Before the Dawn

A/N: I re-read the entire Gemma Doyle series this past week, and I've grown a fondness for Amar, for some odd reason. So I decided to write some stuff about him. This is my first attempt, a small scene between him and Mary Dowd (Virginia Doyle).

Meet me after dark again and I'll hold you
I want nothing more than to see you there
And maybe tonight, we'll fly so far away,
We'll be lost before the dawn...

It had been so long, since he'd seen her. He'd kept well hidden, like he knew he ought to, being Rakshana. He had no right to see her. It was not his place. But still, he could not help wanting to glimpse at her again; her smouldering red hair, her wise, penetrating eyes. He missed them. He missed being able to go see her whenever he pleased, whenever he wished to. He missed the time at Spence, when he'd sneak off to the stables, and she'd follow him, and she would badger him, till he gave her what she wanted. Sometimes it would be a kiss, sometimes it would be news of the Rakshana and sometimes it would just be comfort, the knowledge he was there, to protect her.

But now things were different. She had changed. She was no longer a schoolgirl, aching for adventure and love. She wanted a home, and a family. And she had one. Or, she would soon. He'd taken so long to find her. He barely knew her now. He only knew he had to see her, he had to make sure she was safe. It was a risk, coming to her, but what else could he do? He could not stand aside and let things unravel this way. He had to see her. Even if, he knew, she would not come to him. He had come back to India, to his homeland, just for her. He longed for her. He longed for the fleeting happiness seeing her gave him.

He could see her walking out of her house, towards the outer deserts, near the ocean, her hair pulled back, loose curls trailing down her neck, where the amulet hung, glistening in the sun. He followed her. She seemed to glow in the deep moonlight. She would not see him. She would have forgotten him by now. But he could never forget her. He wanted to reach out to her, but no. Not yet. He would wait. He would let her be, first. Maybe she did not want to see him. Maybe she was right to wish it. He'd always brought her a taste of what she could never have, a taste of the forbidden, the thrilling. And she'd always relished in it. She would not have changed that.

She sat near the seaside, her skirts flying about her, more curls rebelling against the pins constraining them. She was smiling, content with the peace. Did she completely disregard the wild, adventurous Mary Dowd, when she'd taken on Virginia Doyle? Would he no longer know her?



He felt a sense of dread, and took a step closer to her. He prayed he could keep the charade up long enough. He would have to.

Crick.

Or not. He winced, seeing her turn, her eyes vivid. "Amar!" she stood, caught off-guard. She looked guilty, thrilled and afraid all at once, her eyes flickering between emotions. "Amar, what are you doing here?" she dropped her voice to barely a whisper. It was so light; it seemed to float on the light breeze. "How did you find me?"

"It wasn't difficult, Miss Dowd, or should I say...Mrs. Doyle, now?" his voice was pained as he said her new name. She too, seemed to feel the sting of his words. She looked away from him. "It was for the best."

She seemed to be trying to convince herself more than him. "Of course it was," he took a step closer, frowning. "So why are you not happy, Mrs. Doyle?"

"Don't call me that," she said coldly. "It's...it's..."

"What is it?" he inclined his head. "Mary? Virginia? Who are you now?"

She stifled a sob and shook her head. She didn't know. He was pained to see her so lost, so unstable, but he too, had lost so much of himself. It seemed that their identities had died away with the East Wing at Spence. "I don't know."

He boldly walked to her. This was India. Things were not like in England. He wrapped his arm around her, and buried his head in her hair, inhaling the sweet smell of her. She was still the same. She was not lost. Not completely. But he knew she would be, if he let her go. If he allowed himself to forget, he'd never see her again. His heart ached at the thought. "You'll always be Mary to me."

She fell against him easily. She didn't even fight him. She didn't want to. "That person is gone, Amar. I don't know who Virginia Doyle is. I'm a shell, carved out. There's nothing of Mary Dowd left in me."

"That's not true," he mused. "You still feel like Mary Dowd. And you still talk like Mary Dowd. There will always be Mary Dowd before Virginia Doyle. And it is Mary Dowd..." he trailed off. "It's Mary Dowd I've come to see. One last time."



Her eyebrows creased, and a rush of adoration coursed through Amar. He would have kissed her then and there, but then he knew he'd never leave her, if he did. "Circe is..."

"Let's not talk of Circe," he told her. "Not tonight. We'll be lost after tonight. We might as well end it on a good note, yes?"

She smiled sadly. "I am very sorry, Amar. I never meant..."

"For any of this to happen, I know," he said, somewhat coolly. "We never did mean for anything to happen."

She stared at him hard. "I didn't ask for this."

"Are you certain of that, Mary?" he sighed. This wasn't doing any good. "I should leave."

"You should."

"I will then."

But he could not bring himself to leave her. And she knew it. She turned to face him and brought a pale, cold hand to his cheek. She shook her head. "You have your brother to take care of. I have..." my daughter.

She did not have to say the words. He knew them. They haunted him. She was a mother now. To a daughter. He did not have a part in her life anymore. He tucked a curl behind her ear and nodded. "You are right. I have many responsibilities now," he turned to leave, but could not help himself. He pressed his lips to hers, once, lightly. He refused to give in. He was Rakshana. There were limits to his desires. There had to be. There would be order. He pulled away from her, somewhat pleased to see the burning fire in her eyes, matching his own, and a horrid wrenching pain, at having to leave her.

"You could come with me," he said softly, once more holding her to him. He would let her go. But not yet. Just once. Let me, just once. "You could come hide with me."

"And become fat and give you ten children?" she laughed lightly, shaking her head.

"Yes," he nodded. "And we can live in a little Indian village, and..."



"You can smoke your pipe, and order me around grumpily, as I throw my slippers at you, and curse you..." she paused, smiling. "Endearingly, of course."

Amar laughed, pulling her closer to him. "Of course."

Mary's smile faded, and she pulled away slightly, looking at the water. "If you were not Rakshana, perhaps."

Rakshana. It seemed a curse all unto itself now. He sighed. "Yes. If I were not Rakshana. But there may be a way."

She shook her head, looking up at him, and her emerald eyes brimmed with tears. He had never seen her cry. She seemed so broken. He cursed Circe now. He cursed life, for being so cruel to them. She was so young! "No. You know there is not. We have our ways to take." And they are not entwined. Not anymore.

The unspoken words hung between them, once more, another ghost to haunt them both, mock their miseries. He pulled away from her, his hand shaking. He knew that their time was over. There was nothing left for both of them in this world. They were to live, but only for those who would come after them. They would no longer live for themselves. Shells. Hollow masks of what they once were. Their dreams had turned to ash. He took a long look at her, basking in her beauty, while he could. There were no proper eyes here. He could look at her, and actually see her, see the way her mouth curved slightly at the ends, how her cheeks still held their light youthful bloom, how her skirts showed the outline of her legs, how her eyes seemed to will him to tell her to follow him. But he could not.

The fiery Indian sun was rising, and she would soon join a life that he had no part in at all. A tear slipped down her cheek, as he walked away, but she did not beg him to come back. Life had hardened Mary Dowd, and this night had killed her. And Amar knew, in the deep chasm of his soul, that he'd never stop watching her. He'd always be hers. Her protector, her lover, her friend. And that would never change. Not ever. He himself wanted to cry at the sheer unfairness of it all. Did her husband realize how powerful she had been, how fiery, how adventurous? Did he know what escapades she'd get into, the things she saw and did, and how, with a simple look, she could charm anyone? Of course not. He only saw a darling wife to bear him children and welcome him home at night. And she would play her part well.

It seemed the only actor who could not hold up the scene was Amar. His emotions were too raw, too empty, and he knew, the moment he'd given himself completely to the life of Mary Dowd, he'd lost himself. And he would not get it back.

If only night could hold you where I can see you, my love
Then let me never ever wake again
And maybe tonight, we'll fly so far away
We'll be lost before the dawn...