Through The Ages

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Klekarn sighed as he looked around and realized that Kelnek was missing. He turned away from the freely flowing river and looked for his friend. The old female who was watching the group of youngsters scolded him as he stepped away from the others, but her attention soon left him, giving Klekarn the opportunity to slip back into the forest of ferns that surrounded them.

He moved quickly, nervously listening for the pounding of great feet on the forest floor. Not all of the lizards were heavy enough to make the ground shake, but many were, and they were all hungry. His furred body was perfect camouflage against the dryer grasses that were the norm in the land they traveled from, but here in this green, he was all too visible. The great meat-eating lizards were here, too, he thought with a shiver. If only the spring hadn't gone dry!

He could barely remember the pool of water that had supported his people for many lifetimes. In the few seasons that he had been alive, the water had dwindled into a muddy pit, finally drying up completely. With great fear and sadness, the people had packed their few possessions and left their home. Many had died since then, taken by the great lizards, or the terrible birds, or just dwindled away from grief. Kelnek, Klekarn's best friend, seemed to be joining them.

The other male was slightly older than Klekarn, and could remember the richness that had been the tribe's life before the heat came. Lately, he had been staring off into space, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. His mother had been one of the first to die. Her mate, the tribe's leader, had always ignored her son. No one, it seemed, cared about the youth. Except Klekarn.

He remembered the first time he'd seen Kelnek in his... trance. The elders had gathered, fearfully, in a clearing, trying to determine the best way to travel. The youngsters were huddled near the old female watching over them. Kelnek had been weaving strong fronds together to form a rope, then suddenly had stilled, his head cocked to one side, his eyes unfocused. Klekarn had nudged him, with no response. Not until the younger male had begun to whimper, forcing his little-used vocal cords into the distress calls used by babies, had Kelnek focused on him. Hands moving quickly, he had warned of great danger approaching.

The elders had ignored him, of course, and when the giant lizard swept into the clearing, had been caught unaware. Three of the elders were gone instantly, the others scrambling into the forest's cover. The young ones had been hidden already, forced out of the clearing by Kelnek. When questioned, he said that he could hear the lizard coming. The elders scoffed at this. How could he, when they had not?

They still ignored him, but Klekarn and the other children had learned to watch Kelnek. He seemed to be able to sense the dangers of the land surrounding them, somehow. They felt safer when he was relaxed, and full of fear when he tensed. He didn't always lose himself in what he heard, or smelled. Once he had seen a terrible bird, far in the sky above them, begin it's dive. It seemed, when Klekarn thought about it, that he could see forever.

He lost himself often enough, though. Only Klekarn's voice or touch seemed able to bring him back, and so the already strong friendship was growing ever tighter. Klekarn was careful to always be near Kelnek, but in the excitement of finding the river, he had become distracted. Had Kelnek? Was he caught in some sense beyond Klekarn's own? Or was he...?

Shaking his head, and refusing to finish that thought, Klekarn padded swiftly along the back trail. His eyes and ears straining, he searched desperately for his friend.

He found him soon enough. Kelnek stood, more still than Klekarn had ever seen him, staring vacantly into space. Klekarn almost collapsed with relief, then fear and anger propelled him to stand in front of his friend.

He studied the dilated eyes before him. Sighing, Klekarn reached out to touch Kelnek, the anger draining out of him. Why was his friend like this? What power had made him so that he could get caught up in what he saw or heard? Klekarn had seen the sweet taste of overripe fruit, slightly overpowering to him, cause his friend to gag in sickness. Scent, too, was more powerful, and occasionally the touch of another would be painful to Kelnek. Only Klekarn's voice or touch never caused pain.

Fierce protectiveness rushed through the younger male. This power - perhaps it was a gift, it had saved so many of the people. But the cost to Kelnek seemed almost too high. Klekarn vowed that he would never let this gift destroy his friend. If Klekarn was the only one who could help Kelnek to overcome and control his power, then he would always be there.

He shook his friend's shoulder gently, watching as the eyes slowly returned to normal, finally focusing on his concerned face. He smiled, recognizing the moment when the dazed Kelnek realized what had happened. Hands stroked the silky fur of the older male's shoulders reassuringly. [What was it?] he asked, awkwardly using only one hand to form the question, leaving the other on Kelnek's shoulder.

[Cliffs,] Kelnek replied. [Cliffs near the river. I can see them through the break in the forest where that old tree came down. They have caves, Klekarn!]

Klekarn suppressed his excitement. [Are you sure?] At the other's nod, he smiled broadly. The people had been looking for a place where they could be safe. If this cliff was suitable, it could be the end of a long journey. He sobered. They would have to convince the elders to go and look - and that could be difficult.

Kelnek sensed his friend's changing mood and cuffed his head lightly. At Klekarn's look of mock anger, he smiled sweetly. [Come on,] he challenged. [All we have to do is get Tenaa on our side! The elders will do what she tells them to.]

Klekarn shuddered at the thought of approaching the wisewoman. But he had to agree with his friend - no one would think of disobeying her.

Hunched over the stream, Kelnek watched intently. His still figure cast no shadow on the smoothly moving water. Suddenly he reached into the stream and tossed out a long fish, aiming unerringly to the bank where Klekarn stood. Deftly the other male slid the fish into the woven net, already bulging, and whistled to attract Kelnek's attention. When he turned to look, Klekarn held up the net, and gestured in the direction of the cliff that towered above the forest.

Nodding, Kelnek waded out of the stream, shouldering the second net that lay on the bank. Carrying their burdens easily, the two conversed using their free hands. Eyes scanned the surrounding forest, both always alert for danger. This close to the cliffs, there were few of the great lizards, but there were some. Klekarn kept part of his attention on Kelnek, knowing that the other would pick up on approaching danger long before he would.

As they neared the foot of the great cliff that was their goal, Kelnek and Klekarn relaxed their vigilance, knowing that they were now within the borders guarded by the people's sentries. Their gestures became more fluid as their attention became more focused on what they were saying. Laughing, Kelnek teased his friend. [So are you sure that you are ready to be mated? I never thought you'd settle down with just one female!]

Klekarn mock-scowled at his friend. [I was busy finding the perfect one!] he retorted, then joined in the laughter. His eyes danced with joy as he thought about the ceremony that was to occur that night. [I am more than ready,] he added, the thought of his mate-to-be filling his heart. [Teara is all I will ever want. But what of you?] he questioned. [A few seasons ago I almost never saw you away from Tala, and her child looks just like you. We all thought that you would ask her to be your mate, and would be in the ceremony with us.]

Moving to stand in front of Kelnek, Klekarn shook his head. [I can't believe that you didn't tell me. Why?]

[She has to have told you why!] The younger male paced briefly, then spun to look accusingly at his friend. [Was it because of your spells? Because you haven't had one in a long time, and that would be so stupid!]

[No way. Why, Kelnek?] Klekarn bristled with defensive anger on behalf of his friend.

Kelnek looked at him and sighed. [You aren't going to give up on this, are you?] At the negative gesture, he continued, [She said no because she wanted a mate who could commit to her completely.]

[She said - she said that you were more my mate than any female would ever be, and that she couldn't compete with you.]

Klekarn's face was puzzled. [I don't get it,] he answered. [You're my friend, and I need to be near you to keep you from having a spell, but...]

[She was jealous, Klekarn. And in a way, she had a right to be. I will always need you more than I would ever need a mate.]

The younger male smiled, knowing that it had been hard for his friend to tell him that. [I'll always be there, Kelnek. But that doesn't mean that you wouldn't make a fine mate, and she's a fool.] He watched the smile on his friend's face, seeing the sadness that was still in the dark eyes. *More a fool than she'll ever know,* he thought, hurting for his friend.

[Let's go, Klekarn,] Kelnek said, starting to walk again. [I may not be getting mated tonight, but you are!] The hand gestures were light, and Klekarn let his anger go. This was something he could not protect Kelnek from. Kelnek wouldn't let him.

[Come on, Kelnek!] Klekarn gestured impatiently, his eyes darting between the receding figures of the rest of the travelers, and his motionless friend. Kelnek stood, his eyes trained upon the distant cliff they were leaving.

[What is up with you?] Klekarn asked. [We're only going to be gone for the summer - they'll be fine!]

Turning to face him, Kelnek answered, [I know. But I am worried, Klekarn. I have had dreams. If Tenaa was still alive, I would ask her what they meant.]

[What kind of dreams?] Klekarn began to walk along the path the others had taken. Kelnek sighed, casting a last look behind him, then followed the younger male.

[They are... confused,] he said after a few minutes. [I am in a place that I have never been, and I see an animal that I have never seen.]

[What is it like?] Klekarn wondered if this could have been a spirit dream. Before old Tenaa had died, the wisewoman had taken him aside, warning him to watch over Kelnek. {There are dangers ahead of him, spirit visions that he alone will have. I have no one to train, the people will be without a wise one, Klekarn. He will need your help.} Klekarn had shaken his head in denial, but had given in to the wisewoman's desires, learning a little of her craft.

[The animal?] Kelnek asked, breaking into Klekarn's memories. [It is as tall as you or I, standing on it's four feet. Thick fur covers it, and great teeth hang from it's mouth. I hear it, sometimes, a great roaring noise. It is deadly, I know, and yet, it does not seem to threaten me. It seems to wish me to follow it.]

[I must. It is warning me of something, Klekarn. I am certain of it. I fear it will be long before we return to the cliff.]

The two moved on with no more conversation, each lost in thought. Instinctive caution guided their steps, and soon they were among the rest of the people. Klekarn's eyes went instantly to Teara, his face lighting as always at the sight of his mate. Her smile warmed his heart, chasing away the cold fear that Kelnek's words had brought. It was only dreaming, after all.

The young one Teara carried squirmed, causing a hint of discomfort to cross her face as he kicked at her swollen abdomen. Setting him down, she sent him over to Klekarn. He held his arms up, causing a grin to break over Klekarn's face as he swung the youngster into his arms. [You should be more careful with your mother,] he scolded gently, looking at the face that mimicked his own. [She carries your sister or brother within her.]

[I didn't mean to hurt her,] the young male answered, his gestures echoing the penitent look on his face. [I forgot.]

[You must remember such things, Kelet. We are going to meet a group of people who do not know you. They will think badly of your people if you are thoughtless.]

[Good.] Klekarn's gesture was stern, but his face danced with the joy he felt. Holding the son of his mate, who was almost certainly his son as well, he looked over at Teara. Watching the grace of the pregnant female's walk, he wondered if the little one she carried would be a son or a daughter. He caught his breath at the image of a tiny version of his mate, his to care for and spoil and love. Life could get no better than this, he thought. His friend, closer than a brother, was at his side. His mate and her children were with him, and they were traveling to a summer festival, the first since they had found their home so many seasons ago.

Bitterly he remembered his thought of so few days ago. 'Life could get no better... well, it could certainly get worse.'

Klekarn looked around despairingly. The pounding rain cast a grey veil between his eyes and the horror that surrounded him, but he had seen it all too clearly before the rain started. His eyes closed as he remembered.

The small band topped the gradually rising hill, stopping in awe as they reached its crest. Wind poured gently over them as they stared out over the endless plain before them. Most of them had lived the majority, if not the whole, of their lives surrounded by towering trees. The land that lay before them was covered in grasses that rippled as the wind caressed them. Far out on the plain, a herd of beasts grazed peacefully.

Klekarn lifted the small boy so that he could see farther. [We came from out there, Kelet,] he answered. [It was our home, once.]

[There are no great lizards out there,] Klekarn answered. [We only found them when we moved into the forest.]

[There was no water,] Kelnek replied, turning from his contemplation of the open land. [We had to leave, or die.]

[Some people lived near us. They still had water, so they stayed. Remember Ulat? The stranger who visited last fall?]

[He was one of them. They sent him to find us, and invite us to a festival. The water is returning, and perhaps soon we will return as well. This year we will visit, and decide.]

Klekarn's eyes flew open as the image of his friend's face, glowing with hope and anticipation, flashed before him. He looked down, replacing that image with the sight that lay at his feet. Kelnek lay, blood caking the mud that covered his face. The rain was slowly washing the fur clean, as the male tossed in fevered pain. His broken leg was splinted as well as Klekarn could manage, but the open wound where the bone had emerged was swollen and hot.

'At least he was still alive,' Klekarn thought wearily. Pulling the hastily woven grass mat over his friend to keep the pounding rain off at least his face, he limped over to the rapidly filling bowl he had set out. Carrying it back to Kelnek, he sponged off the remaining blood, then turned his attention to again cleaning the infected wound.

Setting the bowl out to catch more rain, he looked over at the small shelter he had built. Kelet still slept, exhausted enough to forget for a brief time. Once he woke, Klekarn would try to make the shelter bigger, stronger. Safe.

He laughed bitterly. 'It had been safe enough,' he thought. 'Just not big enough.'

[Father?] Kelet moved his hands shyly. He had just started using the title for Klekarn, whose face glowed every time he saw it.

[When we stop tonight, can we build a shelter? Like we used to live in, when we lived out here?]

Klekarn grinned. [Sure,] he answered, wondering if he remembered how. [We can even sleep in it, okay?]

The boy bounced in happiness, then ran to his mother to tell her. She laughed, and looked over at Klekarn. [Have fun,] she gestured.

He smiled back, and when they camped, he and Kelet worked diligently to build the earthen shelter. He hadn't forgotten how, and when they were done, the tiny dwelling was indistinguishable from the surrounding plain. They had eaten and settled in to sleep, the other members of the group smiling indulgently at the small male's excitement. They had opted to sleep in the open. It was a warm night, and they were far from the forest.

Klekarn woke, worried for an unknown reason. Kelet slept peacefully behind him, and the night was quiet. He peered out at the sleeping camp. Kelnek stood, staring back toward the forest. Sighing, Klekarn recognized the rigid stance that meant a spell had overcome his friend. Wondering what had triggered the long absent spell, he stood slowly and headed toward Kelnek's side.

Almost halfway there, the ground shook beneath his feet, startling him. A second shake, and he stared past his friend's immobile body, horrified at what he saw. A great lizard, larger than any he'd seen before, was headed toward them. Its giant steps rapidly devoured the ground .

Klekarn yelled loudly, flicking a desperate glance toward the camp. The others stirred, then screams rose as the terror hit. He saw Teara stand, her pregnant bulk making her slow. He started to run to her, then looked back at Kelnek. The older male had not moved.

He felt time still, as his heart stopped beating for a moment. Thoughts fell through his mind, seemingly taking endless days to complete themselves. 'The shelter,' he thought dreamily. 'The lizard would not be able to see them, and it hunts by sight. I need to get them into the shelter.'

Time raced then, as he came to the dreadful realization. The shelter was ample for a male and a child, and would be cramped for two adults. Teara moved slowly and awkwardly this late into her pregnancy, she would need help getting down into the shelter. He could do that. Or he could pull his friend back to consciousness.

The choice would have broken his heart, but it had been made long ago. Placing Teara's image forever inside, he sobbed as he raced to Kelnek's side.

'I didn't really have a choice, did I?' Klekarn mused, as he dripped water into his friend's mouth, coaxing him to swallow. 'Even then, I might have saved you both, except...'

Kelnek startled back to awareness, choking as he tried to sound an alarm. Grabbing at Klekarn's arms, he gestured madly. [Lizard!]

Eyes widening as they saw the great predator nearly upon them, Kelnek turned to look at his people. They stood, huddled together, staring at their death. He spun to face the carnivore, pulling his knife and preparing to delay the inevitable, knowing he would have no effect on what was about to happen. It didn't matter. He had to try.

Klekarn swore and snatched the knife out of his hand. Grabbing at Kelnek's arms, he pulled him toward the tiny shelter that was their only hope. Kelnek resisted, then gave in as Klekarn refused to alter his direction. Running alongside his friend, Klekarn steered him toward the shelter. As they neared it, he began to realize that the lizard was farther away than he had thought, and to hope that he would have time to save Teara too.

Then Kelnek stumbled and fell. A howl of pain was cut off abruptly as blood trickled from a rapidly bitten lip. Klekarn stared at the jagged white edges of bone that protruded through the skin of his friend's leg. Kelnek gestured wildly. [Go! Get Teara!]

Klekarn shook his head sadly. A smile filled with pain answered Kelnek's pleas. Not speaking, he pulled his friend to his feet, and began the now much slower walk to the shelter. Kelnek resisted initially, still trying to send him after his mate, then began moving as rapidly as he could. He obviously still hoped that Teara could be saved. Klekarn knew better.

They reached the edge of the shelter just as the great predator reached the edge of the camp. Tumbling into the depression, Klekarn pulled the grass matting over to cover the opening and shield the three of them from the lizard's sight. As he did, he saw his mate's face. She smiled toward him, and gestured. [I love you. Take care of him.]

Warm tears ran down Klekarn's face as he remembered. There had been no blame in Teara's face, brightly lit by the moon light. Only love, and understanding. He looked down at his fevered friend, knowing that he would make the same choice again, if he had to. It was the only choice that could be made.

Blair Sandburg jerked awake, shivering. He put his fingers to his face, not surprised when they came away wet. He'd had dreams before, but this one had been vivid. Almost like a vision, but not quite. Sitting up, he held his head in his hands for a moment, then stood and headed out to the kitchen. He'd never get back to sleep without some tea.

Rummaging through the cupboard, he frowned as he heard muffled whimpers from the loft. Moving to the bottom of the stairs, he wondered if he should go and wake Jim. Sounded like he was having a doozy of a dream, too. Suddenly the whimpers stopped, and Blair moved quietly back to the kitchen. After the last couple of weeks, he thought, it was better to leave Jim alone. At least until Blair decided what to do about his life, now that academia was history.

Note/Warning: This section contains references to a religious figure. Although no offense is meant, if you think it might bother you, it is not necessary to read this section in order to understand the story.

"These people are worthless, Centurion. It won't take you long to agree with that."

Marcus Borellinus gazed at the speaker, cool contempt in his eyes. 'The old soldier had obviously been stationed here to get him out of the way,' he thought. The gaze moved over the stained, torn uniform, stretched taut over the paunchy abdomen, then lifted again to the face, twisted in hatred for the people the man had lived among for ten years. The people that Marcus had heard so much about.

"Why is that?" he asked, truly wondering if the man had a valid reason, or if it was just that they weren't Roman. But the man's answer was a long diatribe on the area's religion. Marcus paid no attention after the first few minutes, his gaze wandering over the crowded square.

Jacob shifted the heavy burden on his shoulder, stifling his sigh. Rebekah had insisted on spending Passover in Jerusalem this year, and although he had wanted to stay at home, he had honored his pregnant wife's wish to visit her mother. But the journey had been long and tiring, and he wanted nothing more than to reach their goal. The market full of merchants could wait. There was more than a month until Passover, since if they had waited, Rebekah would have been unable to travel, too close to her time. Their child would be born in Jerusalem, Jacob knew. There would be plenty of time for shopping.

Rebekah, of course, thought otherwise. His black-haired wife was enthralled by the wares available, and was lingering at each booth. Jacob's eyes rested upon her, and the happiness in her face warmed him, washing away some of the weariness. She had followed him without complaint, but Rebekah had grown up in the city, and life in his village was hard on her. He could wait while she explored.

Leaning against a wall, he watched her move across the square, her figure graceful despite her pregnancy. Shaking his head, he wondered how he had been lucky enough to win her. Suddenly, her face turned toward him and he could read the question in her eyes. Smiling, he gestured around the square. She blew him a kiss, then returned to her shopping. He shifted the bundle to the ground beside him, then settled more comfortably against the wall.

After a few minutes, he began to look around, his eyes returning to his wife every little while. Noting a few merchants that he might visit later, he swept his eyes to the other side of the market, and suddenly found them caught by another gaze. The Roman Centurion who stood on the edge of the square was looking straight at him, curiosity in his eyes. Wondering why he didn't feel the expected nervousness, Jacob looked back.

The two men studied each other for an unknown length of time, then a group of shoppers moved between them, breaking their connection. Blinking, Jacob retrieved his bundle, then worked his way through the crowd to Rebekah's side.

His balance restored by the love evident in her eyes, he smiled back. "I am," he admitted. "I'll be glad to rest. We can come back tomorrow."

The couple moved quickly from the square, Rebekah leading the way through the familiar streets of Jerusalem.

Marcus gasped, covering it up with a quick cough, as his eyes met those of the man across the market square. A spark seemed to leap through the air between them, binding their gazes in an arc of energy. 'The Jew seems tired,' he thought vaguely, wondering why it mattered. The voice of the soldier to his side blurred, fading away, as his world narrowed to include only the sight before him.

Suddenly his gaze was blocked by a mass of people moving across the square. He shook his head, blinking rapidly, as the sounds and smells he'd lost burst again upon him. Pain exploding in his head, he staggered.

Turning his head slowly, he saw the concerned face of the old soldier. "Just tired," he answered. "It was a long journey."

"And here I am blathering on about these people and their new Messiah, as they call him," the man said, extending an arm to steady Marcus. "Sorry about that, sir. I should have known better."

The soldier nodded, turning to leave the square. Marcus started to follow him, then stopped and looked across the square. The man was gone, of course. Sighing, Marcus walked away, wondering if the auguries had been wrong after all, when they had told him that the cure to his sickness would be found in Jerusalem. He'd been in the city for less than half a day, but already the curse had hit.

Jacob smiled involuntarily as he watched his wife with her mother. Rebekah and Sarah were more like sisters than mother and daughter, and since their arrival two days earlier, the pair had been happily gossiping and planning the events to come. He was just lucky that he wasn't being dragged into most of them. Sarah considered men a necessary nuisance, even the ones she was fond of.

Rebekah glanced over at him, catching the smile still on his face. "And what are you up to?" she asked. "You wouldn't be laughing at us, would you?"

"Never, my heart," he replied smoothly, his smile expanding to a grin as she picked up a cushion and brandished it at him.

"Out!" she ordered, her eyes dancing. "Mother and I don't need your help, or your heckling. Go find some man thing to do."

He caught her hand, drawing her to him, and kissed her lightly. "Banished, am I?" His eyes were full of love as he looked at her. "I'll go," he said. "But only because then I get to come back to you."

"Can't be flattery if it's the truth." He kissed her again, then grinned over at Sarah, who was watching them fondly. "Enjoy yourselves."

He drew a loving hand over Rebekah's swelling belly, then released her. Heading out into the street, he laughed as he heard Sarah's voice, deliberately loud. "Wrapped around your finger, isn't he?"

"Absolutely," he called back, hearing his wife's ripple of laughter. It went right to his heart, feeding the strangeness he'd had there ever since he first met her - the one that felt like home. With perfect contentment, he walked the streets of Jerusalem. Turning a corner, he caught sight of a Roman patrol. As they swept away from him, he wondered absently what had happened to the Centurion he'd seen the day they arrived in the city.

Marcus led the patrol along the quiet streets, hoping they would stay that way. Jerusalem was uneasy, and there had been incidents leading to violence. The rumors of increased taxes, the religious upheaval that seemed to be going on, the latest news from Rome - it all seemed to be feeding into unrest. Marcus wanted no part of it.

Oh, he was a good soldier. It wasn't conceit that had made him the youngest Centurion in decades. But since the sickness had come upon him, it seemed that being a good soldier wasn't enough. Not when his eyes could be caught by the gleam of light along an opponent's blade, or his ears trapped in the sounds of battle.

He sighed, wondering again what the auguries had meant when they had told him the cure would be in Jerusalem. So far, he'd been to three apothecaries, and four temples. He refused to believe that they had been wrong, and yet...

The sound of shouting in the streets ahead broke him from his reverie. Signaling his men to move faster, the Centurion headed for the disturbance. As they reached it, the Romans drew their weapons and waded into the crowd, voices raised to quell the protests.

Jacob walked swiftly, his strides more suited to crossing fields and hills than the smooth city ways he traveled. Turning at random, he gazed around, feasting his eyes on the city sights. Alleyways and broad thoroughfares, he trod them both.

Suddenly, emerging from a narrow, twisting road, he found himself caught up in a rapidly moving group of people. Loud voices and angered tones hit his ears, but the voices were so many that he could not distinguish the words. Impelled along by the mass of people, he tried in vain to get someone's attention, to find out what was happening. The group turned a corner, and their numbers seemed to double instantly. As they moved along the street, Jacob began to try to work his way to the edge, seeking escape.

All at once, screams rose from the front, and the people surrounding Jacob stumbled to a halt. Wide eyes met his, then looked away, darting around. He craned his neck to peer over the crowd, and groaned as he saw the crest of a Roman centurion in the street ahead. With the beginnings of panic, he realized that he'd somehow gotten caught up in one of the groups of protestors his wife's father had warned him about.

Trying to push his way to the rear was pointless, he knew. The men were packed so tightly in the narrow street that he could barely move. Weaving through them as best he could, he tried to reach the edge. Surely, if he got there, he could explain to the soldiers what had happened! He didn't even know what this protest was about.

As he reached the outskirts of the crowd, he turned to face the Roman nearest him. Opening his mouth, he raised one hand to gain the man's attention. A sudden pain crashed through his head, and he felt his body fall to the earth below him. Dimly, he heard a voice yell, "Halt!" Then the world went silent.

Jacob drifted back to consciousness, his head pounding in time with his heartbeat. Dimly, he heard a voice, cold anger clear to his ears.

"It is not your place to question me. I was in command on the street, and I am in command here."

The reply was too muffled for Jacob to understand, but the first speaker sighed in exasperation. "For the third time, I prevented you from killing him so that we can gain information. We need to know who is stirring up the people to these riots. Now go. I will question him when he wakes. Unless you think he will escape me?"

The last question dripped acid into the room, and Jacob shivered. He heard the second man's armor clank as he offered a salute, then walked away. A door closed, and the first man sighed again, coming to stand over Jacob's prone body.

"Young puppy needs housebreaking," he heard, the voice surprisingly warm. Something pushed lightly at his side. "I know you're awake. You might as well open your eyes."

Shrugging inwardly, Jacob did as he was told. Light slammed into his vision, doubling the pace of the pounding. He groaned, closing his eyes again.

"Hurts that bad?" The voice suddenly was much closer, and he felt warm hands on his face. "Open them again," the voice urged. "I've shielded the lamp."

Fearing the pain, Jacob nevertheless opened his eyes, his tension diminishing as only dim shadows met his sight. He blinked, resolving the fuzziness in front of him into a face. Drawing in a breath, he met the concerned eyes.

Marcus stared at the dilated eyes before him, assessing their function as best he could. He'd had some basic training as a healer, but head damage was far beyond his skills. He relaxed slightly as the glazed eyes cleared somewhat, and focused on him.

Anger and fear warred within the Roman. He had seen this man only once before finding him in the middle of a violent protest. The Jew had had a hand raised to strike at a Roman soldier when he'd been felled from behind, and yet Marcus had been compelled to prevent the final blow. Why? And why then have him brought to Marcus' own quarters, rather than to the noisome prison that the others had been herded to?

His words of interrogation were a mere screen, the Centurion knew. For some reason, he felt a powerful urge to protect this man.

His eyes narrowed as he saw recognition creep into the other man's gaze. Like any good soldier, he buried the confused fear he felt beneath the anger. "Name," he barked.

Marcus nodded slowly, keeping his face expressionless. "Well, Jacob, son of Samuel, tell me why I should not order you flogged, or killed."

"Don't play the innocent with me, Jew," Marcus warned. "Who was behind that riot? Why were you involved in it?"

He watched the confused headshake, listening to the rapid beating of the man's heart. When had he begun to hear that? He shook his own head, focusing on the voice. "I don't know," he heard. "I was walking, and suddenly I was in this group. I couldn't get away, there were too many people. And then the soldiers - you were there."

The heart beat evenly, even as fast as it was going. Dragging his hearing back from the edge, Marcus focused on the man's face. "Then why did you try to hit a soldier?" he sneered.

The eyes widened, and the heart skipped a beat. Marcus watched the lips move, but heard not a word, his hearing filled with the sound of the pounding heart. His vision vanished, and his world was filled with sound alone.

Jacob watched in panic as the Roman's eyes unfocused. The other man seemed to be - gone. The intelligence that had looked out of those eyes wasn't there any more. What was he going to do? What had he gotten himself into?

The Roman Centurion knelt at his side, hands clenched none too gently on his shoulders. The man's body was rigid, and his head cocked slightly to one side, almost as if he were listening to something. Jacob's breath came faster as he suddenly realized what he *might*, just might, be dealing with.

His grandfather's voice rang in his head as the old man walked along the hillside, his short legs working double time to keep up with the old shepherd's stride. He spoke of family legends. Of men blessed by God, who had watched over and guarded the tribes of Israel on the long trek from Egypt, and even before that. Of the men who had watched over and guarded the holy ones, keeping them from being caught up in the wonder of the gift they had been given. The men of their own family.

The Guardians had been gone for a long time, Jacob knew. It had been thought that meant that there was no further need of them. But if this Roman was a Guardian.... What did that mean for the People of God?

Jacob shook his head, regretting it briefly. No matter. If this was a Guardian, then it was his responsibility to take care of him.

Twisting slightly, he pulled his shoulders from the Roman's grip. Sliding his body, he sat up gingerly, gasping in pain as the movement told him of other damage than the blow to the head. Breathing shallowly to avoid the pain in his ribs, he leaned forward, grasping the Roman's face between his hands. Stroking gently along the harsh planes of the man's face, he spoke rhythmically, calling him back.

Marcus heard only the pounding heart. His world was only that sound. Then another sound entered, unidentifiable, compelling. He felt an overwhelming urge to follow that sound. As he drew closer to it, he began to feel. Smooth, light touches along his skin added to the sensation of the sound, drawing him ever faster. The sound became a voice. "...come back. You are lost in something, come back. Come back."

His hands shot up, capturing the fingers stroking across his face. The voice stopped, halted in mid-word by a startled gasp. His eyes focused on the figure before him.

Marcus' eyes widened as he realized what the other man was saying. His hands released the Jew's, only to change their grip to the man's shoulders. His fingers flexed, and he knew that he was leaving bruises. He didn't care.

"Not much," Jacob admitted. "Just stories, really. Even my grandfather had never met a man with senses that had been enhanced by God."

"Is that what you think this is? A blessing from the gods?" Marcus shook his head, his voice bitter. "More like a curse."

"Yes," Marcus interrupted. "And I can get so caught up in what I see or hear that I am lost within it. That happens... all the time, lately. I can't control it, and that makes it a curse."

Pushing down the wild hope that flared within him, Marcus scoffed, "And how do you think you can do that, when all the physicians and priests of Rome could not?"

"I know what I'm dealing with. They didn't." Jacob sighed. "What have you got to lose, if I can't?"

Becoming aware that his fingers were still buried in the man's flesh, Marcus released his grip, feeling a twinge of guilt at the relief he saw on Jacob's face. He nodded slowly. "You're right. I have nothing to lose."

Marcus' laughter filled his small room, as he felt something snap into place within him.

The hesitant voice halted Jacob with his hand upon the door. He turned, eyes full of love as he gazed upon his wife. "Yes, Rebekah?"

"I feel like I haven't seen you for the past three weeks. Ever since that horrible riot. And Deborah told Mother that she'd seen you with a Roman Centurion." Her dark hair gleamed in the light through the partially open door as she moved closer, standing in front of him and looking up into his face. "What's going on, Jacob? Are you in trouble?"

Her expression didn't change, but her face paled. "Jacob! You're not... not involved in the unrest?"

He lifted a hand, stroking her cheek lovingly. "No. I promise. I can't tell you what it is, but I promise it's not that."

Jacob's heart clenched at the desperate entreaty in his wife's voice. Inwardly he chafed at Marcus' decree that no one know of his senses. He longed to tell Rebekah what was going on, but something within him knew Marcus was right. His grandfather's stories had always been kept within the family, and they all told of danger if others knew of the blessing.

Her eyes closed, hiding the pain within. When they opened, they were calm beneath the liquid glitter. "Very well," she said quietly. "Will you be home for dinner?"

She looked away, then back. "I see. We have received word that Jesus is coming to the city. We hope to see him while he is here."

"Rebekah..." Jacob's voice was troubled. Part of him wanted to go with her to see his boyhood friend. He had not seen Jesus for several years. The other part... "You know that the Romans will be watching anyone who goes near him."

"I know. And I know that you think he is merely a prophet, Jacob. But what if you are wrong? What if he is the Messiah?" She raised her face to look at him, her eyes determined. "I want to see him."

She reached up and touched his lips with her own, the baby within her pressing against him. "You too, Jacob."

"I love you," he said, as she moved away from him. She turned back to look at him.

Watching her disappear into another room, he felt pulled in two directions. He wanted desperately to stay with her, but... what would Marcus do? He had improved, but still got lost in his senses. He bit his lip, then pulled the door open, walking out onto the bright street.

Jacob stared at Marcus, the anger taking a moment to build. As it rose within him, he felt his face tighten, along with his heart. How could he have said what he had just said? Even a Roman should be able to recognize the essential goodness in a person, shouldn't they? And this Roman was blessed by God.

He didn't recognize his voice as it pushed its way past his clenched throat. It was cold and still, and the words burned as he uttered them. "You are a fool, Marcus Borellinus, if you truly believe that what you just said is the truth. I know that man, and he could never be the liar, cheat, and thief you say he is. I may not believe that he is the Messiah, but I know him. And until this moment, I though I knew you, too."

He looked at the Roman's face, seeing the shock in Marcus' eyes, and the dawning of an answering anger. Not giving it the time to blossom, he turned, laying down the scroll he held, the token of the trust between them, on the table near the door. Not looking back at Marcus, he said, "This is all I have written about you and your senses. Maybe it will help you in the future." Blocking out the inarticulate protest from the other man, he continued. "As for me, I plan to go welcome a friend to Jerusalem."

Marcus stared after the disappearing man who had become his friend, his anchor in this mess that had disrupted his life. His gaze flicked over to rest on the scroll he'd left behind, then returned to the distant figure just as it rounded a corner.

The Roman soldier's lips tightened as he reviewed the conversation. It had started innocently enough, just a simple review of some basic control over his vision. How had it become a discussion of Jewish politics? It was no concern of Rome if the Jews fought within themselves, not as long as the Emperor received his taxes. He certainly didn't care if this Jesus was a preacher, or even the son of the Jew's god. But the Sanhedrin claimed he was a criminal, and that *was* his concern. If he was Jacob's friend, too, well... that didn't make a difference. It couldn't.

Anger and betrayal combined, and he glared in the direction the Jew had gone. It was none of his concern if Jacob got himself caught up in the net that would soon be drawn around this Jesus.

Marcus tossed and turned, images flickering through his dreams. Sweat poured from his sleeping body as the sights he witnessed tore at him. The face of his friend, racked with pain as a lash fell upon his back, the blows killing in number. Anguish filled him as he watched Jacob stabbed repeatedly; bound to a cross; tortured and maimed, then tossed out to die. Over and over, he watched, unable to help.

Finally, he woke. The horrible images still echoed in his mind, and the Roman swore violently as he reached for a flask. The cheap red wine made him choke as the flavor burst upon his tongue, and he threw the flask across the room, watching in satisfaction as the liquid dripped down the wall.

He had to stop it, he knew. He could not allow those things to be done to Jacob. Staring into the darkness that filled his room, he hardened his heart as his plan took shape. Jacob would not forgive him for it, he knew. But the Jew would still be alive.

Light finally crept over the horizon, and the sleepless Roman rose and dressed. After morning exercises he went to his superior.

"I would like to be the liaison with the Sanhedrin in the capture of this Jesus of Nazareth."

Jacob's anger lasted less than a day before it was replaced with hurt pride. He knew Marcus was a soldier, and even with a cohort under his command, the Centurion still had to obey Rome's decrees. And right now Rome wanted the unrest in Israel under control. If the Sanhedrin (fools that they seemed to be) told the Romans that Jesus of Nazareth was behind the problem, it only made sense that the Romans would want to do something about it.

That wasn't the problem. It was *a* problem, but not *the* problem. Jacob flinched as he recalled the cool disbelief in Marcus' eyes. Overhearing the Centurion speaking to one of his men about the "rabble-rouser Jesus", the angry words of denial had poured from Jacob's lips. And Marcus hadn't heard one of them. He'd listened, but he hadn't heard. He hadn't believed Jacob when he said that a man he'd known all of his life couldn't possibly have done the things they said of him.

Hadn't believed Jacob. And so Jacob had stormed out, leaving his friend, his Guardian, alone. What had he done? Worry began to build in him, but the pride and hurt pushed it down.

He stood now with Rebekah, staring in amazed wonder at the throngs of people filling the streets. When had the belief that Jesus was the Messiah become so prevalent? There was utter faith in many of the faces he saw, joy and certainty in the man they saw as the Son of God.

The crowd stirred, and a rumble of excited words began. The man they'd been waiting for was approaching. Jacob looked at his wife, wishing he could get her to go back to the house. They could find Jesus later, he had argued. But Rebekah had smiled and shaken her head. She wished to see him enter Jerusalem, she had answered.

So now they stood, in the press and heat of the crowd, waiting. Rebekah glowed with excitement, and Jacob could only feel pleasure in her happiness. He smiled fondly down at her. "You know we'll never get near him?"

She nodded. "It doesn't matter - I'm sure that he'll want to see you later, Jacob. But I'll be able to tell our child that he was here when the Messiah entered Jerusalem."

"Or she," Jacob replied, thinking happily of a black-haired daughter that looked just like Rebekah.

Together they watched Jesus of Nazareth ride into Jerusalem to celebrate Passover.

Marcus studied the message, then looked up at the Temple Guard who had delivered it. "This is certain?" He nodded at the man's assent. "The patrols will be thinly scattered tonight," he said carefully. "There is much unrest."

Marcus dismissed him, then sighed. Calling in his officers, he gave the order to stay away from the gardens that night. After the men left, he sat in thought for a moment, then rose, heading for the door. As he entered the street, he looked at the sun, low on the horizon. Purples and reds were already strewn across the sky. It would be a glorious sunset.

Jerking back to awareness, Marcus cursed as he saw the dark sky. How, on this night, had he allowed himself to be pulled into his senses? He moved swiftly through the streets, hoping he would be in time. Reaching his destination, he pounded on the door.

"Where is Jacob?" he demanded of the woman who answered the door. She blinked fearfully. "Where is he?!"

"He just left a little while ago." She looked at him fearfully. "Is he in trouble?"

"I hope not." Marcus gentled as he looked at the worried woman. Her heavy pregnancy made it obvious that this was his friend's wife. "Where was he going?"

"I'm not sure," she answered. "We had our evening meal, and then he left. He may have been going to visit his friend Jesus."

Marcus' eyes closed briefly, then opened to capture the woman's gaze. "Do you know where?"

"All right. If he comes back, keep him here. Do you understand? It could mean his life."

She paled, and he felt regret for his blunt words, but there was no time for apologies. He turned, and ran through the dark streets of Jerusalem, hoping he was wrong. Hoping that, even if he was right, he would be in time.

Jacob walked steadily down the street, pushing worry for one friend down beneath the concern he felt for another. Regret for the rift with Marcus was ever-present in the past days, but this - this was new. He had never seen Jesus so subdued as he had been earlier that day. Even the obvious joy he'd exhibited in his congratulations about the child Rebekah carried had held an undertone of despair. His laughing, gentle friend was desperately afraid of something, and Jacob had no idea of how to help.

He knew that Jesus planned to pray in the garden tonight, and all of a sudden, Jacob had decided to join him there. Perhaps just the company of friends would bring comfort to the troubled man. His steps quickened as he neared the entrance.

He gasped as hands closed roughly upon him, his instinctive cry shut off by a hand over his mouth. He struggled fruitlessly as he was drawn inexorably into the shadows of an alleyway. "Be still!" hissed in his ear, and his body went limp with surprise as he recognized the voice. Then, in anger, his struggles renewed.

But the moment of stillness had given Marcus a chance for a solid grip on him, and soon Jacob had to admit defeat. He hung, panting, from the Roman's hands. The hand keeping him silent relaxed, and he was turned to look up at Marcus.

Eyes blazing, he glared at the Guardian, whose face looked back without expression. "What do you think you are doing?" he ground between clenched teeth. "I am on my way to pray, and you have no right to do this!"

"By assaulting me?" Jacob shook his head. "I truly thought you were different. But you are like every other Roman, aren't you? We Jews are beneath your notice, unless you want something. So what is it you want, Roman?"

He felt Marcus stiffen, and open his mouth to speak. Then the Centurion's expression changed, and he swore quietly, his grip tightening, a hand once again covering Jacob's mouth. "I want you to be quiet," he growled into Jacob's ear, holding him still.

He gasped into Marcus' hand as a troop of Temple Guards swept across the alley entrance, followed by priests and officials. Hidden in the darkness, the two men watched as the large group entered the garden where Jesus was praying. Held still by iron hands, Jacob sobbed in helpless anguish as he watched them arrest his boyhood friend.

When all was again quiet, the hands relaxed and Jacob tore away, whirling to look at the soldier who had kept him from helping his friend. "You knew." His voice shook with anger.

Marcus was silent. Jacob laughed bitterly. Even he could hear the edge of hysteria in his laughter, and he cut it off quickly. "It doesn't matter, does it? Innocent or not. You could have warned him. You could have told me!"

"I know you wouldn't," was the acid reply. Jacob backed away from the Roman soldier, stopping when he reached the street. Silhouetted against the moonlight, he looked at Marcus, knowing the Guardian could see him clearly. "Stay away from me," he whispered, feeling satisfaction when Marcus' body jerked. "I don't want to see you ever again."

Marcus sat his horse, some distance away from the hill Gethsemane. Even at this distance he could easily see the soldiers gathered at the foot of the three crosses that stood atop that hill. His face twisted in distaste as he realized that they were gambling over clothing. A wise commander didn't interfere in his men's pastimes, he knew. But that didn't mean he had to like them.

No more than he had to like his orders. He just had to follow them. Pulling a crumpled scroll from his pouch, he looked at it, then shoved it back without unrolling it. He didn't need to see the words again. He was being transferred to Gaul, to "honor his loyalty and ability to command men". It was both a reward, coming as it did with a promotion, and a punishment. He had done his job, followed his duty. But he had made no bones about his disagreement with Pilate's decision.

Sweeping his gaze across the assembled crowd, the Centurion watched for signs of trouble. Jesus had too many supporters for complacency about his execution, no matter how many people had screamed for Barabbas to be released in his place. And that had been staged, Marcus knew. The man had enemies, too.

The crowd was on edge. The dim, strange light of this afternoon made faces seem twisted, different, and even his eyes were affected. Those without his vision struggled to see clearly, and tension grew. So far there had been no trouble, but that could change at any minute.

He looked around again, then his gaze was caught by a face which shone clearly through the dimness. His eyes locked on the man who hung against the rough wood of the center cross. Following his vision, his hearing swept across the intervening space, and a rapid heartbeat pounded in his ears. The crowd's noise faded away, and the pounding drum became his world. The beats came evenly at first, then became slower.

Jacob stood in the crowd, staring at his friend who hung dying on a Roman crucifix. Only a few feet away, yet he was powerless to aid him. He took small comfort in knowing that earlier he had been able to share Jesus' burden, one of several drafted to help the weakened man carry the cross to the crest of this place of death.

He had been present when Pilate had decreed there was no reason to hold Jesus, rejoicing at the thought that the prophet would soon be set free. That bright hope had been destroyed as the mob cried for the release of a hardened criminal in Jesus' stead. He had turned away, unable to watch, as the cohort had scourged and mocked his gentle friend. Men he had met, some he liked, were treating Jesus as a plaything. As he pushed his way through the jeering throng, Jacob had caught sight of Marcus, leaning against the wall, his face expressionless as he watched his men. That sight had been clear in Jacob's mind as he shook through the night.

He had risen early, determined to at least tell his friend good-bye. Rebekah joined him without a word, her face pale and determined. Together, they had stood by the side of the road that Jesus must climb.

They had seen him fall, once, then again, and yet again. After the first two, he had risen on his own, struggling to lift the heavy wood. The third fall had been near them, and Jacob had taken an involuntary step forward onto the road, impelled to go to his friend's aid. When Jesus had been unable to lift the cross a third time, the Romans had pulled men out to help him. Jacob, already on the road, had been quickly chosen.

Sick and dizzy, Jesus had still smiled when he recognized Jacob, gratitude clear in his eyes. Shaking his head at the sight of the tears Jacob shed, he had spoken. "Don't let grief for me blind you," he said. "You will need clear sight today, Jacob. Or your friend will be lost."

Jacob swallowed hard. "Jesus..." he began, then caught sight of one of the soldiers aiming a blow at Jesus, to punish him for speaking. Jacob moved quickly to stand between the soldier and his friend, glaring at the Roman, who had merely laughed and changed his blow to fall on Jacob. A second soldier caught the first one's arm, stopping the blow from falling. "I wouldn't," he had warned. "That's the Centurion's Jew." The first Roman scowled, but lowered his arm, ordering the group to get moving. Together, the Jews had carried the crucifix upward to Golgotha.

So now he stood, arm around Rebekah, watching through the dimness as Jesus slowly died. He was acutely aware of Marcus, who sat his horse not too far away, coordinating the cohort that was keeping order. He hadn't looked at the Centurion since the first time he'd caught sight of him, his anger too strong. Rebekah's sobs echoed quietly in his ears as Jesus grew obviously weaker.

All at once, for no reason Jacob knew, his head turned, his gaze drawn to rest upon the Roman Guardian. Marcus sat on his horse as he had all afternoon, his face calm as he looked at the three men condemned to die today. No, Jacob realized. That was not calm, that was still.

Sudden fear rose in him as he followed Marcus' gaze, finding it locked upon Jesus. Marcus was caught in one of his senses. The words spoken earlier today rang in his mind. He knew suddenly that it didn't matter what Marcus had done or not done. He had to bring him back, and instinctively he knew that it had to be done before Jesus died. Or Marcus would be lost.

Abruptly he moved, Rebekah's questions ignored as he hurried to make his way to Marcus' side. Reaching the Centurion, he sighed in relief as he realized that he still had time. Turning the horse so that Marcus looked away from the dying man, he began to call him back, his hands and voice urging the Guardian to awareness.

Marcus blinked slowly, looking at Jacob, his eyes confused. "J-Jacob?" he faltered. Jacob nodded. The Roman smiled uncertainly. "You're here. I thought..."

Marcus opened his mouth to reply, his words lost in the sudden rumble that filled the air as the earth shook beneath them. Screams of fear from humans and animals alike joined the earth in its cry of anguish. With strong hands, Marcus kept his stallion from bolting, then pulled Jacob up behind him, kneeing the horse forward to join his soldiers. Suddenly the earth stilled, and quiet fell over the land, broken by scattered sobs. Looking toward Golgotha, Jacob knew Jesus' torment was over.

Pulling his horse to a halt, Marcus slid off the animal's trembling back, then offered Jacob a hand down. Jacob took it slowly, not looking at the Roman as his feet hit the ground. He took a step away, then halted as Marcus spoke.

Jacob turned, his eyes drawn to the Guardian's face. He nodded slowly. "I don't know if he was the Messiah," he said. "But he was at the very least a prophet of God. And he was my friend."

Jacob laughed, the tone sad and bitter. "Sorry," he repeated. "You could have saved him."

"No. I couldn't. It was all I could do to keep you from being arrested with him."

"Why? Why did you, Marcus? We had enough time, if you had just told me." Jacob's voice begged for understanding.

"I dreamed, Jacob. I dreamed, and in my dreams it was you, hanging there. I couldn't let that happen. All I could think about was protecting you, keeping that from happening." Marcus' voice held an answering plea.

Jacob's eyes closed, and he stood there for a long moment before he opened them. "Couldn't you have tried to save him?"

He watched the shame and anger rise in Marcus' face, as the answer came. "I tried, Jacob. By all the gods, I swear I tried! For hours I stood and begged Pilate to reconsider, and when he wouldn't I told him what I thought of a man who would let a mob dictate his conscience. It did no good, Jacob. And I'm being sent to Gaul for it. But I did try."

Jacob's face blanched. "Sent to Gaul?" Even he knew that was often a one-way trip.

Jacob's eyes were full of pain. "I will miss," he swallowed, ignoring the Roman's pained gasp. "I will miss seeing my child born."

Looking steadily at Marcus, Jacob smiled. His smile was so full of bitter sweetness that Marcus was transfixed. "Yes, Marcus, I am."

"Then I'll follow." There was no give in Jacob's voice. "You are my Guardian, Marcus. My place is at your side."

"It's not your decision, Marcus. It's mine." Studying the Roman's face, Jacob was satisfied by the reluctant agreement he saw, and the dawning happiness. He smiled, part of him just as happy. Rebekah would be safe with her family, as would their child. He would always miss them, they had been his life. But he was the Watcher to a Guardian, and he would be where he belonged.

Eyes snapping open, Jim Ellison stared at the ceiling. His body was covered with sweat, and his heart was pounding loudly in his ears, blocking out other sounds. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he lay there until his heart slowed.

Rolling to sit on the edge of the bed, he held his head in his hands. The first dream had been bad enough, the one he'd had a few nights ago, but this one! He knew where they were coming from, of course. During the day, the guilt he felt over what Sandburg had done was easy enough to bury. It only made sense for it to come out in his dreams.

Sacrifice, betrayal, anger - this dream had held them all, with a healthy leavening of guilt. All the emotions that he kept hidden, that he suspected Blair did as well. They had to work through this, he knew. He just had no idea of where to start.

Standing carefully, he winced as he bore weight on his still-healing leg. Limping his way down the stairs, he froze at the bottom as he heard his Guide's voice, blurred with sleep and muffled by a pillow. " - ekah," he heard. "Jesus!" There was despair in that voice.

Jim stared into the darkness. Had he heard...? Was Blair having the same dream? He stepped to the door to Blair's room, hesitating outside. No, he decided finally. Even if it was the same dream, he had given up the right to trespass in Sandburg's territory. He had asked too much of his Guide, he couldn't ask more. Even if it was just about a dream.

Ellis sat on the hill's summit, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was comfortingly aware of the great building in the valley below, his home for the last four years, and tomorrow to become his home forever. Finally, finally, he would take his full vows, and enter into the brotherhood fully. Tomorrow he would dedicate his life to the service of God, and to the search for knowledge that was St. Ambrose's purpose.

He had known what he wanted soon after he'd entered the monastery's walls. St. Ambrose was a place full of light and laughter, its monks dedicated to the joy of their faith. For a confused sixteen year old, it had become a haven, a source of strength, and the home he'd thought lost to raider's fire and sword. The brothers had replaced his murdered family, their love seeping through his defenses to bring healing. Their love of peace had filled him, their love of learning had inspired him. Their faith had become his own, and he never, ever, wanted to leave.

Tomorrow, on his twentieth natal day, he would give his hand to the Abbot, and raise his voice in an oath to God. He would become Brother Ellis, monk of St. Ambrose. Nothing would change, really. His studies would go on, his daily routine would be the same. And yet, everything would change.

He watched the play of the sunlight on the water below. The smell of salt rolled on the wind, and Ireland's sod glowed green beneath him. "Go and search your mind," the Abbot had told him. "Be very certain that this is what you want." Obedient, he had searched for doubt, finding none. He sat, at peace, and gave thanks for the beauty of his life.

Some time later, Ellis was drawn back into self-awareness by the loud clanging of the chapel bell. He started, surprised by the sound. Could it be time for services already? The bell's ring cut off as he turned and his cry of protest rose clearly in the air around him. He stared in horror, stumbling toward the monastery as images from his years-gone nightmares played out before his eyes. The building and the people were different, but the smoke as the building burned and the cries and blood as the people died were the same.

They had destroyed his home and his family once before. Now the Vikings had come to do it again.

Dashing the sweat out of his eyes, the berserker grinned wildly as he caught sight of another victim. He could taste the blood in his mouth as he headed toward his prey, the fear in the old man's eyes producing not even a twinge of mercy. Dimly he knew that the monk was too old to sell at a profit, and so was his to destroy. He dedicated the death to the gods as he swung his axe, feeling the warm drops on his face as a benediction.

The warmth of the sticky liquid caught his whole attention as it ran down his face, and he froze, the axe held in mid-air, as his world narrowed to that one feeling, that wonderful gift from Odin. He stood, lost in awe, as the blood dried upon his cheeks.

His men came around the corner of the building, weapons at the ready. Relaxing as he saw no sign of an opponent, the man in the lead sighed as he looked at the still berserker. Handing his sword to a third man, he walked carefully closer to the frozen figure, stepping in front of him and waving his hands in front of the man's eyes. "Eric," he said commandingly, but got no response.

"It's happened again, hasn't it, Eorl?" came a question from the group. Scowling, the second-in-command looked back at them, nodding.

"Eric!" he said again, to no more avail than the first time. Knowing better than to touch the berserker, he turned away. "He'll come around when the gods let him go," he muttered, then raised his voice. "Round up any stragglers and gather their belongings together. Beorn, take three men and get what's worth taking out of the chapel. We came on them fast enough, they'll not have had a chance to hide the altar plate. We'll move to the ship if Eric awakens early enough - if not we'll camp here."

He watched with satisfaction as the men moved to follow his commands, then turned to study Eric, the satisfaction turning to worry. "The gods must love you, cousin," he said. "You keep freezing like this in battle, and they'll have you in Valhalla before the year is out."

Expecting no response, his eyes widened as the berserker whirled, pushing him out of the way. He watched as the great axe his cousin carried whistled through the air to stop at the throat of a slight figure, stopping the young man's forward rush. The knife he carried dropped to the ground, and the monkish figure stared steadily at the gory face confronting him.

Waiting for death, the young man stood still as Eric had earlier, blue eyes challenging and full of anger. Suddenly the berserker laughed, dropping his axe and wrapping a large hand around the smaller man's arm. Pulling his captive to him, the Viking continued to laugh as he studied the young face. Suddenly spinning him towards his cousin, Eric looked over at the other raider. "Mine," he growled, nodding at the captive, who stood stunned in the man's harsh grip.

Nodding in agreement, the second-in-command dragged the new thrall after him as he followed Eric from the monastery. Idly, a tiny part of his mind puzzled at the mystery. How had Eric, caught in the gods' spell, known the Irishman was there? And why had his cousin, who had never once claimed a personal slave from their captives, taken this one as his own?

Ellis huddled in the narrow passageway that ran the length of the Viking ship. The other captives had been herded to the other end, and at least got to share the comfort of bodily warmth and common grief. He had made to join them, but the blond who had dragged him through the ruined monastery had pushed him roughly back, his tone and gestures making it plain that he was to remain here. It made no sense, but then, nothing about this day did.

Wet and cold had become his world. The dragon that crowned the prow sent showers of spray over him as the ship dashed through the swelling waves, and salt encrusted his clothing, face, and hair. The wind filling the sail gusted, and the cold air whipped through his soaking garments. Crouched behind the figurehead to gain as much shelter from the seawater as possible, Ellis shivered in misery.

Perhaps he had been singled out because he had tried to fight back. The monks of St. Ambrose were followers of the Prince of Peace, and Ellis had lived the last four years attempting to forget his earlier training. But in the horror and anger he'd felt, the older Ellis had come to the fore. If he could have, he'd have killed the raider, and felt joy in that death. Viking or no, Ellis had violated his beliefs and raised a weapon against another child of God. Shame brought heat to his face, and he bowed his head in a prayer for forgiveness.

Rough hands jerked him from his crouch and sent him sprawling on the ship's ribbing. Looking up, Ellis met the amused eyes of the blond Viking. At the man's gesture, he stood carefully, feet spread to balance on the moving wood.

"Time to work," the raider said in perfect Gaelic. Ellis jerked in surprise at hearing understandable words, causing the man to laugh. "You'll learn our language soon enough," he said. "For now, take food to the men."

Spinning him around, the raider pushed Ellis toward the back of the boat. Reaching their goal, he handed the Irishman a large bucket containing hard rolls and meat layered together. "Pass these out," he commanded. Staggering as the ship rolled, Ellis did as he'd been told.

Halfway to the prow, the ship lurched and he fell heavily across a lap. Hard hands grabbed him, pushing him upright. He flinched as the man he'd fallen on drew back a fist to hit him, but the blow didn't land. Instead a heavy hand fell along his back, wrapping around him and pulling him closer to the raider. He struggled futilely against the pressure, then suddenly was released. He watched in shock as the blond man stepped in front of him.

The black-haired man who'd touched Ellis growled a protest, to be answered by quick words from the blond. He scowled, tensing, then relaxed as the blond continued. Shrugging, he grabbed a roll from the bucket Ellis still held, shoving the food into his mouth. The blond turned to Ellis. "Keep going," he said tersely. "The men are hungry."

Ellis stared at him, then turned and continued along the aisle. He could feel his body shaking, but did his best to hide the tremors from the blond Viking following behind him. Somehow, he knew that it would be a bad idea to show his fear. Finally, all of the raiders had gotten food. A pair of his fellow captives were struggling to move a heavy pot, steaming from the hot liquid within it, along the length of the ship. As the men dipped large horns into the pot, their burden lightened until they could move the pot while standing instead of crouched to drag it. In utter despair, Ellis recognized both the Abbot and Brother Francis, his sponsor.

As they reached the prow, where Ellis and his watcher stood, the blond jerked the bucket out of Ellis' hands. Dropping it into the now-empty pot, he sent the two monks back toward the other captives. Turning to Ellis, he pointed to the place where Ellis had been huddled earlier. Reluctantly, Ellis returned to the miserably wet, cold spot.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to sleep, curled into as tight a ball as he could. Tremors shook his slight frame, and the movement of the dragon-headed ship made him nauseous. Eventually, however, exhaustion overcame his chill and sickness, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Some unknown time later, he woke, feeling himself watched. While he slept, night had fallen over the ocean, and the face that studied him was highlighted by the glow from a carefully shielded lantern. Eyes wide in confusion, Ellis looked back silently. After long moments, the dark-eyed Viking watching him nodded slightly, then stood. As he leaned forward, Ellis shrank back against the wood behind him, causing a scowl to form on the man's face. He spoke, curtly, then frowned as he saw that Ellis did not understand his words. Shrugging, he completed his movement, then strode away. Ellis stared after him, hands clutching at the wonderful warmth of the heavy leather cloak the Viking had wrapped around him. His attempts to understand were futile, the residual body heat from the leather seducing him back into sleep.

Waking again, he blinked at the bright sky above him. He lay curled upon the decking, the heavy leather wrapped tightly around him. The blond who had tormented him the day before sat cross-legged in front of him.

Looking up at Ellis' movement, the man looked at him with narrowed eyes, then shook his head. "My name is Eorl," he announced abruptly.

Pushing himself carefully into a sitting position, Ellis wondered if this man was to become his owner. It could be worse, he supposed. He had at least protected him yesterday. Idly, he wondered who the man who had given him the cloak was, then pushed the question from his mind. It didn't really matter. "I am Ellis," he replied.

Eorl shook his head. "You are a thrall," he corrected. "You have no name, until your master gives you one. He may allow you to keep your old name, or he may not."

"Most of the slaves here will be assigned as general property, to be used by anyone who needs their service." Eorl shrugged. "You have been claimed."

"Eric." The Viking laughed at the blank look in Ellis' eyes. "Our leader, thrall. My cousin. The man who captured you yesterday."

Involuntarily, Ellis shivered, the blood-covered face of his captor flashing in front of him. There had been no mercy in those eyes, only the promise of pain and death. That was to be his owner? Suddenly, he realized that Eorl was still speaking. He forced himself to listen.

"... never done that before. I'm not sure why he did, but it's a good thing for you. If he hadn't, Beorn would never have let you go yesterday. You're just his type."

Ellis felt his skin crawl as he realized what Eorl meant. If he hadn't been claimed by this Eric, he'd have been... Would this...? He met Eorl's eyes, knowing that fear and horror showed in his own. The blond man laughed gently.

"My cousin likes women, thrall. Although..." Eorl's eyes swept along Ellis' body before returning to his face. Appreciation was evident in the raider's eyes. "You're certainly pretty enough. Eric's generous. Maybe he'll share."

Ellis flinched back from the man's extended hand, producing another laugh. "Enough of this," Eorl said. "Eric wishes you to learn our language. So, we begin. And I suggest you learn quickly. He's generous, but not especially patient."

By the time they came in sight of land, Ellis knew enough Norse to be understandable. He could follow speech by others as long as they spoke slowly. And despite himself, he was beginning to develop a reluctant fascination with the culture and beliefs that were being revealed during the language lessons. His attention compelled originally by the promise of food rewards and the threat of painful punishment, he found a growing desire to learn more. Bemused, he recognized the thirst for knowledge that had been honed by the years spent in the monastery.

Conditioned to think of the Vikings as barbarians with no thoughts of anything but violence and profit, he was caught by surprise at the richness of what he was seeing. Eorl, once his pupil had mastered basic identification of objects, taught by relating stories and legends and requiring Ellis to explain them in return. This led to discussions of religion and philosophy that went far beyond anything Ellis had expected. He learned of the Norse gods, and although his Christian soul was appalled at the pantheon, he found much to be admired in the basic principles of the Viking beliefs.

They discussed the basic day-to-day life in the great hall of the Viking jarl (as the man who led the group was called). He was usually an older man, retired from raiding, with the political savvy and connections to establish and maintain trade routes, and with the military strength to keep rivals from taking over. His people gathered around him like children, many actually living within his hall, while others built smaller dwellings nearby. He was their protector, and the swift fleet of dragonships his eyes, ears, and hands. His heir was the tanist, often a son or nephew, but always a fierce warrior and respected leader of men.

During the brief summer, the ships flew on the ocean, trading or raiding as the opportunity arose. In autumn, they returned to their home, and the Vikings settled in for a winter full of feasts and hunts. Long evenings were filled with storytelling, as the elders passed on the traditions of the people. Spring - spring was the time for fighting. In spring, rival jarls would send or lead their men in attacks upon hated enemies.

To Ellis, it sounded like a hard life, full of change and danger. He thought longingly of the peace of St. Ambrose, but as the days went by, found that peace fading from his mind. His dreams were no longer of the quiet contemplation of God's mysteries, but rather were filled with brightly lit halls and vibrant adventures. At other times, his dreams were of fire and death. He would wake gasping, and spend long minutes attempting to calm his mind. But the fact that he still had not met the man who was his master weighed heavily on him. He had seen Eric, of course, but never close enough to see his face clearly, so that the face he saw at night was the blood-streaked nightmare, and his fears rose daily. What did Eric plan for him?

Eric looked up as his cousin drew near. He smiled at the other man, shifting to one side so that Eorl could join him on the wooden bench. His second-in-command sank down, stretching his legs out with a sigh.

Eric grunted agreement, returning his gaze to the blade of his axe. He drew the whetstone slowly along the curving edge, hearing the metal sing its sharpness. "Landfall tomorrow."

The two men sat companionably for a while. Finally, Eric was satisfied with the edge on his axe and carefully placed the gleaming weapon into it's harness. Leaning back to stretch his muscles, he grimaced as he heard the popping sounds his back made. At his side, Eorl grinned.

"Not so old I can't take you down," Eric retorted. "And it'll be you soon enough."

Lapsing into silence once more, the Vikings watched as the sky began to darken. After a while, Eric looked over at his cousin. "Well?" he asked.

Eorl shrugged. "He does well enough. Better than I expected, in fact. The man is brilliant. For his brains alone, you could name your price in Byzantium. Factor his looks in... he's quite a prize."

"He won't be sold. At least, not yet." Eric winced as he heard the sharpness to his voice. He met the questioning look squarely. "He's mine, Eorl."

"I know that. What I don't know is why. If you had tastes like Beorn, I could see it. You haven't even gone near him, Eric. He's terrified of you, you know. He keeps asking what you plan to do with him."

"Then why claim him? Even as captain, taking his value out of your share will cost you. And if you don't have plans for him..."

"I could *hear* him, Eorl. Caught in Odin's spell, I heard him come up behind you."

Eric shrugged. "I don't know." He shifted slightly on the bench. "You know I've always been a berserker."

"These spells, where I get lost. This is new. It never happened before this spring, when..."

Eric growled, the memory of his time in the hands of his father's greatest enemy flashing before him. After a moment, he calmed. "It took me days to drag myself back to Willemshall. And when I got there, I could barely go near it. The noises were too loud, the fire too bright. I hid, Eorl. I hid in the woods for half a day before I could make myself go into my own home. And ever since, these spells..."

"What are they?" Eorl asked, his voice bright with curiosity. "I know what the priests said, but... what happens?"

"I get... lost." Eric looked over at his cousin, his face solemn. "I see or hear, taste, smell, or feel something, and it draws me into it. It's beautiful, Eorl. The patterns of light on the water..." His voice drifted off, his face wistful. After a minute, he shook himself, his voice hardening. "I'm not aware of anything else. And I can't lead men in battle like that. I've been thinking of giving up the tanistry."

"What?" Eorl shook his head. "No, cousin. I'm next in line, and you can't do that to me."

"How could I not? And then, suddenly, I hear him. I didn't hear his steps, Eorl. I heard his breathing, and his heart. It brought me back." Eric's face was full of a terrible hope. "I haven't had a spell since we took him, Eorl."

"You haven't, had you?" Eorl frowned. "I just thought things were letting up a bit."

"You haven't gone near him, Eric," Eorl protested. "Not since that first night. When you gave him your cloak."

Sighing, the blond nodded. "All right. So you need him around. Is that what you're saying?"

The ship made landfall to an enthusiastic welcome, with willing hands eagerly turned to drawing the vessel ashore. Once safely beached, the returning Vikings swarmed onto the land, mingling rapidly with their long-missed kinfolk. To Ellis, watching from his place in the prow, it seemed a scene of chaos.

Then, suddenly, the chaos became organized. Groups of women hurried to the hall, happily discussing the preparations for the coming feast. They were followed by thralls heavily burdened with foodstuffs. On the ship, the captives were being loaded down with the Vikings' booty, gem-encrusted chalices joining chunks of raw amber, silken bolts of cloth, and other treasures. Bowed under their burdens, the new slaves carried them to waiting warriors, who directed them to one of three wooden platforms.

The ship's hold finally emptied, the workers were sent to stand together in a group on the beach, near the third platform. Ellis, his attempts to ask questions ignored, was roughly pushed to join them. He stood near the edge, welcomed by worried looks from the others from St. Ambrose. Kept from speaking by the harsh warning from their guards, the anxious captives could only wonder what would become of them. Ellis, so long separated from the others, could not imagine why he had been returned to their midst. Had Eric decided not to claim him, after all? And would that be good or bad? He shivered at the memory of the look in Beorn's eye.

Suddenly the warriors guarding them were standing at attention, and the others ended their conversations. Craning his neck to see over the mass of people, Ellis spotted a group of men descending the hill from the great wooden hall. Grown accustomed to seeing Eric at a distance, he easily spotted the ship captain among them. As the group approached the beach, it became obvious that the man in their center had to be the jarl. He was richly dressed in fine furs and leathers, still strongly built though clearly past his prime. Seeing his face, Ellis caught his breath. He looked like an older version of his night visitor. Unconsciously, the hands on the leather cloak tightened, pulling it more snugly around himself.

Eric stood at the jarl's side, his body turned to look at his leader. He stood in a position of deference and respect, but seemed to be more an equal to Willem than any of the other men in the group. As the jarl spoke, it became clear why.

"It is a happy day," the jarl's voice rang out across the beach. "All of our wanderers have returned, this last homecoming most welcome of all. My son tells me that he has brought many riches for us, and I can see that he speaks the truth. Precious gems and metals, jewelry to delight our ladies, fine manuscripts to tempt the scholars in Byzantium, and a healthy bunch of thralls. Welcome home, Eric, my son."

Eric was the jarl's son? Then... Ellis gasped as his owner turned and he saw the man's face clearly for the first time. How could it be the same person? How could the blood-covered, battle-crazed murderer who had ordered the attack on St. Ambrose be the same person who had gently covered Ellis with his own cloak? He felt sick, dizzy, and yet, as Eric's eyes swept over the gathered captives and locked with Ellis' own, strangely hopeful. Perhaps... Perhaps this man could be dealt with. Ellis hadn't dared think that before now.

The jarl led his attendants to the three platforms, looking closely at the contents of each. At length he shrugged, pointing to the middle. "They are equally divided, my son. I have no preference, but your mother will like that necklace, so that shall be the jarl's choice." Eric nodded as his father went on. "As captain, a third is yours. Have you chosen?"

"The right-hand, my jarl," Eric answered. The jarl nodded, turning to head back to the hall, but stopped in surprise as Eric continued. "I would claim a thrall in exchange for goods."

The jarl raised an eyebrow, but made no objection, merely asking which one. Ellis flinched as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and Eorl dragged him forward to stand in front of the jarl. Willem studied him, then looked at Eric. "His value will be taken from your third, of course, since the monies from his sale would have been divided."

Eorl spoke up. "He is a scholar, Uncle. Very quick - he already speaks our language, although he did not when we took him. And look at him. I would be amazed if he would not bring at least 20 gold grains."

"Hmm." Willem thought for a moment, then pointed out several items from Eric's share. The warrior standing by it pulled out the pieces: a polished globe of clear amber, a shimmering bolt of green silk, and a highly illuminated manuscript, the vivid colors clear even through the protective oilskin covering. Ellis moaned in dismay as he saw the book, drawing a surprised look from the jarl.

"Is that satisfactory?" The gathered men murmured in approval, and Eric nodded again. Willem smiled, and bent over to look at the pieces. "Your sister is expecting, Eric. The amber or the cloth would make a fine birth present." His hand caressed the silk, then the honeyed globe, then moved to hover over the manuscript. Ellis tried in vain to suppress his reaction as the jarl glanced at him with a curious smile. "Your thrall seems attached to the book, Eric."

His son shrugged. Willem smiled again, then snatched up the amber globe. "Exquisite," he murmured, looking through the precious bauble. "She will love it." He handed the amber to Eorl, who placed it with the jarl's earlier choice, then looked back at Eric. "Choose, my son. I can smell the meats, and tanist or no, your mother will tan your hide if you make her feast burn."

Eric returned his father's grin, then moved forward, glancing over at Ellis as he walked. Ellis knew that it would make no difference, but he could not help his whispered plea. The Viking stilled, studying his face, then reached down to pick up the fragile scroll. He looked at it for a long minute, then back at Ellis. Ellis met his eyes, knowing that his own showed the burning desire he felt.

Abruptly, Eric tossed the manuscript to him. Ellis pulled free of the guard's grip on his arm, catching the scroll gently, and cradling the precious object lovingly. He looked up, his face questioning, to meet a shuttered gaze. Turning away, the Viking started to climb the hill. Ellis stared after him, then jolted into movement at Eorl's hissed command. Sending a last look at the captives to be sold next spring in Byzantium, he said a silent farewell to his teachers, then the thrall followed his master to the jarl's hall.

Eric glanced over at his father, his eyes hooded. The jarl sprawled in his seat, a horn full of ale held loosely in his hand. The hall was quieting, men eager to be with their wives after the long summer gone, or else just tired. A group of sailors were huddled in front of the fire at the other end of the hall, gaming. Thralls moved silently around the great room, cleaning unobtrusively.

Looking up at the sound of the jarl's raised voice, the men returned to their game when they realized what was going on. Eric noted their alertness with approval. He took a deep breath, then looked over at his father. Angered worry showed in Willem's eyes.

Eric laughed. "What did you think, Father? That I was claiming him for his pretty face? Not my style."

"Not with Berana waiting for you, anyway. You'd best reassure her, son. I don't think she liked being told to find him a bed in your house. She's liable to find some pretty nasty work for the boy."

"But do you really want him cleaning out the pits, then sleeping in your chamber?" The jarl laughed at the involuntary twitch of his son's nose. "I didn't think so. But how, Eric?"

Smile subsiding at the return to serious matters, Eric sighed. "I'm not sure. But since I took him, I haven't gotten lost. Well, not really. Not like before. Just a few seconds of it, then I hear him, and I come back."

"The one you gave him." Willem shook his head. "Beorn's already complained about that, you know. Thralls don't own anything, especially not anything valuable. That might have been a bad move, son. Why did you, anyway?"

Eric raised his eyes to his father's, smiling at the puzzled jarl, the same puzzlement on his own face. "I'm not sure. He just... wanted it so very badly."

"Yes." Eric shifted slightly. "Beorn's just angry because I claimed him, anyway. You know how Beorn is."

Eric heard the doubt in the jarl's voice, but chose to ignore it. Standing, he drained the alehorn he held. "I'm for bed, Father. It's good to be home."

Knowing that his newest slave was still awake did not prepare Eric for what he saw when he entered his dwelling. Wanting to be close to the hall for ease of access when he was needed, but still needing privacy, Eric had taken over an outbuilding, leaned up against the outer wall of the hall, but still separate. It had several chambers opening off a central room, which was used for general living purposes. Eric and his wife slept in the largest chamber, the others used for the thralls. When Eric had told Berana to get Ellis settled in their dwelling, his wife had made no protest. But as his father had suggested, she had not been pleased.

The fire had been allowed to burn low, since the nights were still relatively warm. Ellis sat cross-legged by the fire, his hair gleaming in the dim light. He held the fragile document before him, skimming the sheets with the ease of one who had long ago memorized every word. A heavy chain was fastened around his right ankle, tethering him to the wall. He had been stripped naked, and although a blanket was folded near him, Eric had no doubt that the thrall had been forbidden to wrap himself in it. He looked up as Eric entered the building, and the Viking shivered at the fear, quickly veiled, that leapt into the man's eyes.

"This was not what I intended." Eric crossed the room in quick strides, regretting his haste as the thrall flinched away from him. He undid the chain carefully, growling underneath his breath at the marks that showed it had been fastened too tightly. The man watched him with wide eyes. Moving away, Eric tossed him the blanket. "Wrap yourself," he ordered, seeing the shivers from the thrall, not used to northern temperatures.

Expecting him to obey instantly, Eric was surprised as the man carefully rolled up the papers, placing him in their protective case. Only then did the blanket get unfolded. Then again, the Viking thought, the scroll was obviously very important to the young man.

Although he had heard the man's voice before, at close range the tones shot through him. They sounded in his head like bells, like the gods' "blessing", yet did not capture him. Instead the voice made him feel more solid, closer to reality. What was it about this man?

Forcing himself to listen to the words, not the sound, Eric found himself stiffening. Crossing the room, he grabbed the man's arm, "What did you say?"

"About the subject? It's the writings of a Jew named Jacob. He left Jerusalem to travel with a Roman soldier, from what the scroll says, about the time that Our Lord lived." The thrall stopped, then continued when Eric's fingers flexed. "He talks of the Roman being blessed by God with heightened senses. He could see and hear things that other people couldn't. Apparently the other senses were equally high. Jacob writes that the Roman would get lost in them, and needed Jacob to bring him back. That's why Jacob traveled with him. It's impossible to prove, but..." the thrall shrugged. "If it's true, then this was written about a man who had seen more and done more than anyone today can."

"I don't know. He's not very clear about that. That's part of why so many people think it's a lie." The face lit up in the man's enthusiasm for what he was saying. "But there are so many mentions of things that we *know* happened, that *I* think it's the truth. He talks about the Roman being a Guardian, who needed a Watcher to keep him grounded."

Suddenly he sobered, the face stilling. Eric felt a pang of regret as the light dimmed. "Forgive me. I... forget that I should keep my place."

He dropped the blanket and stood before Eric. "Your wife told me that I, that you, that..." His face reddened, the man stood silent, unable to continue.

"She was wrong." Eric watched as the face lifted, the eyes flying to his own. "I claimed you for my own reasons."

"What are they?" Eric laughed softly. "I'll tell you later. For now, you're cold, and I'm thirsty. Pick that blanket back up, wrap yourself, and sit down." Numbly the man did as he was told, watching as Eric poured some ale into a waiting horn. The Viking settled himself comfortably across from the confused man.

Eric just smiled, and sipped at his ale. He sat, waiting. He didn't have to wait long.

Ellis shook his head disbelievingly. Eric grinned as he heard the deep confusion in the voice. "Why any of this. Why did you claim me as your thrall? Why did you give me this?" He pointed to the manuscript, then went on. "I won't ask why the attack on St. Ambrose - that's what Vikings do. But why are you being... nice to me?"

"No, I don't. Mostly because I don't know why, when I am caught in the gods' spell, the sound of your heart beating will bring me back." Eric heard the break in Ellis' breathing, the increase in the heart rate. Taking another swallow, he looked over at the man. "Sounds like you might have the answer, though." He nodded at the manuscript.

Looking at Ellis' face, he watched the eyes dilate, becoming fascinated by the tiny muscles that opened the pupil. Shaking his head, he came back to awareness. Ellis' hand was on his arm, the thrall leaning over to him, concern in his face. "God," the man whispered, awe in his voice, "you are a Guardian."

"Apparently," Eric replied dryly. Having had months to get used to his senses, he was mildly amused by the thrall's reaction. Concern and excitement chased each other across the fire-lit face, the scholar's enthusiasm winning in the end.

"Whoa," Eric cut off the question before it could even be asked. "Right now, I'm doing nothing but go to bed. Tomorrow will be soon enough to talk about this. Right after I have a talk with my wife."

Rising, the Viking headed to his sleeping chamber, aware of the eyes that followed him. He fell asleep to the comforting rhythm of Ellis' heart.

The following day set the pattern for many days to come. Berana, as Eric's wife, was in charge of the household, assigning chores to the thralls as they ate breakfast. Despite Ellis' fears, she was a fair mistress, her ill treatment of Ellis that first night never repeated. It was never referred to, of course, and certainly she never apologized. Free women did not apologize to thralls. But his duties that first week were light, and later assignments were divided equally among the five workers.

They worked all day, a rest break for a meal in the early afternoon, and then alternated evening duties. Ellis was surprised at the variety of chores to be done, learning more than he'd ever wanted to about how to ready an animal for slaughter and winter storage, harvesting and drying the late autumn fruits, cleaning and airing various rooms and buildings. Oddly enough, the Viking warriors tended to their own ships, that task the only one they did not leave to the holding's thralls.

In the evenings, he might be in charge of keeping the fire in Eric's dwelling going, the place ready for it's inhabitants to return from the hall. He might be in the hall itself, part of the army of workers keeping the Vikings provided with food and drink. Occasionally, he would even be given free time. It wasn't a bad life, he thought. And although there were times when he ached soul-deep for the peace and quiet study of the monastery, he was still fascinated by the culture he was immersed in. It was a rough and violent culture, but there was deep affection and love there, as well as respect for the earth. And there was Eric.

Despite the Guardian's words that night, it had been several days before they spoke again. Ellis had begun to wonder if he had dreamed their conversation, his mind building a fantasy to make his slavery more acceptable. He sat one night in front of the fire, staring into it's depths, telling himself to forget it. It couldn't be, he thought. When the door to the dwelling opened, he looked up, scrambling to his feet as Eric entered. Gesturing him to sit again, the Viking had joined him, sitting quietly for long moments before he began to speak.

Allowing no interruptions, Eric told him of his life before the previous winter. Berserkers weren't common, but they weren't rare, either. These men, triggered by the taste of blood, became fighters beyond compare, respected and feared by all around them. They were thought to be beloved of the gods, especially of Odin and Thor. But they weren't insensate brutes, as Ellis had been taught all his life. Berserkers were aware of what went on around them. They were, in fact, hyperaware.

Ellis shifted as Eric said this, opening his mouth to speak. He closed it again at Eric's warning glance. The Viking nodded, then went on. He told of how he had been such a berserker, almost all of his life. Painful memories filled his voice as he spoke of a raid that had gone badly wrong. An enemy of Willem's, the jarl of a neighboring hall, Caid, had invaded, his men driving off a large herd of cattle, and taking also the thralls set to guard them. Eric had led a sortie to recover the stolen property, and to punish Caid. He had taken several excellent warriors, among them his young brother Staf, excited and happy about his first fight. It should have been easy.

But it had been a trap. The trail had led directly to a large war party, and even gone berserk, Eric could not even the odds. Beaten down and held captive, the tanist had been forced to watch as his friends and his brother had been tortured and slain. Caid had then ordered Eric beaten further, and had left him lying unconscious in the bloody snow. "I don't remember getting back here," Eric had admitted. "But when I did, I was like this."

Ellis, pushing his horror and pity aside, had listened as the man went on to describe his senses, and the problems they had caused. With fascination, he heard of how the light gleaming on the waves could trap his sight, or the sounds and smells of battle capture the warrior within himself. He heard, with awe, of how his presence kept Eric's senses from ambushing the Viking.

When Eric's long tale was done, he looked over at the thrall. Ellis' mind had been whirling, overwhelmed by what he had heard. Eric had shrugged, risen, and disappeared into the inner room. Too late, Ellis' hand rose to try to stop him. But the next night had been a free night for him, and he sat and waited for the Viking. When Eric came in, he had spoken, and Eric had listened.

Halfway through the winter, they were well on their way to controlling Eric's senses. The Viking could use them with ease now, and rarely got caught up in anything. And somehow, they had become more than master and slave. During the day, Eric treated Ellis as he would any thrall. But at night, the two had free and equal discussions, the Viking truly interested in Ellis' opinions, quietly offering his own in return. They spoke of matters far beyond Eric's senses, covering philosophy, religion, art, and more. Although neither could truly accept the other's beliefs, Eric scoffing at Ellis' gentle preaching of peace, and Ellis horrified at Eric's delight in bloody war, they had somehow, it seemed, become friends.

Which made the current situation even more horrible, Ellis thought, looking back at the past few months. It was better than looking ahead. If there was going to be an ahead to look at.

He lay, bound and gagged, at the jarl's feet, shivering uncontrollably from the cold that had seeped into his bones on the trip here. Looking into the face of the man who now held him captive, the shivering doubled. There was insanity in those eyes, and a dark glee.

"I wonder why?" The jarl toed Ellis, his laughter at the glare Ellis gave him grating. "He's pretty enough, but Eric doesn't use him, you said? There must be something." He shrugged. "No matter. All he needs to be is bait. I thought I'd killed both of Willem's pups last year. This year I'll finish it, and you can have this one afterwards."

"By Odin, he must be something special! You betray your shipmates for him, Eric supposedly will come running to rescue him... Maybe I'll have to see what it is about him, myself."

From where he lay, Ellis could see Beorn's body stiffen as he glared at Caid. The jarl laughed again. "But I gave my word, Beorn. He'll be yours as soon as I have Eric."

Ellis heard the insane man's retreating footsteps. They faded away, then Beorn came to lean over him. The black-haired Viking ran his eyes over Ellis' body, making him feel filthy. He flinched away from the hand that reached out to him, but, unable to move far, was forced to feel the caressing touches. "Soon," Beorn promised, his breath coming rapidly. "Soon."

Trying hard to conceal his fear beneath contempt, Ellis lay still while the man pawed at him. In a few minutes, Beorn stood reluctantly, casting a lingering look over the prone figure before he left. Alone in the hall, Ellis wondered which to hope for - that Eric came soon, or that he didn't come at all.

Exhausted and terrified, Ellis still knew one thing. If he could escape, he could warn his Guardian of the waiting trap. Squirming, he rolled his way across the floor to the hearth, his hiss of triumph muffled by the gag he wore. With careful maneuvering, he got the rough-edged iron fire poker wedged against the ropes binding his hands, ignoring the occasional rasp against his skin as he wore away at his bonds. He prayed, harder than he ever had before, that he would have enough time.

His prayers were almost answered. Only a few fibers remained when he heard the clash of weapons outside. With all the strength he had left, Ellis pulled frantically at the rope, feeling it snap. Quickly pulling his hands free, he untied his feet, pulling the gag from his face. Groaning as he rose with the pain of returning circulation, he glanced down, undecided. The screams he heard from the battle beyond the walls made his face harden. Wrapping his hands around the poker's base, he headed toward his Guardian's side.

Stepping outside the hall, he stopped, appalled at the carnage he saw. Bodies were strewn across the ground, many hacked into pieces. A small band of men were backed against the wall to his left, surrounded by heavily armed attackers. With shock, he recognized Caid among the besieged men.

Scanning rapidly, Ellis realized that most of the men standing were familiar to him. Tension drained from him, and he staggered, falling against the doorway. Eric had come, but not alone. Instinct telling him where to look, he gasped as he saw his friend. Eric wore the face Ellis had first seen, blood and hate twisting the even features into a terrible mask. As Ellis watched, the berserker advanced against the few men remaining at Caid's side, destroying them with dreadful efficiency before turning on their leader. Frozen, Ellis panted in horror as he watched Eric toy with Caid. The jarl's body soon bled freely from multiple wounds, none of them deadly. Eric wanted revenge.

Feeling as if he were pushing through thick syrup, Ellis forced himself to move. He had to get to Eric, to stop this torture. Halfway there, his eyes widened and his body was suddenly freed. He ran, gasping for air. Weaving his way through the watching Vikings, he reached his goal. As Beorn stepped to Eric's side, Ellis swung the poker he still carried, dropping it in absolute agony as he saw what he'd done. Beorn fell to the ground, his ruined skull the only thing Ellis could see. As he stood there, Eric drove his axe through Caid's chest, pinning the dead man to the wall behind. Turning, the berserker fixed upon the bloody body of one of his own men. With a growl of rage, he swung his fist at his man's attacker, sending Ellis flying through the air. As Ellis hit the ground, he saw Eric's face, full of anger. Then he saw nothing.

"He saved your life, Eric! None of us realized that Beorn intended to knife you. If it hadn't been for Ellis, you'd be dead. You should be freeing him, not putting him on the ship to Byzantium."

"No, by all the gods!" Eorl's face was bright with anger. "If you're so determined to sell him, then I'll buy him. And free him, too, like you should."

Eric looked at his cousin, his eyes full of pain. "I'm not selling him. I am setting him free. We will take him back to Ireland on route to Byzantium."

"If I don't, he won't go." Eric stood, turning away from his cousin. "Eorl. I enslaved him after killing most of his friends. I let him be taken by that madman Caid. He saved my life, and I nearly killed him for it. He was unconscious for how long?" He turned back to Eorl, smiling bleakly. "And the worst of it? He killed a man. It means nothing to you or I, but to him? He weeps, in the middle of the night. He blames himself, for not finding another way out of it, for being taken in the first place. He believes in peace, my cousin, and he can't forgive himself for killing Beorn. I did that to him. If he blames anyone, it should be me. But he just says that his place is to serve me." Running his hand through his hair, Eric shrugged. "So, he goes on the ship. I've already told him I'm selling him. He's not to be told otherwise until he's been set ashore."

Ellis stood on the shore, staring at the retreating back. He'd been pulled from the cargo of slaves and pushed into the small boat. Not bothering to look around, he'd stared at the wooden floorboards, lost in the despair that was his constant companion since... He'd failed his Guardian, he'd failed his beliefs and his God. What did it matter what happened to him?

The boat had scraped ashore and one of the Vikings had grasped his arm and dragged him onto the land. Ellis hadn't even realized that it was Eorl until the man had made him look up. Amazed, he'd looked around at familiar hills, their green so bright it hurt the eyes. In the valley, the debris had been cleared away, and a new building was rising on the ruins of St. Ambrose. Eorl's words had hit him, but hadn't found their mark. Not until now.

Free? He was... free. Eric wasn't selling him, bored and tired of having him around. He didn't blame him for Beorn's death. He was free. Ellis looked down the hill to the workers busy restoring the great monastery. A tug of longing at his heart was matched by the despairing loss he felt. Turning his head, he gazed to sea. The mighty longship rode the waves, dragonhead proudly carried against the sky.

Dropping his focus a bit, he spotted the boat. Eorl was drawing near it, and another man stood to greet him, then looked up at the hill, eyes fixed upon Ellis. A sudden wave of longing and need raced through Ellis, staggering him. It was far stronger than the pull of St. Ambrose, and he gladly surrendered to it. Calling out loudly, he raced down the hill to the boat. Reaching it, he stared at Eric challengingly.

"Then... I want to see Byzantium! Let's go, shall we?" Stepping into the boat, he grinned up at his Guardian, who studied him for a moment, then smiled back. "But you have to promise me one thing, Eric." His voice was Guardian-soft. "I don't ever want you to stop talking to me again."

Blair rolled out of bed, sitting on the edge for a minute. This dream was like the others, yet different in a crucial way. The first two had left him saddened and uncertain. This one had given him an odd sense of peace. He wondered what had made that difference. Was it the unforced nature of the choice? In the first two dreams, there had been regret, a deep and abiding loss. In this one, there had been sadness, but also joy and great anticipation for the life ahead.

Sighing, the young Guide rose and padded to the bathroom, wondering if this was his mind's way of telling him he was coming to terms with the idea of going to the Academy. It certainly wasn't what he had ever intended. But some things were worth changing plans for.

Hearing Blair moving around, Jim shrugged and got up anyway. They had to stop avoiding each other, he thought. That had to be what these dreams were telling him. Uncertain of how to bring that about, the Sentinel stood in the kitchen for a moment, then rummaged in the cupboard. He could always make tea.

When Blair came out of the bathroom, Jim was standing in the kitchen. He hefted the pot questioningly. "Want some tea, Chief?" Watching as his Guide's face ran through a gamut of emotions, Jim kept his own impassive, waiting for the refusal. The soft "Sure, Jim. I'd like that." brought a surprised smile to his lips. Pouring the water over the herbs, he reveled in the sweet scent, and maybe - just maybe - in the beginnings of forgiveness.

William Lord Ellison woke slowly, his pounding head and foul-tasting mouth making him wish he hadn't. He cursed under his breath, wincing as the pounding doubled. What in the world had he been drinking last night?

Warily he cracked his eyes open, squeezing them shut again as the brightness stabbed at his brain. Anger stirred in him. "Jarret?" he whispered. Surely his man was nearby. Why the valet had opened the drapes, Will couldn't imagine, but it meant he had to be in the room. Frowning as he got no reply, he forced himself to open his eyes again.

After a moment, the abused organs decided to work, and he stared around in bewilderment. What the devil?! Green grass and blue skies glowed in the bright sunlight. Had he decided to sleep in the Park? Had he been waylaid by footpads? He patted at his breast pocket, scowling when it lay flat and empty. Hit on the head and robbed, by Jove! Pushing himself to a sitting position, he closed his eyes as a wave of sickness rushed through him. Biting back a moan, he steeled himself. Robbed or not, he had to get moving. He'd been given a mission the night before, and he'd be damned if he failed.

The concerned face of his commander flashed in front of him, and the orders rang in his head. 'We think they're plotting something, Will. The Pretender's son is nearly of age. The Scots have never lain lightly under Her Majesty's hand, and with their Bonnie Prince as inspiration...' The man's words had trailed off. Will had replied confidently. 'If they're planning something, we'll find out.' 'I know. We're counting on you, Will.'

Their brief meeting over, the two men had separated quickly, the head of Her Majesty's Intelligence Service and his best agent both well aware of the dangers should they be seen together. Will had rejoined the party, relieved to find that he'd not been missed. His commander had slipped quietly from the house. The last Will remembered was dancing with his host's sister, enjoying the flash of her green eyes. Maybe he'd had too much to drink, after all.

No matter. He had to gather his men, and start the long trip to Scotland. Locking the pain and sickness down, he opened his eyes and stood. For the first time since waking, he looked around, staggering as the scene before him sank in. This was no tame park in the center of London. The rough stone of the hills around him echoed with his cry of denial as he stumbled in his haste. The memories he'd lost rushed back as he saw his slaughtered men, their bodies strewn across the tiny valley's floor.

They'd ridden hard and fast, he and his seven companions. Crossing the border into Scotland, their carefree attitude had altered to the cautious movements of seasoned scouts. Moving through the rugged land, they'd accomplished their mission, learning the plans for bringing the Scottish prince back from France. Unobserved, they'd begun the rapid retreat, sacrificing stealth for speed in their haste to bring back the vital news. It had almost worked. It hadn't even been Scottish royalists that had ambushed them. Just robbers.

Will crouched by one dead man after another, his eyes half-blinded by unshed tears. These were his men, and it had been his decision that led to their deaths. Chafing at the thought of slowly retracing their hidden progress, he had ordered their haste. Conveniently forgetting that each one had agreed with the urgent need, he welcomed the savage guilt that rushed through him.

Rough movements brought him to the seventh man, his hands gentling as he touched the still body. In shock, he felt warmth still, and carefully turned him over, his heart breaking at what he saw. A large wound gaped across the front, and the hugeness of the bloody pool was... unbelievable. Shaking hands cradling the dying man, his face twisted in anguish as he looked at his oldest friend. "Jamie... Oh, God, James!" Bowing his head, he wept.

The weak voice brought his head up, his eyes staring. Looking into the pain-filled eyes, he swallowed hard. "Jamie, I'm so sor-"

The head shook slightly, silencing him mid-word. "Others?," the rough voice rasped.

Anguished denial leaped to Will's lips at his friend's wry comment, but staring at the one man he'd never lied to, he couldn't bear to start now. "Yes," he said, his voice breaking. "I'm afraid so."

Jamie nodded, then his face twisted in sudden agony. Gasping, he rode out the spasm, his face somehow paling even more. He relaxed into Will's arms, breathing heavily, his eyes closed.

Heavy lids lifted, revealing fever-bright eyes. "Go, Will." The voice was gentle. "I'm dead already, and they need this information."

"You were right, Will. The sooner... they get this... the better." He panted, then spoke again. "Go!"

"I can't." He concentrated on his friend, listening so hard that it almost seemed that he could hear the laboring heart. "They think I'm dead, too, Jamie. I can't leave you, and..." he faltered.

"And a few... more minutes won't... make a difference?" Jamie's voice was fading, but still held the dry humor Will loved so. He bit back sobs, soothing his friend with gentle hands. Jamie smiled, then arched in agony, the pain of this spasm driving him into unconsciousness. His body lay still in Will's grasp, his chest barely moving. Holding him as the shadows slowly moved, Will felt his friend's shallow breaths, straining to hear Jamie's heart. As they faded and slipped away, Will followed into darkness.

Reins loose, Morgan rode lightly, his body attuned to the stallion's movements, but his mind miles away. He grinned suddenly, the news his father had given him too joyous to suppress. For too long, England's bitch of a queen had held power over Scotland. Soon, with the Bonnie Prince's return, that would be remedied.

His men, Stewarts all, followed their young leader readily, wondering at the bright smile. The laird's son had long ago proven himself a warrior, but since the recent death of his mother, he'd been dour and grim. Not at all like the laughing lad they were used to. Aware of his men's eyes, Morgan grinned again.

"Tis a grand day, boyos," he called over his shoulder, kneeing his mount into a canter. Black mane whipping back, the horse moved eagerly into the faster gait, as aware of his master's good mood as the men were. Grinning madly into the wind, Morgan heard the following hoofbeats and urged the stallion on. Cresting a small hill, he pulled the horse in, experienced hands soothing the stallion's spirited protest. As the horse calmed and his men joined him on the crest, his eyes studied the bloody scene before him.

Glancing at his second-in-command, Morgan nodded. "Aye, Rory. And just what are the Sassenach doing on Stewart land, I wonder?"

"Maybe." Morgan's voice was absent as his eyes scanned the battlefield. There'd been horses, he noted. And seven only. The Englishmens' attackers had been on foot. And that meant... His head snapped up and he barked an order at the surprised Rory. Moving rapidly, the Scots clansmen searched the area, one bringing back a shred of cloth, handing it wordlessly to Morgan, who scowled as he recognized the tartan.

Rory's face darkened at the robber's name. "Aye," he growled. "Even if he did us a service by killing these English, he's been told often enough to stay off our land. Morgan?"

Wordlessly, Morgan nodded. Rory grinned wolfishly, and whistled loudly. Half the searching men turned and came back to the horses, mounting easily and following Rory on the brigand's trail. The remainder looked at Morgan, waiting.

He looked over the valley again, pausing as his gaze fell upon two of the bodies. One lay draped across the other, clearly having tried to protect his fallen comrade. Even the English could have courage, Morgan supposed. His eyes narrowed. Something about them...

Swinging off his horse, he gave Windswift's reins to a nearby hand. Followed by three of his men, he strode down into the bloody vale, slowing as he neared his goal. The two men lay motionless in a huge pool of blood. The stench of opened intestines filled the air, making Morgan's nose wrinkle. Not sure why, he reached out and pulled the top man's body away from the other. Eyes widening, he flipped the body over, the warmth of the contact tingling through his hands. Studying the man closely, he smiled grimly as he saw the slowly rising chest.

"Ye're alive, then. We'll get to find out why ye're on Stewart land, after all." Gesturing for a horse to be brought, he watched as the man was lifted into the saddle, the horse's owner slipping on behind to hold the Englishman in place. The man remained unaware, his eyes staring blankly. Morgan briefly considered the idea that the huge knot he'd felt on his head had scrambled the Sassenach's brains, then shrugged. He'd wake up or he wouldn't.

Mounting Windswift, he led the remaining warriors to the glen that held his father's castle. Three things filled his thought: Rory's hunt for his own renegade son, the puzzle of the unconscious Sassenach, and the coming return of his distant cousin to his rightful throne. He wondered why it was the English prisoner that he thought of most.

Drifting, Will floated in nothingness. For an unknown time, he relaxed in it, somehow relishing the unawareness. It was comfortable, numb. Then a vague unhappiness came upon him, and he stirred, tearing the swathing of numbness that wrapped him. Tiny shreds appeared, and even tinier bits of somethingness assaulted him. Reluctantly, he accepted them, a wave of impulses he had no control over, no desire for. Heat and salt on his tongue as liquid was spooned into his mouth, the scrape of cloth over his skin... these and others beat at him, drawing him further toward painful awareness.

There were times, though, when what he felt was not painful, when there was a gentle rumbling of sound and a scent that drew him. At those times, the heavy curtain was thinned, and he almost woke. But then the pain would return, and he shrank back, but never as far as he had been. Eventually, the time came when he did waken.

It was the scent that did it. It was an outdoors smell, full of bright sunshine and blowing wind. There was heather and horse, and an indefinable, unfamiliar scent that drew Will to it. Wanting to know what it was, he tore away the tattered veils of nothingness and opened his eyes.

He screamed in agony as knives pushed into his eyeballs, the scream sending a matching pair into his ears. He writhed on the bed, the movements rasping on his skin as cloth turned to razor shards of glass. Assaulted, wounded, he began retreat, but found the way blocked. The scent that had drawn him would not let him go, and he latched onto it desperately.

As he focused on the elusive scent, he found the pain diminishing. Suddenly, he became aware of a voice, its gentle tones soothing, calming. Beginning to relax, Will sighed in relief as the glass became cloth again, and the pain melted away. The voice urged him to open his eyes, and he moaned in refusal. The voice insisted, and, in terror, he did its bidding.

Blinking, he stared up at an unfamiliar face. A young man looked back at him, eyes full of curiosity, concern, and... something nameless. Or at least something Will didn't want to name. The mouth opened, and as the brogue lilted out, Will remembered.

Morgan watched as the blue eyes darkened with painful memory. The Englishman's voice was raspy. "Jamie?" From the tone of the question, it was clear that he knew the answer. Still, something in Morgan ached as his shaken head destroyed the last bit of hope in those eyes.

Pushing away the question of why it mattered to him, the young Scot helped the weakened man to a sitting position, then held a cup of water to his lips. With greedy swallows, the cup was emptied. Gently Morgan settled the man back upon the bed.

Eyes still hazed with grief and pain studied him. "Thank you," he heard as he turned away to set the cup down.

"Ye're welcome." Morgan looked across the room. Catching the eye of the woman who had been watching over the unconscious man, he sent her off to find Rory. Turning back, he returned the assessing gaze.

The Englishman spoke first, his accent slightly grating to Morgan's ears. "Where am I?"

"Still in Scotland, then." The voice faltered, just a bit. "I am Will Ellison, my friends and I were heading home from a visit to Jam- Jamie's grandparents."

"Twas an ill-fated visit, then, Will Ellison," Morgan said bluntly. "We found ye and yers left for dead in Spring Vale. Sheer accident that we realized ye were still alive, or we'd have left ye there."

"Young Morgan?" Rory's voice broke the uncomfortable silence, drawing both men's attention. Stepping to the door, Morgan looked at him questioningly. His face grim, Morgan's mentor and now right arm shook his head. "I couldna find him."

"Aye. But he grew up here, same as you. And I taught him, same as you. He knows every trick I do." Rory's voice held anger and a grim pride in his renegade son. "He'll make a mistake eventually. But until then?" The old warrior shrugged.

Morgan sighed. "He's already stretched too thin. Ask the men to be extra alert, Rory. Now of all times, we canna have a brigand running free."

"Na with..." Rory glanced over at the sickbed. "Aye, young laird. I'll do that." He nodded to Will. "Moll says he's awake and talking."

Shrugging, Morgan stepped back into the room. "We got as far as his name. This is Will Ellison. Rory?"

Morgan watched as the seasoned warrior leaned over the bed, staring intently at the Englishman. His voice was firm. "Will Ellison, eh? And what, Will Ellison, was a group of Sassenachs doing on Stewart land?"

Only iron control kept back the moan of despair that leapt to Will's lips. He had ached inwardly earlier, using the cover story that he and Jamie had prepared, knowing that if they fell into Scottish hands, it might save them. Nothing was more important to the Scots than the bonds that held family together. And that was what made this so very deadly.

How had he fallen into Stewart hands? His mind raced as he shrugged casually. "Jamie was in charge," he lied. "We'd been to visit his grandparents, and he said he knew a shortcut." Would he be believed? The boy he could fool - he was young and still trusting. This old warhorse? Maybe.

"So it turned out." He didn't have to feign the emotion in the words, as a wave of grief for his friends rose up, hitting him unexpectedly. He fought to keep control, knowing that he had to make their deaths mean something. He had to get back to England. But how could he, weakened and held by the relatives of the Scottish pretender? Distant relatives, to be sure, since he hadn't known of them, but still... Drawing a shaky breath, he looked up at the Scot, seeing sympathy temper the suspicion in his eyes. "Jamie couldn't have known about the bandits."

"No," came the light voice of the young man - Morgan. "They are a... recent development."

To his surprise, Rory's face flushed, and the old warrior drew back, turning away from Will. "They are that," he growled. He didn't look back at Will as he continued. "To my shame, I have to admit that 'tis my son who leads them." Finally, his eyes met Will's, the apology clear. "I am sorry about yer friends."

Will nodded tightly, grief choking him. He watched as Rory left, a slump in the man's wide shoulders. Morgan watched him leave, then turned to Will. "We will catch them," he said, his voice determined. "I can promise ye that." Will closed his eyes, not wanting to see the pity in Morgan's own. When he opened them, the Scot was gone.

Alone, Will stared into space, images of his dead companions hauntingly plain. Faces bright and laughing turned to bloody masks in front of him, and he moaned, curling into a tight ball on the bed. Reliving the moments when he held Jamie's dying body, he never felt the tears start.

Swinging a tired leg over the stallion's back, Morgan stifled a sigh as he saw Moll waiting for him. The woman was obviously expecting him to deal with something, when all the exhausted man wanted was a bath and some food. After speaking with the Englishman, he and Rory had headed out, scouting for any sign of Bryce. They had found plenty. Knowing his opponents well, the brigand had laid false trail after false trail. It had taken days before they admitted they were at a standstill.

"He just lays there, staring off into space, just like when ye brought him in," Moll replied. "Doesna say a word. It's like he doesna even know I'm in the room."

"All right." Morgan rolled his shoulders, loosening the tight muscles. "I'll come see if I can do anything."

"It can wait 'til ye've eaten, Morgan," the woman said. "And I sent a bath up to yer room."

"I ought to, seeing as I changed yer nappies. Off with ye, young man!" She flicked her shawl at him, and he laughed as he dodged it, heading off to do as he'd been told.

An hour later, clean and fed, he stood over Will Ellison's bed. The laughter had been replaced by concern as he studied the blank face before him. 'Was the man prone to spells?' he wondered. 'Or was this due to the blow on his head?'

Shaking his own head, he drew a stool closer with his foot, settling down at the bedside. Reaching out, he laid a hand on the still shoulder, speaking softly. "Come on now, Will Ellison. 'Tis time to wake up." Not expecting his gentle command to have any effect, he started when the eyes blinked and turned to him. They held a vagueness that cleared to quiet desperation.

"Tis me." Morgan rose and fetched the water pitcher, filling the waiting cup and handing it to Will. He waited until the cup was emptied, then refilled it, placing the pitcher on the floor beside his seat. Leaning forward, he held the other man's eyes. "What is going on with ye, man? Ye have my people worried, and I'll confess, me too, a bit."

Will laughed, the bitter sound of it galling. "Don't bother," he said, the crisp voice shaking just a bit. "I'm not contagious or anything."

The Englishman turned away from Morgan's direct gaze, looking at the wall behind his head. Morgan waited silently. After a long moment, Will looked back, his jaw clenching. "It's a legend," he said. "Or... I thought it was. Now," he shrugged. "I suppose I know better."

"My family's descended from Vikings," he said, apparently changing the subject. Morgan made no protest, deciding to see where this went. "Or... a Viking. He took an Irish monk named Ellis as a slave. The story goes that Ellis saved his life and in gratitude he not only freed the man, but named his first son after him. We are descended from that Ellis."

Will nodded. "He was the first of our name. He settled in England and kept the name to remember his homeland."

Morgan shifted slightly on the stool, his foot knocking against the pitcher. Reaching down, he moved it out of the way, then looked back at Will. The Englishman sipped at the cup he still held, then spoke again.

"The thing is, I never believed the stories about how the first Ellis, the monk, saved his Viking, Eric. They were - impossible. Supposedly, Eric had these, gifts, I suppose you'd say. He could hear and see what other men could not. His sense of smell was abnormally acute, so were taste and touch. They were so acute that he found himself getting lost in one or the other, blacking out, unaware of anything else. That was before he took Ellis prisoner."

Sipping again, Will continued. "For some reason, when Ellis was around, Eric didn't have that happen. He could control his senses, use them while still being aware of the rest of the world. Then Ellis was stolen by a rival, and Eric was almost killed. Ellis slew the man who was about to kill Eric."

He closed his eyes briefly, then looked up at Morgan. His eyes were filled with despair. "I never believed the stories, I said. Until now. Now, I have to."

"Because it's happening to me." Will swallowed hard. "I have these senses, Morgan. I remember you leaving. I heard it."

"No. I heard you ride out of the castle. I listened as long as I could, until I couldn't hear you. You were joking about running a rabbit to it's hole, and Rory told you it wouldn't be that easy. Then you were too far away. I don't remember anything else. Not until you touched me. That was the first thing I felt. Then I heard your..."

"My what?" Morgan wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. How could this man have heard a conversation he'd had two hilltops away?

Will drew a deep breath. "Your heart. I heard it beating." He smiled wryly. "It just started to go faster."

"And you used lavender flowers in your bath." Will grinned, a teasing hint to his voice.

Morgan growled under his breath, thinking of the woman who had spilled a few of the blossoms into the hot water from the towel she was setting out for him. The linens were packed away with the fragrant herb, but... He stared at the other man in amazement. "Four or five fell into the water. How did you know that?"

"I can smell them." Will's voice turned serious. "I hate to say this, but if I'm Eric... I think that makes you Ellis. I think - I think I need your help."

"You're my guest. If I can help you, I will." The answer was automatic, Morgan's head still reeling. Will breathed in, then coughed. Morgan cursed as he noted the man's pale face. "Rest," he said, once the spasm had passed and Will lay against the pillow, breathing raggedly. "We'll sort this out later."

The other man nodded weakly, and Morgan felt an unexpected, tender concern. "I swear it to ye, Will."

Will felt a momentary panic as Morgan left the room. His hearing locked on the retreating heart, he relaxed when he realized that it wasn't happening again. At least not yet. What would happen when Morgan left the castle again? When he returned to England? Could he return to England?

"Why is this happening?" he whispered. He felt trapped, tied to a man who was - had to be - his enemy. And unlike his distant ancestor, he couldn't just make off with Morgan. A rush of envy for the Viking filled him. Eric, he thought, had had it easy.

Morgan's voice, distant but clear, mentioned his name. Attention drawn, he listened curiously. "He's awake, Moll," he heard. "Very weak, though. Has he eaten at all?"

"A small bit of broth," the woman replied. "I'll get some food for him. Young Morgan? What was it?"

Morgan hesitated. "I'm not sure," he said finally. Will heard his clothing move as he shrugged. "He woke up as soon as I spoke to him, so - maybe it was just the injury."

"Maybe." Moll sounded doubtful. "It doesna matter now that he's awake, I suppose. Ye get some sleep, lad. Ye look exhausted."

Will listened as Moll walked away, then returned his attention to Morgan. Face reddening as he realized the young man was undressing, he pulled his hearing back as far as he could. The Scot's heart still pounded in his ears, but he found he could ignore the other sounds. Lying back on his sickbed, he let the slowing rhythm lull him, following Morgan into needed sleep.

It was the abrupt change in that rhythm that woke him. Morgan's heart was pounding rapidly, and instinctively Will expanded his hearing to find the threat to the young man. Rory's voice echoed through his head, causing an instant relaxation. The old warrior would never allow harm to come to Morgan. That had been clearly visible. But why was Morgan so agitated?

Curious, he listened further. When the two men were done talking, he stared at the ceiling, mind whirling. It was good news, he supposed. The plans to bring Charlie Stuart from France in the fall, allowing him to build support through the winter, had been changed. He would not sail until spring. That would give Will time to heal, time to figure out what to do about the Problem.

He snorted as he realized that he'd capitalized the word, even in his head. That was something Jamie would do, he thought, ignoring the dart of pain. But it was, indeed, a Problem.

Stirring, he tried to sit up, gasping at the wave of dizziness. Vision blurring, he fell back against the bed, swearing quietly. After a long moment, his vision cleared. He looked up into Morgan's concerned face.

"No," Morgan corrected. "Ye're weak as a new pup. Ye need to eat." He turned and gestured someone over. Moll came into view, carrying a heavy tray.

"I brought ye some food last night, but ye were sleeping. Come on with ye, now. Let's get ye sitting, and some nourishment in ye."

Carefully the two Scots helped Will into a sitting position, supporting him by tucking more pillows behind him. Once stable, Moll made to feed him. He protested that he could feed himself, making the woman chuckle.

"Men," she said, a fond exasperation in her voice as she glanced at Morgan. "Ye're all alike. Ye can try, Will Ellison." She set the tray on the small table by the bed, pushing the cup back. "But when ye get too tired..."

"I'll deal with it, Moll." Morgan grinned at the woman, his eyes dancing. Will sighed. Morgan's grin became laughter. "He sounds just like me last year."

Hooking a foot through the stool's legs, Morgan seated himself. Will shifted gingerly, dreading the return of the dizziness. Breathing a sigh of relief when it stayed away, he looked at the tray. It seemed miles away, even though he could see every grain in the thick porridge.

"Look," Morgan's voice came. "I've been where ye are. Ye want to get stronger, ye need to eat." He lifted the bowl, his eyes on Will's. "Let me help ye?"

Injured pride buried under the gentle plea, Will gave in. Spoon after spoon, the bowl emptied, followed by toasted bread and a few apple slices. Finally he shook his head. "No more."

Morgan acquiesced cheerfully. "Ye did better than I'd expected. Are ye feeling better?"

With surprise, Will realized that he did feel better. The food lay comfortably in his stomach, seeming to ground him, preventing the dizzy feeling he'd had earlier. He smiled at the other man. "I do. Thank you."

"Ye're welcome." Setting the tray beside the door, Morgan returned to the stool. Leaning forward slightly, he studied Will's face. Will returned the gaze without flinching. "D'ye feel good enough to try and figure this thing out?"

Will shrugged slightly. "What choice do I have?" He grimaced at the bitter tone. "I'm sorry."

"We'll figure it out, Will. I promised ye, remember?" He smiled. "Now, this Eric and Ellis. Were they always together, d'ye know?"

"After Ellis was freed? I don't know. No, wait. There was one story about Ellis spending some time back in Ireland. I don't think Eric was with him."

"I guess not." Will buried his hope deeply, keeping his voice even. Maybe he could be freed of this.

Will nodded, a smile breaking through. "I guess so. But, Morgan? I have no idea how to do that."

"No matter," the Scot said confidently. "We've got plenty of time. By the time ye're healed enough to travel, the snow'll be too deep. We've got all winter, Will."

Morgan was right. By the time Will could stand without dizziness, the Scottish glens were packed with snow, up to a horse's belly in places. Looking out the castle window, Will had agreed with his host's assessment. He would be in Glenshaelie Castle until spring.

Most of him didn't mind. Glenshaelie was well built and comfortable, its inhabitants taking their cue from their master and treating him with warmth and respect. If he found them a bit too familiar, well, he was English. The Scots did things differently. If Morgan didn't object, how could he? And, actually, it was strangely pleasant to be treated this way. His own household seemed cold and lonely, in comparison.

Rory was another story. Once Will was on his feet, the grizzled Scot had pushed and prodded him until he agreed to start training with him. He wanted to see what the Sassenach had, the old man claimed. Eventually, through countless bouts ending with Will flat on his back, he had forced the Englishman to return to condition. The first time Will had dumped Rory, the Scot had roared with laughter and offered him a drink. They were friends now, as the season turned past Yuletide.

And Morgan. Smiling as he watched the young man's feet fly over the naked swords, Will raised a glass in salute as Morgan's competitor dropped out. Flushed and laughing, Morgan danced another pattern, then stopped, grabbing his tunic and wiping the sweat from his face and chest. Coming toward Will, he dropped into the chair at his side.

For Morgan was that now. As close as a brother, as close as Jamie had been. Pushing aside the ever-present ache of loss when he thought of Jamie, Will considered Morgan. Refusing to take no for an answer, Morgan had pushed and prodded as much as Rory had. Perhaps more. Together the two had experimented and tested, working constantly, until Will had control of his senses.

There had been some harrowing missteps, but shortly before Yule, Morgan had ridden out on patrol. He'd been gone three days, and although Will could feel some fraying at the edges by the time Morgan had returned, he'd made it.

His mood darkened. He could go three days without Morgan at his side. Could he go a lifetime?

Sensing Morgan's questioning glance, he looked over, smiling and shaking his head in answer to the silent concern. Behind the facade, he felt bleak determination. He would simply have to. There was no other choice.

The glens were passable, barely. Will had made noises about leaving, but had allowed himself to be easily dissuaded. All it had taken was a soft 'Not yet, Will,' from Morgan. Lying in bed, he cursed the need and friendship that had made him stay.

Morgan's father had come to Glenshaelie. Bluff and hearty, the Earl had greeted Morgan with a rough hug, his love for his son plainly evident. Rory had been met with rough affection, as had every other member of the clan. He'd greeted Will with warm acceptance, the initial suspicion brushed aside by Morgan's introduction as a friend. Will liked the man.

And, lying in his bed on the other side of the castle, he'd heard the damning words. Bonnie Prince Charlie was coming to Scotland, and his Stewart cousins were in the thick of it. The enthusiasm in Morgan's voice struck Will to the heart. But, hating himself, he knew what he had to do.

He waited until the Earl left, and then another three days. Spending as much time with Morgan as he could wasn't new. Only the desperation he felt was. Lying awake in the castle, Will listened to Morgan's breathing, wishing he could stay, wishing he'd left earlier. Finally, aching from the pain of it, he shut off the sounds he'd come to crave. He didn't think he could do this if he could still hear Morgan's heart beating.

Silently he crept from his room, slipping down the stairs and across the great hall. Used to his presence, the hounds that guarded the entrance didn't even lift their heads as he passed. Ghosting across the cobbled courtyard, he entered the stable. "Damn," he muttered. Rory's gelding, the only horse in Glenshaelie with the speed and heart of Windswift, was gone. Sick at what he was doing, he started to saddle Morgan's beloved stallion.

He froze at the words. Turning slowly, he stared at Morgan. The Scot's face was still, but his eyes held a sick anger.

The old Scotsman came out of the grain room, followed by several men. Will winced as he saw the accusation on Rory's face, but the words Rory spoke were not to him.

Morgan didn't look at him, but kept his eyes on Will. "The Sassenach wishes to leave. I'd have him stay a bit longer."

"Canna have him telling false tales of our hospitality," Rory agreed, his voice level. "Mayhap he'd find the tower chamber to his liking?"

Rory crossed the stable to take Will's arm. His grip bruised, but Will didn't move. "Morgan..." he breathed.

Rory pulled on Will's arm. "Come along, then," he said, cold death in his voice. Will stumbled as he left the stable, his senses focused on Morgan's rapidly beating heart and ragged breathing. He felt numb, lost. He could hear the girth being tightened, and Windswift's snort as he accepted the bridle. The leather creaked as Morgan swung aboard and rode out of the stable.

"Rory," he said, "send a rider to call my father back." His voice quavered slightly, then steadied. "I call the Earl's judgement on a spy."

"Out. Don't worry, Rory." Morgan laughed, strange and twisted. "There's not a horse around that can catch Windswift." He turned the horse, kneeing him hard in the ribs. In surprise the stallion broke into a run, jumping the gate easily. Will's knees buckled as he was jerked savagely along, all his attention on the fleeing man's racing heart.

Will paced the length of the room restlessly. In the two days that he'd been held here he'd become intimately familiar with the small chamber. He'd been fed twice, Moll slamming down the trays under the guard's watchful eyes. No one had spoken to him, but he hadn't expected them to. It didn't matter anyway. None of them could have told him the one thing he needed to know. None of them could tell him where Morgan was.

Windswift had come back two hours after he'd left, lathered and blown, saddle empty. Rory had immediately sent out patrols, leading the first himself. They'd found the ambush site easily enough. Bryce hadn't bothered to hide it. He'd wanted his father to know he had Morgan. Tracking the brigand to his hiding place, though...

A message had come the next day, brought by a herder who'd found it in his hut. A warning. Pull the patrols in, or Morgan dies. Rory had cursed savagely and then done as he'd been told. Knowing his son, the old warrior knew that Bryce wasn't bluffing. Raised together or no, Bryce would kill Morgan if he had to. A second note, just that morning, had directed a ransom amount. Rory had raged at the demand. Glenshaelie couldn't raise the ransom, not in time.

Will had listened, heartsick, to the reading of the ransom note. It described, graphically, what would be done to his friend if Bryce did not receive the money. He'd begged the guard to ask Rory to talk to him, but the guard had just closed the door. So - Will paced, his mind trying desperately to find a way to get out, to get to Morgan.

The door creaked open, a heavy tread sounding before it closed again. Will turned, shocked at the haggard expression he saw. "Rory..." he began.

The Scot raised a hand to stop him. "Does Morgan mean anything to ye?" he asked.

"Does he mean anything to ye? Or was he just a tool to get yer senses under control?"

Rory shook his head. "Not a word. But I'm na blind, even if my eyes arena as keen as yers." His face was hard, his voice even. "Does he mean anything to ye, Will?"

"Huh," the warrior said. "Ye have an interesting way of showing that." He shook his head sharply to cut off Will's words. "It doesna matter. Ye know who has him."

"I thought ye would. We canna rescue him, we canna even find him. Bryce left no trail that I can find. D'ye think ye could track him?"

Remembering a day of following Morgan's carefully laid trails, Will nodded. "It might take a while, but I can." He glanced at the grey skies. "Until it rains."

Will's eyes widened, making Rory chuckle grimly. "Aye. But I'd have yer word first, that ye'd rescue Morgan and return here."

"I have no choice," the Scot said bluntly. "But, aye. If ye give yer word, I'd trust ye to keep it."

Will turned away, staring out the small window. It was his chance, he knew. He'd be free of Glenshaelie, free to ride hard for England. But... Morgan. And he'd never yet broken his word. Rory was right about that. His eyes closed, veiling pain within their depths, then he opened them with steely resolve. His word was given long ago to England. And he'd sworn his loyalty to serve her, in any way he could.

He sighed, squaring his shoulders, then turned back to look at Rory. "You have it," he said quietly.

He led Rory's gelding, his legs securely wrapped around Windswift's belly. The stallion was a joy to ride. It was obvious why Morgan prized him so. Following the careful instructions, he made his way to the place where his friend had been ambushed.

Dismounting, he studied the ground carefully, eyesight as open as he dared without Morgan's presence. Nostrils flared as he tested the air. Suddenly, he nodded to himself in grim satisfaction. Swinging onto the horse, he began to follow a trail that only he could ever have seen.

It was actually easy, he thought. Crouched on the hill overlooking the brigand's hidden camp, he had to admire the setup. Only by knowing where the hidden entrance was would anyone ever find the long, narrow passage that wound it's way between two high cliffs. At its end lay this small valley, and the secret village that housed Bryce and his band. Lulled by the lack of patrols and the knowledge that no one could follow his trail, the renegade hadn't even set a guard.

He would have been safe not to, if it hadn't been Will that was following. The trail was plain to him, the tiny marks and fading scent drawing him ever onward. Once he'd stopped, fighting down anger as he breathed deeply. The scent of Morgan's blood drove him into fury, but he knew he had to control it. Rage would cause mistakes, and he couldn't afford that. Briefly, his mind flashed back to another man, the sickly odor of Jamie's blood overwhelming in his mind. Shaking his head, he growled quietly. Bryce would not kill another friend. He would not let that happen.

So now he waited, icy calm in his mind, for night to fall. He had already located Morgan, his friend's pounding heart a beacon he couldn't miss. Bryce had him in the brigand's own home, but that wouldn't be a problem. Will smiled grimly at the thought.

As the shadows crept into the valley, so did Will. Ghosting between rocks and trees, he moved ever closer to the valley floor, reaching it as true night fell. Working his way into the village unseen by any eyes, he was almost disappointed when he realized that there was only one heart beating within Bryce's house. Shrugging, he slipped into the building, smiling crookedly at Morgan's widened eyes.

The young Scot lay bound and gagged on a bed, dark bruises clear proof of his struggles to escape. Relief and surprise filled his eyes, and he wiggled over to let Will reach the knots. Rapidly freeing him, Will pulled Morgan to his feet, cursing silently as the other man stumbled on deadened legs. Kneeling, he rubbed the feeling back, fingers feeling the knotted muscle quickly give way to the skilled massage. Apologetic eyes looked up at Morgan, Will fully aware of the pain this was causing.

Morgan shrugged, indicating that he could walk. Listening intently, Will led the way out of the village, still regretting the need to go unseen. Even his bones ached with the desire to kill Bryce for what he had done - to Jamie, to the rest of his men, but especially (and Will realized this with surprise) for what he had done to Morgan. As the two men entered the narrow passageway, he looked back at the village, a dark promise in his heart. Bryce would pay, he vowed.

Working their way along as swiftly as Morgan could move, they finally reached the end. Breathing a sigh of relief as they exited the hidden passage, Will led Morgan to the small grove where he had concealed the horses. Mounting, the two men grinned at each other in the growing light.

They had not spoken, concentrating on the need for rapid movement. Now Morgan looked over at Will as they urged the horses into a careful walk. "Somehow," he said, "I knew that if anyone came, it would be ye. But how?"

"How did I find you? Or how did I convince Rory to let me out?" Will laughed quietly at Morgan's stricken look. "It's all right. You did what you had to, Morgan. So did I."

"I promised Rory I'd find you, rescue you, and come back." Will looked between Windswift's ears, wondering if Morgan had even noticed that he rode the stallion. "I can't, though." He looked over at Morgan again, meeting the Scot's gaze briefly. "I'm English, Morgan." He shrugged.

"Now... now you go home, and so do I. Good-bye, Morgan." He kneed the stallion sharply, turning him onto the south-leading ridge they'd just topped. Relaxing into the ground-eating canter, he closed down his hearing, not wanting to listen to Morgan cursing him. So it wasn't until the stallion stopped abruptly, sending him flying, that he realized Morgan was following.

Will's voice ringing in his ears, Morgan stared after the fleeing Englishman. Heart heavy, he whistled sharply. Watching as Windswift's rider fell, he winced with the impact. Reining his mount over by the fallen man, he looked down at him. Dazed eyes blinked up at him.

"I'm sorry, Will," he said simply. "I canna let you go. By now the prince has sailed, and I canna let ye bring the tale to England."

Sliding off the patient gelding, he rolled Will over, fastening his hands behind him with a strip of leather from the saddle. Calling Windswift over, he wrestled the Englishman into the stallion's saddle, securing him into place. Looking up at Will, he met understanding eyes.

Leading the stallion, the Scot mounted Rory's gelding and headed toward Glenshaelie. Neither man spoke as they rode, Morgan setting an easy pace to help Will keep his balance. As they crested the last hill, Morgan stopped, the stallion following suit. Looking at the castle, he drew a long breath. Men swarmed around the building, pennants snapping in the wind. The Earl had arrived.

Morgan sat for a long moment, mind frozen. He had expected to have a day or two to decide what to do with Will. Now the decision would be out of his hands.

Will shrugged, the stallion shifting under him. "It won't matter. It can't, Morgan, and you know that."

Looking over at Will, Morgan felt his heart break. His friend's smile held sad acceptance, and forgiveness. "Aye, Will," he answered hoarsely.

"Will!" Morgan's mind raged. There had to be a way out of this. There just... had to be. He looked over at Will, his friend's beloved face pensive as he studied the castle. A deep breath, a sad farewell, and Morgan's decision was made.

Making the gelding step sideways, he leaned over. With a quick slash, he cut the rope holding Will to the saddle. A second cut, and the hands were free. Will moved his hands forward, rubbing the wrists as he stared at Morgan.

Morgan tossed him the reins, then turned the gelding's head away from the castle. "Let's go," he said brusquely.

Morgan looked at Glenshaelie one last time, then turned his eyes on Will. His voice broke as he began to speak, and he cleared his throat to begin again. His answer, and all that he needed, was the dawning joy in his friend's eyes.

Blair had a theory. Lying in bed, he wondered how best to test it. Jim wouldn't like it, he knew. It smacked too much of the mystical for the Sentinel to easily accept. Even with all that had happened, Jim was still a skeptic. But even if he wasn't a student any longer, Blair was still a scientist. And he had a theory.

Rolling to the edge of the futon, he sat up. Chin on his hands, he considered various methods of hypnosis and trance. That was probably the way to go. He'd dig out some of his notes from the boxes stored in the basement tomorrow, he decided. They'd help him figure out which procedure would work best.

Filing the decision, he stretched, then stood and made his way to the door of his room. Stepping into the main area, he jumped slightly as he spotted Jim standing by the balcony, staring out over the city. The Sentinel didn't move, although Blair knew he had to be aware of his presence.

Studying the still figure, he had an idea. It was - maybe - brilliant. Not really sure what reaction he expected, he opened his mouth.

"Morgan." The voice was rich with warm affection. Blair gasped, then stared into Jim's pale face.

"Testing a theory," Blair muttered. He raised his eyes, looking straight into Jim's. The Sentinel's eyes burned. Blair swallowed, then spoke again.

"I've been having dreams, but I don't think they are dreams. You're having them too, aren't you?"

"You think so? Dreams that we're both having?" Blair sighed. "You probably think they're just ways of processing what happened."

Blair watched as Jim disappeared up the stairs. Shaking his head, he went into the bathroom. "You're wrong, Jim. And I think we're going to have to talk about it."

The next few days were just like they all had been since the press conference. Jim got up, got ready for work, and left without saying much except please and thank you. Blair watched him leave, then sighed and pulled out his text on police procedure. He was trying to get a head start on classes, knowing that the instructors would be extra hard on him. Expecting him to cheat, he thought bitterly. He studied until it was time to make dinner, Jim came home, they ate, then Blair disappeared into his room, unable to face the silence in the loft. He was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. Except that of course it was. It just... hurt, that was all. He'd get over it. Eventually.

Jim broke after the fifth dream. Blair woke first, and by the time the Sentinel came downstairs he was curled on the couch with a steaming mug of tea. He hadn't bothered to turn on the living room lights, but he knew that Jim could see him clearly. Wondering what, if anything, would be said, he sipped his tea and waited.

Jim stood for a long minute at the foot of the stairs. Blair could feel his gaze, but refused to look back. He'd tried too many times. If Jim was going to talk, he'd have to start on his own.

After a bit, the Sentinel sighed and stepped forward. Coming around the couch, he settled uneasily on the other end. Blair remained stubbornly silent.

Blair set his tea down on the coffee table, and uncrossed his legs. Leaning forward, he laid his hand on Jim's wrist. "Yeah, big guy. You did."

"Why any of this?" The voice held quiet desperation. Blair considered the question carefully, holding his Sentinel's troubled eyes.

"Why did I, an abolitionist running a newspaper and concealing a stop on the Underground Railroad, hide and protect you, a Confederate Soldier? At the cost of betraying everything I believed in, for a man who owned slaves? Is that what you're asking, Jim?"

"Yes." The answer was rapid, yet uncertain. Blair laughed softly, but there was no amusement in his voice.

"So every time, every damn time we've met, I've destroyed your life. And I did it again." There was bleak despair in the statement.

"Whoa. Stop right there, big guy, because that is so not what happened. I made a choice. *I* made that choice, hear me? And from what I've been dreaming, I've made the choice all along."

"No!" Blair's voice was angry. "This is not about you, Jim. This is about me. My life. My choice. And I chose to give that press conference, Jim. I knew exactly what I was doing." His voice softened. "I'd do it again, Jim. In a heartbeat." He laughed, this time genuinely amused. "Apparently I have done it again."

"It's not fair, Blair. If these dreams really are of us, then over and over, you've lost everything you've dreamed of. For what? Why does this keep happening?" Jim's voice broke. "And why do I let you?"

"Oh, Jim." Blair lifted his hand, touching his Sentinel's face gently. "I haven't lost anything. I'm right where I'm supposed to be. Don't you get that?"

"God, Blair, I'm so sorry." There were naked tears in those words. Blair moved forward on the couch, gathering Jim in a comforting embrace.

"Shhhh," he soothed. "I know, Jim. I've always known. It's nice to hear, you know? But it's okay. Really it is."

Jim shook his head, pulling back a bit to look at Blair. "It's not," he said. "It stops here. This is the last time you give up a dream for me."

Colonel Blair Ellison stood alone in the shadowed observation deck, his eyes fixed on the scene beyond the clear expanse. The Earth filled half of the sky, her green-blue brilliance stunning. But although the Colonel could see her more clearly than any other man living, she was not what he watched. His gaze was on the beautiful starship moving majestically away from her mooring on his station.

Fittingly named, Enterprise was the first of her kind. Built to span the distances between stars in mere years instead of centuries, her passengers and crew carefully chosen, she carried the brightest dreams of Earth with her. It had taken fifty years to build her. It would take another twenty to finish her sister ship, Exploration.

The brightest dreams of Earth. Blair drew a shuddering breath. She also carried his brightest dream, and she would not return in his lifetime.

The starship completed her first maneuver, retreating completely from the station. His attention completely on her, the Colonel didn't hear the door seal hiss open or the entering footsteps. His hearing was out there, trying to hear a heartbeat lost forever. He wanted to hear it so badly that he almost imagined he did.

Enterprise turned, setting her back to Earth's sun, her sleek shape facing the dark. Blair swallowed, his throat hurting. Soon he would have to join the celebration. How could he, when all he'd ever wanted was guiding that ship to the stars?

The voice rang like a bell through him. Whirling, he stared at the young man who stood behind him. Green eyes fixed on the huge ship, his expression unreadable, he watched her fly. The Colonel shook, mute with shock.

Tearing his eyes from the ship, the other man smiled at Blair. The smile released all the words. But there was only one that mattered.

"Then I met you. And suddenly, there was something more important. I don't need the stars, Blair. It came down to have them, or have you. And I chose you."

Something deep within the Sentinel cried out against this. But it had no chance against the calm acceptance in his Guide's eyes.