like dark magical strands, carried on the current, and a bubble floated from between his slightly parted lips. His lashes were dark against his pale skin, and the Siren clutched his face in her hands and kissed him. Gawain’s eyes snapped open and he gasped, inhaling as the Siren transferred oxygen to his lungs. The Siren pushed away, trailing a hand down his chest and laughing. Gawain’s lips were pressed together to save his air and he trembled with rage as he struggled against the bindings. Yvain screamed, letting forth a huge stream of bubbles as the Siren pulled forth a long dagger of sharpened shell. She smiled at Gawain again. “Your blood will feed our children for many cycles of the turtle,” she hissed. “You may take comfort in that.” Gawain’s eyes widened as the knife slashed along his arm. Bright red blood burst and flowed into the water and Gawain winced. Silver blood mingled with his, another sign of his Fey heritage, and the life-fluid spread through the water in a huge cloud. The Siren smiled wildly, lifting the knife for another stroke. As the sharp blade approached Gawain’s chest, the Siren stopped short. Her lips parted in surprise and she looked towards the crowd. Yvain was floating above the Siren throng, his eyes literally glowing with rage as he bore down his full power upon the blade in the Siren’s hand. The Siren grimaced, her muscles bulging as she tried the force the blade into Gawain’s body, but Yvain kicked forward, increasing the power of his eyes. The Siren shrieked and yanked her hand away. The knife floated down to the floor. Yvain gave a large kick, scooping up the knife and slashing through the ropes that bound Gawain tight. Grabbing his companion by the arm, he kicked upwards, keeping his eyes on the Sirens below to stay their charge. They shrieked and writhed beneath him, singing and stretching their arms towards Gawain. Gawain shook his head, screaming a mouthful of bubbles to drown out their alluring noise. They burst through the surface, gasping in great breaths of air. The boat drifted lazily over to them and Yvain clambered over the side. He reached down and dragged Gawain into the boat along with him. “Fly!” he commanded to the ship, and they burst forward so quickly that Yvain lost his footing and sat down hard on the bottom of the ship. Gawain was panting, clutching his arm and fighting unconsciousness. Yvain cursed again and yanked out bandages, wrapping up the large gash in the knight’s bicep. “All-cursed Sirens,” he snarled. “What are they doing this close to the coast?” Gawain’s eyes fluttered. “War...draws...them...desire...blood...” His eyes closed and he slept. Yvain nodded, easing the Knight’s head in his lap. “Well, that would do it,” he agreed silently. “The Fey will see to it that they are punished.” He grimaced as he remembered the image of the female slashing into Gawain. “Severely punished.” * * * * Dawn found the ship resting easily in a cove. Seagulls swirled overhead, crying their hunger and their loneliness to the great rock faces before. Yvain sat up bleary-eyed, staring at the towering spires, and above them, the trees. “We are here,” he murmured. Prodding Gawain on the shoulder, he woke the knight. “The Isles of Mvien.” The ship found them a black-sanded beach to land on. An easy stairway cut into the cliff-side, providing them a way up. Four miles they toiled upwards to the huge forest that lay above. A great arch of silver appeared just before the trees. Standing beneath it, garbed in a slender gown of silver, was a maiden with two heads. Their eyes glittered amethyst and their skin was as fair as if they had been painted onto a picture. Their hair was long and black, pulled back from their eyes by scarves of scarlet. They smiled at the two Knights as they approached. As one, they greeted them. “Welcome, knights from afar. We are Lumiere and Foncee, the twins, the two youngest sisters of the Fey. You wish to find the treasures that lie within.” Gawain and Yvain glanced at each other, wondering how these two children were related to them. Gawain nodded. “Aye, we seek what is in those trees.” The twins smiled and their right hand reached up to pull at their dress. It slipped from their shoulders, falling around their feet on the ground. Beneath, the twins stepped away from each other, with their own arms and legs, garbed in silvery armor and white cloth. Their swords were pale and thin, glittering in the moonlight, clearly of Fey make. “To reach the second gate, you must pass us first,” they chorused. They tossed two swords to the knights. “Draw and fight!” Yvain cast the twins a glare. “Can you not see my companion is wounded? He is not fit to fight! What-” he paused as Gawain pressed a hand to his arm. Gawain was staring into the forest. “My steed calls to me, Yvain. I will fight from necessity.” Yvain lifted his head and concentrated. Then faintly to his ears came the sound of a fey whinny on the wind. The sound made Yvain’s hair rise and he felt fire rise through his veins. A feral grin stretched over his face and he turned to stare at the twins. “Well then,” he said. “That does change things.” Lumiere and Foncee smiled identically, their eyes flashing. Yvain twitched and grinned widely. He had never encountered another with the Lion’s gaze, and appreciated the challenge. Gawain bent and picked up the sword. It was of fine make and rested comfortably in his hand, but it did not have the feel of his blade, his true sword. He glanced at Yvain beside him, also handling his sword. “Well then,” he muttered again, and launched himself forward. The twins moved with a stealth and grace that belied the strength that flowed in their veins. Their hammering blows made the knight’s arms shudder and their ease with their blades far surpassed the knights’ with unfamiliar swords. Yvain’s head snapped back as the fey before Lumiere shot her leg up almost vertical, hitting his chin with her bare foot. Gawain stumbled back at the same time as his opponent, Foncee, leapt into the air, battering his chest with swift punches and kicks. Pushing against Gawain’s shoulders, she flipped over him and kicked him in the back. Gawain swept around, catching Foncee on the shoulder with his sword tip, tracing a small line of blood. Gawain and Yvain backed away, grimacing. The two girls watched them calmly, their hair shifting in the wind. Yvain wiped blood from his chin and shook his head. “Would that we had out real blades,” he hissed. Gawain stared calmly forward. “We have become dependant upon our helpers,” he said sadly. “There was a time when we were feral with any weapon.” Yvain shook his head. “Was that before the century, or even farther back?” He pushed forward, rage and frustration pouring speed and power into his limbs. A shrill equine cry from the woods made him cry out in anguish of anticipation. “You will not hold me from my Turrien!” he cried out. Lumiere’s eyes widened and she gasped as she was forced back. Grief that had been held within stone burst through Yvain’s quiet, controlled exterior and manifested itself in his blows and strikes. In seconds the knight’s sword tip was pointing at the Fey’s slender throat. Yvain glanced over at Gawain. His companion was white and sweating, clutching his arm, but he too held Foncee at sword tip, his eyes fixed on the forest beyond. Simultaneously a whinny split the air. The lines around Gawain’s mouth deepened and his eyes looked haunted. He turned his gaze upon the Fey before him. “We have defeated you,” he said calmly. “Let us pass.” The twins moved away from the sword tips and smiled. They pulled their white dress on, appearing still as thin and beautiful as they had when one. “Of course,” they said together. “Go, Knights of Minerin.” They spent a night on the plains, a fire the only light other than the stars and moon above them. Yvain cleaned his borrowed sword, eyeing it with distaste. “So who do we meet tomorrow?” Gawain shrugged. “That we will have to see on the morrow.” He paused, looking out into the night. “Do you think this will prove it?” he whispered. Yvain shrugged in response. “If they don’t, we can always call to our steeds, and swords are just swords.” Gawain sighed and nodded. “True, but...all the same. They must believe us.” Yvain put his sword on the ground and lay down, rolling up in his cloak. “Either way, we’ll not regain any of our strength jawing all night. Get some sleep. No need for watches here.” Gawain nodded, his eyes still on the forest. As Yvain drifted off, he heard his comrade again. “They must...”

Quest for Truth Gavid led them to his private rooms, his face suddenly lined and grave, his aura much more that of a ruler. Yvain and Gawain followed silently, their faces grave. The druid walked ahead of them proudly, casting them venomous glances. Yvain grimaced, running his hands through his hair, standing it on end and scowling. Gawain's lips twitched in amusement. The druid would receive a nasty shock when next he glared at the infuriated knight. Gavid closed the door to his stately rooms behind them with a deep sigh. "Sit, sir druid. You two," he said, pointing at the two knights, "stand before me there." Gawain's eyes glittered. "Rude of you, despite your leadership, to show favoritism and pretend to berate us." Gavid glanced at him, a hint of anger but amusement in his eyes. "Sit then, if you wish." Gawain's lips twitched. "I'd prefer to stand, thank you," he said in all seriousness. Yvain crossed his arms behind his back, staring at one of the shelves of many jars and books that lined the walls. A huge map of Kilcad stretched above the lord's desk of mahogany and detailed the tiniest tree impeccably. Gawain silently praised the artist and turned his attentions back to Gavid. "So what is all this?" the lord said. "I am a learned man, but I will admit that I have never heard the tale of the Knights of Minerin. Lord Druid, if you would please oblige?" The druid held himself regally, nose in the air as he glared at the two knights. "The Knights of Minerin were the sons of the greatest leaders in the land. When they were born they were sent to the Fey Folk to be brought up, for their mothers were each of the Fey people. The oldest of the two by a mere day or so was gifted with the Gaze of Discernment, while the younger wielded the Lion's Glare. Both were trained to be formidable warriors and were gifted with powers and instruments that were beyond dreams. The Fey looked down with pleasure upon their cousins. "The first gift they gave the two young boys when they turned thirteen was a pair of horses, one as black as midnight, and the other as shining as pure silver. Their names were Harfor and Turrien, and they were ever lasting. It was rumored that they could not die, for as the boys grew in stature and power, so did they, diminishing not. They could outrun an eagle with a wind behind him, and their thundering hooves could trample down any man standing in their way. They were as valiant in battle as their masters. "The second gift, when the boys became young men and grew strong enough to wield true weapons, were the two swords Danalin and Zephyrind. Danalin could not be broken by any means, not even the strongest stroke or the hardest crystal could shatter it. It was drilled with five holes down the center of the blade, and it weakened it not at all. But when the wielder of the sword swung the blade about his head, it would keen and shriek and draw the powers of the Fey. It was also called the Mourning Sword. The other sword, Zephyrind, was as sure as the truest arrow. Nothing could turn it aside once its course was determined, and with it all manner of winds could be summoned. It is said that when the wielder wished, they could summon dead spirits from the ground. "The knights themselves were, when they reached manhood, an unstoppable force. It was said that when they road to battle, the earth shook and the Fey Folk sang from the woods. The younger, Yvain of the bloody sword, turned back hordes with his Lion's glare, and the elder, Gawain, could see an assassin hidden in a tree from a four league away. They rode their magnificent steeds as if they were extensions of their own bodies, and their swords could cleave a man through armor. They held back entire armies single-handedly." The druid bowed his head at the end of his tale and then glared at the knights. "And which of you claims to be Gawain?" he asked viciously. Gawain lifted his head, eyes sharp. "I am Gawain," he said softly. "And I am Yvain," the silver-haired Knight clamed, his eyes narrowed as he glared at the druid. "Of course you are; that's what you claim to be," the druid sneered, his lip curling. Yvain's eyes shot open and the druid staggered back with a hand over his heart, gasping. Gavid glared at Yvain and Gawain pursed his lips in disproval. Yvain ran a hand through his hair. "Might have over done it," he admitted in a whisper. Gavid clapped his hands together. "There is nothing for it," he admitted. "You two must go out and find the necessary proof that you are what you say for us to trust you. Then, perhaps, you will forgive us these precautions and aid us in this bloody war." Gawain and Yvain bowed and left the room. Yvain cast a glare over his shoulder to the druid, still lying weak in the chair and staring, his face ghostly white. * * * * Gawain and Yvain rode their destriers deep into the woods, along paths that only they knew. Gnarled trees cast shadows along the path, dappled with sunlight peeking through the rustling leaves. Ferns and ivy made the ground lush with green; flowering bushes and trees cast their heady savors along the wind with their petals of pink, blue, and ivory. Red berries were caught up by the greedy paws of red squirrels, who chattered angrily at the intruders, their tails in the air. The sound of an eagle keening above the trees shushed them, and quiet took hold of the forest again. Subtle hints for knowing eyes were placed all over the forest. The fairy-like tinkling of wind chimes far above their heads marked the beginnings. Then it was a small ribbon tied here, a bell on a string there, tiny branches broken and small cuts in tree bark. Gawain saw all and waited, guiding their erratic path with ease. The sun was high in the sky when they reached a low, dark cave. Yvain frowned as a growl permeated from his wanting stomach. He grimaced and glanced at Gawain. His dark haired companion was staring keenly at the edge of the cave. "Foriyu..." he murmured Yvain smiled as the edge of the cave wriggled. A young man with charcoal skin and muddy green eyes turned to look at them, his dark curls a mess of bracken and ferns. Thoughtfully he brushed some dust from his neat black shirt. Now that he was facing them, they could see the gold and silver thread embroidered around the low neckline, his muscular chest slightly slicked with sweat. He grinned tightly. "Your eyes have not lost any of their keenness after 100 years a stone," he said, licking his sharp teeth. He nodded to Yvain. "Still no effect," he told him. Yvain swore with a grin. "I was hoping your defenses would have weakened after a century. There hasn't been a Lion's Glare for you to get used to." "Tough luck," Foriyu said. "So what are you doing here again?" His image flickered as he half melted back into the stone and then pulled free again. Gawain stared deep into his eyes. "Tell me the truth," he said gravely. "Where are our steeds and swords? Surely the Fey Folk know." Foriyu shrugged. "I do not know. The Elders would, but I can tell you for certain that until you retain them, no one will believe that you have returned." Gawain gritted his teeth. "When can we see them?" Foriyu blinked. "The Elders will not see you." Gawain stared in surprise. "What?" Foriyu's eyes turned serious and his expression went cold. "The elders have decided that this journey is your own. For now your powerful instruments are stripped from you, as are some of your other powers. The Elders deem the fact that you were turned to stone a mistake of carelessness upon your part. To redeem yourselves in their eyes you must find your swords and steeds unaided. Only then will you be able to save Kilcad from the Saxons and return to the Fey Folk." The Fey smiled in their baffled faces and melted back into the stones. Yvain sighed. "So the Fey are disappointed in us. Where should we start?" Gawain's eyes were shut tight in thought, his face dark. "The Shrine of Telturan." Yvain's face twitched, betraying no emotions, but his eyes had hardened. Grief edged his expression and his lips were tight. With a brief nod he turned his horse and led the way back through the woods. Gawain hesitated, staring at the stones around the cave. "What is your purpose?" he whispered. Still staring back, he turned his horse and followed Yvain. * * * * The journey to the Shrine was sixty leagues over wild fields. Silver elk and moon wolves were rampant, filling the grasses with bountiful game and dangerous adversaries. The knights covered the distance in five days, pushing their mounts to the limits through the wild grasses. At dawn on the sixth day, a low grey gate appeared in the mists before them. Yvain remained silent and tight-lipped as they approached, and Gawain felt a shadow of solemnity settle over his brow like a crown. At the gate a blind man sat cross-legged on the ground, his young face turned to the sun. Yvain and Gawain dismounted not far off, walking softly forward. The knights nodded to the man. With a small smile, he nodded back, following them with his sightless eyes. The air in the Shrine was chilled and quiet. Small footsteps of its keepers could be heard pattering up and down distant halls and stairways. Arches of pale, cool stone and pillars draped in cloth muffled the sounds of voices. Yvain's eyes roved over the chapel-like central hall. "I'd never thought I'd return here," he murmured. Gawain turned to him. "If you'd rather wait outside..." Yvain cut him off sharply. "I may be younger, Gawain, but I am certainly not weaker. We are evenly yoked. I can handle what you can." Gawain watched his friend solemnly. "I never have doubted your power, friend. But in this place, your yoke is heavier than mine." A young maiden robed in white appeared in front of them. "You have been expected," she said softly. "Please, come with me." The young lady led the knights deep into the catacombs. Stone coffins, the likenesses of those entombed within carved on the top, lined the paths. As they reached a tall door, Gawain realized that Yvain was no longer beside him. Turning, he saw Yvain standing at the foot of a coffin, his eyes blank and stricken. Upon the coffin was carved the face and body of a small young woman, her hair falling in spirals well past her waist. Her hands were clasped about a flute and her feet were bare. Yvain reached out and touched one of the stone feet softly, his teeth gritted tightly. Abruptly he turned and walked towards Gawain, his eyes sparkling violently with pain. "Let's get this over with," he growled. The maiden led them to the door and opened it. She stepped back, eyes downcast. With a small sigh Gawain led the way over the threshold. She stood staring out the window, the only occupant in the room. Robed in black, a raven perched near her, she turned slowly to eye them. "So you have come at last." She smiled slowly at Yvain. "I did not expect you to come here." Gawain folded his arms across his chest. "You know what befell us?" The woman smiled. "Mmm, I wondered why you didn't come to visit me anymore." Again her eyes moved to Yvain. "Especially you." "I never came to visit you," the knight said stiffly. The woman smiled. "No, of course not. You'll be glad to know that she died well on in years." Yvain could not stop the pain from pulling into his face. He looked as if she had slapped him, and he also appeared about to throtle her. "Sorceress," he rasped. "You have no idea, do you? When we were turned to stone we did not die. I saw every day of those one hundred years through unmoving eyes, unable to breathe or escape from my crushing prison. I watched as the woman I loved came to the statues every day and wept at my feet, wasting away into an old woman. I never saw her smile. Soon her tears stopped and she seemed to have no more life or substance than a piece of glass. I could not reach out to touch her, comfort her. And then she stopped coming, and I knew that she was gone forever." Yvain turned away, every muscle in his body tense. "Do not bring it up again," he snarled. Gawain swallowed pain for his friend's grief and turned to the woman. "Do you know where our swords and steeds are?" The woman pressed a finger to her chin. "Far away and guarded safe. They were taken to the Mvien Isles, off the coast of Kilcad. They are guarded by many things, and only the true Knights of Minerin may claim them. However, you two do look changed from your ordeal. The faces are the same, but with your powers stripped and your tools hidden, both of you look quite hopeless." Gawain bared his teeth angrily. "Tell us what guards them," he commanded. "Four gates, guarded by the Ten Siblings of the Fey. If you can get past them in fair combat, you will be given your steeds and swords again, and you will return to rescue Kilcad from imminent destruction." The sorceress smiled coyly, stroking her lips. "Not a small task for you at all." Gawain grunted. "We'll handle it." The sorceress smiled again, her eyes glinting with stars and moons and unseen futures. "For all of our sakes," she said in a low voice, "I hope you can."

Awakening The grasses waved from sweet summer winds, green as emeralds from the far off mountains. The sky was clear; only a few rolling clouds drifted lazily through the air. A huge forest, the law and heart of the land, pushed its fingers from south to west and over the mountains. A trembling of the air above the mountains whispered a promise of a storm later that night, a night of full moons and druids. Darkness fell quickly as the storm clouds poured from the mountains like dark smoke. Rain began to fall to the ground, flattening the grasses and making the trees dance wildly. Lightning flickered and thunder growled back threateningly. Two huge rocks, taller than men but of the same stature, revealed themselves to be statues as lightning licked across their chiseled faces. Rain streamed down their fronts and cheeks in the dark and thunder shattered the air as lightning kissed a tree of the forest, splitting it from crown to base. When the lightning's glow touched the statues a second time, glittering eyes out of regal, hawkish features watched its course solemnly. Flesh, whole and warm, replaced stone, keen glances where before only sharp, cold stares had been. Their long hair whipped in the wind, turned to obsidian locks in the night. Their fine armor, flexible and shining, sang as the rain struck it. Without a word, the two men strode through the sea of rain-sodden grass and stepped into the woods. * * * * By morning the storm had abated. A farmer had dazedly sold his two magnificent plough horses to ethereal looking strangers from the woods. The large bag of gems they had placed in his hands was worth a kingdom at least. It had been "no use to them". They had then ridden away down the muddy road, for all the world looking like kings. The mist swallowed them up, and when it cleared, they were nowhere to be seen. * * * * A dark-haired knight lay sprawled in a shifting green field, an arm thrown across his eyes. His brilliant armor seemed woven from liquid metal and formed for his body alone. Armor such as that was no longer seen in those days. A large mare with harness calluses grazed nearby, swatting a few flies half-heartedly. The thudding of another destrier's hooves on the padded loam made the knight raise his head. Dark hair spilled down his back, pulled into a rough horsetail. He watched the approach of the other steed with eyes the color of amethyst, revealing his otherworldly heritage. The large black mare approaching was ridden by a knight of similar proportions, his hair silvery and flying wild behind him. It was shorter than the black-haired knight's, falling in jagged locks about his face. When he wished he could run his fingers through it and make each lock stand on end, an intimidating appearance he had used with relish many times before. His gaze of piercing gold could halt a thief in his tracks and force a horde of warriors into retreat. With a flick of his wrist he tossed a chunk of bread into the dark-haired knight's lap. "All I could find," he complained. "Bloody war has stripped the land clean, no matter what theses golden fields attest to. At least the horses will eat well." He dismounted and sat down next to his companion. "What a mess they've made of everything," he growled, tearing off a hunk of bread with his teeth, staring out at the fields. His eyes were distant, as if already he were imagining the emerald grasses far away stained scarlet with blood running from the slain knights. The dark-haired knight fingered his loaf, eyes distant. "The forests are quiet," he muttered. "The druids have left the trees to guard the fools of men, and the Fey Folk are waiting." He looked at his companion. "You know we will have trouble convincing them, Yvain." Yvain glared at the trees. "We will have trouble finding our true steeds," he said, glancing at the plough horse looking expectantly at him. "We will have trouble finding our blades! Do you think they're just going to hand them to us, Gawain?" Gawain shrugged. "We will tell them the truth. They cannot deny that they are loosing this war. The land will be stained with blood before the Saxons draw back to their boats, if they draw back at all." Yvain sighed and tossed the rest of his bread to the plough horse. The mare whickered thankfully, lipping up the remains of the loaf. "To the Wall?" he asked. Gawain's eyes glittered. "To the Wall," he agreed. * * * * The Wall stretched for miles in every direction, a tall, eight-foot thick structure of stone and granite. Every fifty-miles an outpost was built directly into the wall. The greatest of these, christened Giant's Thimble, lay just beside the beginning of the forest. Enemies of Kilcad feared the forest because of the druids, clutching their powerful staffs and prepared to set a man aflame with a word, and because of the Fey Folk who dwelled within, a shy, mysterious, yet viciously dangerous race. Both of these, along with the land's natural terrain, provided Giant's Thimble with an impervious protection. Yvain and Gawain sat atop their sturdy mares and looked down upon the huge fort. "It looks the same," Yvain mused. Gawain sniffed the air. "The trees are older," he said. "100 years in our absence have passed; we will be but a legend." Yvain grinned. "People in a war spook easily. They will be clinging to hope, any hope at all. After we've had our say, the people will flock to our banner. It is the ancients we need worry about." Gawain said nothing. In silence, he urged his horse forward, and the two knights galloped towards the huge gates. A guard lazing on the wall heard the thunder of hooves and peered at the approaching riders. Indistinct blurs turned to warriors on heavy-set horses, their hair flying behind them. Their armor glittered in the sun, but they appeared unarmed. As he stared, one turned and met his eyes. Immediately the guard went rigid, the golden gaze holding him against his will. In moments the riders had stopped at the gate. "Open the doors," the golden-eyed one called, his glare urging the guard to obey. "Here, now, what's all this?" a cool voice questioned. A tall man in warriors' armor appeared at the guard's side, resting his elbows on the wall. Yvain turned his eyes to the warrior. The man twitched, his eyes narrowing, but he did not freeze. A smile curved his lips. "You have the legendary Lion's Glare." Yvain grinned wolfishly. "I have more than that, warrior," he said. "Open the gate for two weary travelers." The man eyed their fine armor and regal faces. "Mere travelers?" he retorted. "Surely not. There are no wanderers with such armor, and certainly none with the Lion's Glare. Who are you really?" Gawain finally looked up, his violet gaze disapproving. "Our business is not for wall-guards to hear," he said coldly. "When I was here last, guards knew when to hold their tongues and open the gate!" The warrior grinned. "Well spoken," he conceded. Turning to the guard at his side, he nodded to him. "Open the gate." The young man scurried away, and in moments the heavy oak doors began to groan open outwards. The two knights entered, immediately the focus of wary, untrusting gazes and whispers. The armored warrior from the wall stood before them. "I am Gavid, the Commander of Giant's Thimble. Perhaps you would like to come with me and speak your tale to a 'wall soldier' after all?" Yvain grinned, dismounting with ease. A boy came forward to take the reigns of the huge horses. Gawain watched the boy keenly as he led the destriers away. "He will make a great leader one day," he mused to himself. Gavid eyed him. "Thro? He's just a stable boy. What eyes do you have?" he questioned. A regal voice cut Gawain off from answering. "What sort of scholar are you, Gavid? The Gaze of Discernment is just as powerful as the Lion's Glare." A tall man in long robes with a carved staff approached, his long blue-black hair laced with braids and bird feathers. He swept the two knights with a knowing stare. "These two have Fey blood in their veins." Gawain and Yvain bowed. "My lord druid," Gawain said. "We are the Minerin Knights." A heavy silence spread through the courtyard; every head turned. The Druid watched them solemnly. "You are claiming a very serious thing..." "That is a lie!" a voice hissed. A second druid with white locks approached, a sneer on his weathered face. "The Minerin Knights were cursed over 100 years ago! Their statues stand on the hill where they fought last as proof of their foolishness!" Yvain snorted. "Go check the hill, then," he snarled. "The stone statues are gone! And if I remember correctly, it was our 'foolishness' that ensured victory when it was far from sight, and ensured the fact that you are alive today, however much I might dislike the fact." The druid drew himself up. "You are mocking a very powerful druid," he warned in a low hiss. "What you say cannot be true, and I will prove you for the fools and liars that you are. It is true that you have the Lion's Glare and the Gaze of Discernment, as the two knights of old did. You have armor of another land, but where are your steeds, Harfor and Turrien? Where are your mighty swords, Danalin and Zephyrind?" Both knights held silent, wounded by the names of their dearest possessions flaunted before their faces. Gawain breathed deeply, his eyes narrowed. "Perhaps you know, lord druid," he said in a deathly calm voice. "As you surely know, the knights were found with their enemy dead, but cursed in turn. Their steeds and weapons lay nearby, the horses alive, the swords intact. What was done with them was in charge of the druids until our return. Have you forgotten that part, master druid? When we return, not if. If I must bring down the Fey Folk into this matter..." The druid waved a hand. "The Fey Folk will not come to your aid," he snarled. "For you are not the true knights. I will stand before the King and declare it!" Yvain cracked his knuckles. "And you are a fool to say so," he snarled. "How about we knock some sense into you?" The dark-haired druid chuckled. "You certainly have the tempermant of one of the Minerin knights," he muttered. Gavid stepped between the two knights and the druid, his face pale with rage. "This is getting us nowhere," he said. "All of you come into my quarters, now!"