Thank you to those who reviews. Please bestow your kindness on me again. :)

I'm going to alternate POVs in this fanfic, something I've been doing for a while. Unlike before, though, it's going to be systematic—not randomly switching from person to person like I've done previously. From here on in, every chapter is supposed to switch POVs unless absolutely necessary.

On with the show.

Summertime in Lemuria really wasn't that different from summertime in Champa. But then again, seasons didn't vary much in the middle of the ocean.

Piers was down at the water's edge. He had been there since late morning—it was now early evening.

Anyone looking down at the lapping edge of the rocks would see a man floating in the water, blue hair and limbs splayed out around him. He floated as if dead, as if he were a piece of wreckage from a foolish fisherman's boat. But anyone that was already on the island, any Lemurian citizen, knew that he was scrying. They would know that it would be best to not disturb him.

Piers' eyes were closed and he breathed easily, as if the water around him were no more than the air he was so used to. It had been ages since he had to scry, so he had to duly prepare and study the methods. To be honest, he hadn't been submerged in water for so long in a while.

But he had to say that it was worth it.

---v---v---v---v---v---

His sight was extended to a good-sized fishing town called Champa.

When he explained the destination for scrying to the Librarian days earlier, the well-groomed old man looked at him quizzically and inquired as to why he wanted to look onto such an irrelevant little town.

Piers had replied, "An old friend lives there now. I wish to know how she is, seeing as her family will tell me nothing."

The old man had raised both eyebrows and a small smile appeared on his wrinkled face. He set down the small stack of books he was carrying and pulled out no more than five volumes for Piers to read. He had outlined the chapters most vital and when he was done and Piers was studying the pages intently, he said, "Is this a friend you saved the world with?"

Piers looked up, pained, and the Librarian revised his question. "Oh, I apologize—I know you don't like anyone using those terms," he said hurriedly. "I meant to ask, is she one of the people you traveled with?"

Piers nodded and looked back to his book, though he did not read the words. "Anyone looking at the pair of us would think us to be the last people in Weyard to be friends, yet I felt the closest to her out of them all. They tried numerous times to lump me with the other Water Adept, but she didn't interest me." He looked up and laughed, sheepish. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Because this is not the kind of thing you keep to yourself," the Librarian said. "Love is a wonderful thing, a thing that needs to be shared and not hidden—"

Piers looked up sharply. "I'm not in love with her," he said, suddenly irritated.

The Librarian smiled meekly. "It seems to me you are."

"You know nothing," Piers snapped and stood up. "I wandered the world with her, I saved her life so many times, and I got to know her as no one else ever would. I saved the world with her, and then… I killed her parents. Love has nothing to do with this—only obligation. I have a duty to her now. It's fortunate that I am fond of her; if I had to serve someone I disliked, life would be very long indeed."

The Librarian had shaken his head. "Piers, Advisor to the King and Savior of Lemuria, you have much to learn." He had taken Piers' books and checked them out, replacing them on the table when he was done. Then he disappeared into the rows of shelves and was gone.

---v---v---v---v---v---

Now, floating freely, Piers' brow knotted in thought. What did that Librarian mean? Did he imply that he was unenlightened? Piers saved the world, saved Lemuria, and the old man had the nerve to tell him that he hadn't learned anything?

But what of love? What of women? A tiny voice asked him this, one that resembled the Librarian's. What did he truly know about love and all the wonders it brought to a man?

With a scowl on his face, Piers answered himself—he knew nothing.

Suddenly a new image blossomed in his mind. He knew this couldn't be his imagination; there was too much detail, the image itself was too vivid to be conjured up out of nowhere. He had never visited Champa, but if he would in the future, he knew that this image would represent it perfectly.

As if he were seeing through the eyes of a person, the image moved. He found himself floating up stairs—he didn't feel footsteps. He was passing through people in their loose-fitting clothing, people with no shoes on—he didn't feel their skin or flesh. He saw a marketplace, with vendors fanning themselves off endlessly while trying to haggle with buyers. He saw a dock, with children swimming and playing in the shallow water. He saw neat rows of not-so-neat houses up at the top of the large hill where Champa was situated. He looked back down on the village, the irresistible town that was Champa.

Anyone looking up at Piers from beneath him, with the rays of sun fanning around his head like a halo, would see a smile cross his face. But anyone looking up at him could not, would not, should not know what made him smile.

He blinked, and was in someone's house. But judging by the numerous varying artifacts scattered around the room, ones that came from all four corners of the world, it couldn't be just anyone's house—it was Jenna's.

He didn't really know what to do with himself at that point. Everything that had happened up to that point just happened; he didn't need to wait for it. It didn't seem like Jenna was at home.

Home—did this really qualify as her home yet? Piers didn't know how long she lived here, but he knew that it was for at least a year. This house was lived-in, had been for some time, and there wasn't the new-house smell. She had brought all her enchanted equipment and set them up around the house, posing them as art pieces and artifacts when in reality they were extremely powerful weapons and armors.

His eye caught her old staff, the one he first saw her with. He chuckled inwardly—what a fledgling group they were at that point! He remembered like it was yesterday, seeing a group of disgruntled children trying to save him, poorly equipped and naïve. Little did he know that they would save the world and him with it.

The door opened and Piers turned around, fully expecting to see her—Jenna, the girl he admired so, so much for so, so long.

But the young woman who shut the door behind her and leaned against it with a long sigh was not Jenna. Her hair was the same, her skin was the same, her way of walking was the same. Her face was the same; her fierce, beautiful face hadn't changed at all aside from losing the adolescent fluff.

When she opened her eyes, however, Piers could see the strain. The look in her eyes hadn't changed, not at all—still brightly curious and judgmental at the same time—but the tiny wrinkles underneath, or the transient worry lines on her forehead, or the lines that come from frowning too much between her brows, told a different story.

She rubbed her face, squeezed the bridge of her nose, and got up again. She stretched and rubbed the back of her neck. She left her sandals at the door and went up the stairs to her bedroom.

Piers followed. He had no right to, but this she frightened him.

When he saw into her room, her shirt was already off—breast band on—and her back was to him. He could see the strain on her shoulders with his healer's eyes; she was used to combat and battle and hard physical work, so why was a little domestic work putting her through such pain?

She sat down on the edge of her bed and rubbed her hand over the sheets, probably thankful for the coolness. She lay back, feet still touching the ground, and looked up at the ceiling. She sighed again and closed her eyes.

Piers moved closer to the bed and examined her again, refusing to let the adrenaline get the better of him. If he had hands they would be trembling in anticipation for something he had no existing knowledge of, something that was instinctual and primal. Something that scared him.

He swallowed and trained his eyes on her face. He reached out a nonexistent hand to brush her cheek, intent upon figuring out what was ailing her so much. It would be best to achieve that through contact.

Instead, her eyes opened and she looked up at him. She did not blink or cry out—she just looked.

She looked into him, he felt, right into his very essence. She sorted through it, this mysterious thing called soul, and withdrew. He caught a glimpse of something, whether it was recognition or annoyance or something else, before she looked away. It seemed like she never saw him after all.

His heart felt like it was breaking, but that didn't stop it from leaping up to his throat. He opened his mouth to say her name, to say something, anything, but instead, water flooded his mouth and raced into his lungs.

Choking and spluttering, the vision abruptly ended. Piers was sinking, but not before he remembered who he was and swum back to shore.

He pulled himself, coughing, out of the water. He pulled all the water away from him and began climbing up the rocks, throat sore and throbbing.

---v---v---v---v---v---

The walk back to his house was painful at best. Scrying took a lot out of him, and he was feeling the lack of energy in every agonizing step. He passed the time with thoughts of Jenna: she would help him, wrap an arm around his wait, and help him walk. She would walk him to his door, sit him down, and bustle about, making dinner. Then she would sit on his lap and feed him, spoonful by spoonful, until the food was gone. Then she would take him up to bed and pull off his bandages—you know, from his large battle wounds—and ask him to teach her some healing spells. He would take her hands and lend her what little energy he had left; his wound would be healed, he would sleep blissfully, and she would be by his side.

He opened his front door and was greeted by dark emptiness. The house, vacant and cold, had no one in it but himself. He didn't even have a cat.

He trudged to bed, dragging his feet as he went. Drowsy with exhaustion, he slumped to the cold sheets and felt his cheek touch his pillow. Then he slept.

---v---v---v---v---v---

Piers did not dream that night.

---v---v---v---v---v---

The King of Lemuria was sitting in his study when Piers came to the castle. The Water Adept entered the room and bowed as the King looked up, offering his apologies for being late. The King waved his hand, brushing his statements away, and looked down at the letter on his desk.

"It says here," he said, furrowing his brow, "that your friend Felix wishes to pull you out of my service temporarily to attend a reunion."

If Piers didn't know any better, he would have thought the King to be angry, or irritated at the very least.

Piers said nothing.

The King looked up and folded his hands. "It's not like I can refuse anything he asks, anyways," the King said, mostly to himself. "The boy did save the world, after all."

Piers felt a flash of annoyance but remained silent.

"You want to see your friends, don't you?" the King asked.

Piers nodded briefly, hands clasped behind his back.

The King pulled out a piece of paper and a quill and began to write. "I'll tell Felix that he may expect you within the month; you will meet him in Vale before the solstice. He says that his sister—Jenna?—is along the coast somewhere, and he would be extremely obligated to you if you convinced her to come to the reunion."

Piers didn't have the idiocy to say that Felix was already extremely obligated to him after all the times Piers saved his hide in battle.

The King wrote on. "He says that Sheba and Ivan have already arrived from Kalay, and that Mia and Garet are traveling as we speak. Isaac will reach them in a matter of days. The only two missing are now you and his sister."

Piers opened his mouth to speak at last. "Sir, I personally think that Jenna would not take kindly to being persuaded to leave her home and visit her old friends. She parted on bad terms with them, and this reunion, I think, is a very bad idea. It might be innocent in motive, but it would not be very beneficial to Jenna. Or myself, to be honest."

The King paused in his scribbling and looked up. "Do you wish to remain in Lemuria, exiled and isolated from your friends?" he asked, not quite understanding.

Piers shook his head. "No, that isn't it. I would like to go, but not if they're going to try to convince me to stay with them and save the world again. I have a life here now, and I wouldn't appreciate if they tried to get me to leave that behind. Jenna has moved on as well, and this nostalgia won't conjure up any lost love between her and the murderers of her parents."

"So that's what this comes down to—the death of her parents. She does know that no one knew the Doom Dragon was anything other than a rampaging creature, correct?"

"I believe she does, but she prefers to blame her friends. If she were to come to terms with the fact that she helped to kill her own parents, she would hurt herself in some way or another. She should not have to accept that she killed her own parents by accident—no one should have to do that."

"I quite agree, Piers, but this blaming on her friends? That is a little childish."

"Sir, no offense intended, but if you had to band against a creature like the Doom Dragon and kill it, and then find out that you helped killed your queen, I don't think you'd be so willing to take responsibility."

The King looked down at his letter and mulled it over, a sad sheen coming over his face. "I think I agree, then," he said. "I wouldn't want to believe it either."

Piers bowed. "Please write to Felix and say that I will come, and I will try to persuade Jenna, but I cannot promise anything. Jenna is her own person and she will make her own decisions."

The King nodded and pulled out another parchment, throwing the first away. "I think you should prepare to leave, Piers," he said to Piers' retreating back. "I think you should leave sooner than the end of the month."

"May I ask why, sir?"

"It will probably take some time to coax the girl to come with you. She doesn't seem to be the trusting type to me."

"No, sir, not at all. But that is part of her charm."

The King looked up, surprised to hear such gentleness in his advisor's voice. But Piers was gone and he was left to his letter.

---v---v---v---v---

Thank you for reading so far. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reviewing before (if you did). And five thank yous if you review again. :)

This chapter is a little bit shorter than the previous—sorry, so sorry—and a little more… rambly. Bear with me; this story is going somewhere.

~:Helena Heartbeat

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