Author's Note: This story gets a little...passionate, so I'm warning you in advance. Feel free to let me know if you think it's inappropriate, but I simply couldn't find a way around the more explicit parts. I know the characters might seem a little deeper than they usually act, but it was necessary to the story line. I debated for a while as to whether or not I should post this, but a little bird told me I should, so here it is. Please let me know what you think; it was just a quick idea that came to me one night, and I'm posting it to help pass the time until I finish editing Skywing. If you're sure that what follows won't bother you, please read on and review!

Brightwing Regrets

It was a cold night. The wind gusted harshly and sporadically, filling the air with the loud crackling of stiff, frozen leaves. Already, the ground was littered with frost, and a sort of hush would descend upon the forest each time the shrieking wind relented— though only for a moment—as most of the beasts had already begun their hibernation. The bats were to leave in a few days as well. Soon, all the mothers and newborns from Tree Haven would be reunited with their missing parts at Stone Hold.

As she watched the year's newborns hunt and frolic—excitedly fattening up for the long migration ahead—Marina hung grimly from her roost, her head level with one of Tree Haven's few knotholes. She shivered slightly, the cold air seeping deep through her fur and penetrating her bones, but the cold was not the only thing pressing in on her.

Looking out amongst the bright, young faces—all eager to meet their fathers—she remembered with a pang that she would not be sharing in their excitement. Loneliness had closed in on her ever since Griffin had left for Stone Hold, tormenting her night and day to the point that she could hardly sleep at times. It had been one thing when Shade had died: she had been so caught up in caring for Griffin that she had seldom had time to dwell on his absence. Now that Griffin had left too, however, everything came tumbling back to her, and it was with a heavy heart that her eyes swept passively over one unfamiliar face after the other.

"How're you doing?"

Marina jumped slightly. She had been so distracted that she hadn't noticed Chinook roosting beside her. It was always a surprise to her, seeing him around Tree Haven, but Mercury was getting too old to fulfill his duties as messenger, and Chinook had been willing to replace him.

It was nice to have him around, Marina reflected. There was something comforting in being near this other bat who had also been a close friend of Shade's. She could see some of the same darkness in his eyes—the way someone seems to fade a little when they lose something they can't replace.

"Not bad," Marina answered him with little conviction. "A little cold, I guess."

"Yeah," Chinook agreed. "It'll be a tough migration. Especially since…"

He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence. The two friends hung side-by-side in silence for a moment before he spoke again.

"I admire you, you know."

"Really? How so?"

He sighed, "You just seem to be so strong about everything." He looked at her closely. "I was worried that you wouldn't be able to handle it."

There was no need for Marina to ask what he was talking about.

"I'm not able to handle it," she said sadly. "Not really, anyway. It gets awfully lonely during the summer."

He nodded. "I know what you mean."

There was another moment of hesitation before she continued.

"I never wanted to admit it, but I think what I miss most is just the feeling of his wing wrapped around me during the day, holding me while we slept. I know it's really mushy, but that small thing meant so much to me."

"It's always nice to have someone there for you," Chinook agreed soothingly.

Marina nodded before turning her head quickly to look at her shoulder. She had felt something graze her fur. As she shot out a few echoes to see what had brushed her, it took her a few moments to realize that Chinook had wrapped his wing around her, and was now staring into her eyes beseechingly.

"Chinook?"

"I never really let you go, you know," he admitted seriously. "I always hoped that some day we could be like this."

Marina couldn't quite grasp what was going on. "I don't…"

Chinook pulled her in tightly, and in her confusion, time lost all consistency—speeding by at times, and slowing to a stop at others. She stared into the friendly eyes, deep and pleading, and suddenly felt panicked. This shouldn't be happening! she thought. She was mated to Shade—she loved Shade!

She had to tell him to stop, but as she breathed in the comfortingly familiar scent of his fur—so similar to Shade's—and felt the tenderness of his wing around her shoulder, she felt her resolve melt away. After so long alone, so long in despair, she longed to just whisk her sadness away. She leaned over and nuzzled her head against Chinook's muscular chest. He responded by licking her neck and shoulders gently, working his way lower.

The next thing she knew, she was mating with him, casting away any regard for the ramifications of her actions. She lost herself to the moment. With each soft thrust, each gentle touch, Marina felt her worries wash away, and she was happy again. It was not true joy, but the kind of vague relief and optimism one feels in the caring embrace of another.

Soon, she could feel her pleasure rising, her elegant fur standing on end. All of her emotions funneled into her final contraction, and she yelled out his name as she felt her whole body shiver, her climax spreading as far as the very tips of her ears.

Chinook pulled away from her unexpectedly, wide-eyed in shock as he looked down at her. Marina felt her heart turn to ice with his, all her joy seeping out of her with incredible speed. The two fell into an awkward silence, staring at each other in disbelief. All too readily, she realized what had happened.

She had yelled Shade's name.

With that simple act, the two bats seemed to realize the true gravity of what they had just done. Chinook's ears seemed to droop guiltily, and tears began to trickle down Marina's face.

"Chinook, I—"

She couldn't think of anything to say. They sank into a stony silence for what seemed like ages, neither yet able to come to terms with what had happened. Finally, Chinook spoke.

"Marina, I'm…I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Chinook!"

A call rang down to them from the upper reaches of Tree Haven. The male looked over his shoulder towards the sound, before returning his shameful gaze to Marina. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Marina beat him to it.

"You'd better go Chinook," she said grimly. "You shouldn't keep Penumbra waiting."

With a last, fleeting glance, he slowly launched himself into the air. In a matter of seconds, he was out of sight, and Marina was left to wallow in her guilt alone.

She proceeded to clean herself shamefully, crying harder still as she tried in vain to remove Chinook's strong scent from her fur, each lick a reminder of the terrible thing she had done. It seemed impossible that she would ever be clean again. Never could she have guessed that she would be so desperate for companionship. The guilt was inescapable. She knew that neither she nor Chinook would ever tell a soul what they had just done, but with a kind of grim certainty, she knew that it was already too late: the one bat she least wanted to know about the incident was now likely the bat who least wanted to know her.

All the while, Shade had been watching. Throughout his death he had been perpetually tormented by an intense desire to return to life—to return to his mate. Now, however, his feelings were indescribable. Already so powerfully desolate and so hopelessly confused, his emotions no longer had a physical body to reciprocate his turmoil—he had no heart to turn to ice, no stomach to clench, and no eyes to cry.

Though it was with heavy sobbing that his mate cleaned herself now in front of him, only one image surfaced in his mind through his depressed haze: Marina's happy, contented face as Chinook had taken her.

After everything they had been through, after everything he had done for her, he could not grasp what had gone wrong. How was it that she could betray him so easily? Did he mean nothing to her?

Though he could not decide what it was he felt exactly, he knew that he had to leave. He could watch over Marina no longer.

She opened her eyes fearfully. Everything was strikingly the same: the leaves on the trees, the bugs in the air, the grass on the ground below…even the bats. She could see them frolicking around Tree Haven, hunting and laughing with each other. There were more than there should have been, however—swarms of bats surrounded by a misty glow.

So this is what it's like to be dead, Marina thought.

It had been a long journey through the Underworld. It had taken her weeks to realize that she had died the first place—though she had never managed to remember how exactly death had come to her. It had only been a matter of time, then, before the pilgrims came to set her on her way to The Tree. It had been immeasurably reassuring to see Frieda again—a single familiar face in a sea of confusion and doubt. With a group of other bats, she had made the long voyage to the burning Tree, narrowly escaping the Vampyrum patrols and the hazards of the changing landscape.

Now, finally, here she was: one with the other glowing dead around her. She had been through a lot in the last few days, but for the moment she cared only for one thing.

Without any clue where to start, she simply started immediately. Despite her excitement, she felt no sense of urgency—something about having an eternity ahead of you wipes away any need to rush.

After searching unsuccessfully for a while, she set down on a branch, delighting in the unusual experience of gripping the bark without feeling it crunch beneath her; and registering mild surprise at the way the branch remained firm, has though she weighed nothing at all.

For a moment, Marina simply took a few deep breaths—though more out of habit than necessity. Soon, she would finally be happy again. Soon, she would finally alleviate her guilt. Soon, she would see him again.

"Looking for someone?"

Her heart leapt—or did it? Did she even have a heart? What did it matter? All she knew was that it had been far too long since she had last heard that voice. It sounded just as she had always remembered it.

Anxiously—almost fearfully—she turned to take in her companion. The runty form, the scarred body, the dark eyes…all like he had never really left.

"Shade!"

She threw herself onto him, wishing desperately that she could cry in this afterlife body. She shuddered as he wrapped his wings around her once more, and the memories came tumbling forcibly back.

But she could feel that something was wrong as she pulled away: a certain stiffness in his movements, an iciness in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

He shifted his gaze oddly. "I guess it's just so overwhelming to have you back after so long."

She nodded vigorously, "I feel the same way, Shade. I—"

"It was hard, you know," he broke in, turning away from her slightly. "Not being able to talk to you. Because I could always hear you…I could always see you."

At this his eyes returned to hers, almost pointedly. If Marina had truly had a heart, it would have turned to stone. She knew all too well what he meant, for not a night had gone by in which the same thought hadn't entered her own mind. She felt her head droop slightly. He must've picked up on her shame, for he continued without explanation.

"Why?" he pleaded. His tone was almost curious, but there was that thin layer of despair that seemed to follow every word. "Why did you do it?"

She just shook her head somberly. What could she say?

"I just—" she started.

"Do you know what it felt like?" he asked, with a little more emotion this time. "It was bad enough not being able to talk to you, or to feel your body next to mine as I slept, but this?" She was drowning in shame.

"Shade…" She tried to speak, but could think of nothing better than: "I'm so sorry."

He sighed. "I know Chinook was only trying to help," he conceded. "I know how…hard it must've been, all alone like that…"

"Stop," she interrupted. "Please, just stop. I just want to forget it—let's just forget that it happened."

"Easier said than done," Shade condescended.

"Look, I made a mistake," she explained. "Chinook and I made a mistake. We were just two lonely bats looking for someone to comfort us."

He grunted. "Oh, you two looked very comfortable with each other."

"I'm really sorry, Shade," she repeated.

"I just don't know how long it's going to take for me to trust you again," he said.

"I understand," she sighed. After a short pause, she smiled weakly in an attempt to break the despair that hung over them. "If it's any consolation, he wasn't anywhere near as good as you."

"Of course he wasn't," Shade muttered, but this time his mouth twitched at the corners.

She nuzzled her head against his chest affectionately. "I love you, Shade."

She had never said it to him even once when he was alive, and the knowledge had tormented her ever since he had died. Now that it finally came out, she could never have meant it with more conviction.

He sighed again and wrapped his wing around her, but this time, the warmth had returned to his embrace and Marina finally felt calm.

"Meeting you on that island was probably the worst thing to ever happen to me," Shade said ruefully. When she looked over at him in disbelief, he chuckled, "But it was also the best thing to ever happen to me."

He gave her a final smile.

"I love you too, Marina."