A/N: I've been meaning to update this story for a very long time, but unfortunately, after I got nearly 5,000 words into writing this chapter, my computer was fried by a lightning storm and I lost the whole thing. I've been holding a childish grudge against this thing ever since. I can't remember hardly at all what I wrote (what kind of author am I?) and have been forced to start over from scratch. Hopefully it'll turn out alright.

The only reason I am updating now is because the lovely Arliss Starborn and her friend Hunter requested that I do so. This goes to demonstrate something that I probably should have told all you readers years ago:

If you want me to update a particular story, PLEASE TELL ME. There's just so many, I usually just update the ones that I want to write at that particular moment in time, but if you request an update for a specific story, I WILL LISTEN. So, send your requests my way, if you have them.

Anyway. On with the chapter. (Sorry that it took a while, Arliss! Thanks for waiting, and I hope you enjoy. ;)


2.

Wine and Waves


Ever since he'd arrived in Estroch, something had been nagging at the back of Will's mind. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something – beyond the general poverty and worn-down feeling of the town – was amiss. It took him another day and a half in Estroch before he finally figured it out.

It was the local guard. There wasn't one.

Will was used to the kind of police order one would find in his home of Redmont – not oppressively present, but a definite underlying order - a guard here, a horseman there. In Estroch, however, there was no sort of civil law enforcement in place that Will could see, and that made him nervous.

Obviously, since people seemed relatively unafraid to walk out on the streets alone and crime wasn't an obvious problem, Will figured that any local criminal activity would be a low-profile, clandestine business. Naturally, he'd have to investigate. Luckily, Rangers could outmatch even the sneakiest criminal when it came to clandestine work, but then, even the sneakiest rangers had to get started in a suitably straightforward way. And so, on a clammy Tuesday afternoon, Will went where he always went when he found himself in search of juicy, criminal gossip.

The local pub.

If towns had armpits, the Greasy Raven would have undoubtedly qualified for the position. "It is greasy," Will muttered to himself, wondering what had inspired the bartender to name his tavern. Then again, he thought, as he stepped into the main room, perhaps the lowlifes here thought grease was beautiful. At any rate, it seemed to be a favorite hairstyle among the Raven's customers.

About a dozen eyes turned to stare as the cloak-clad stranger stepped into the doorway. Will had to pause for a moment, trying not to wince against the pipe smoke that stung his eyes. After he'd adjusted, he stepped into the room fully and approached the bar with a confident gait.

"What'll it be, stranger?" The voice surprised Will, and he did a double take at the small woman – no, he corrected himself, girl – who was now watching him expectantly.

"Coffee, if you have it." He smiled kindly at her.

"We don't," She said, completely straight-faced as she wiped out a grimy tankard. A soft chorus of laughter echoed from a nearby table, and Will tried not to glare at them.

"Well then, a house ale."

Without the slightest change in expression, she nodded and turned away. Will watched her go, hoping she wouldn't hand him the tankard she'd been cleaning. There was no possible way for that to be sanitary.

She returned shortly with a foam-topped pewter mug (Will sighed in relief) and held out her hand. He gave her a copper and took his drink to a small, abandoned corner table, where he settled down, pulled out his throwing dagger and began to sharpen it absently. In a place like this, he thought, he would hardly look exceptional. Which, of course, is what he wanted, because while he may have had a drink on his table and a knife to sharpen, his attention wasn't truly invested in either. He was listening.


Kelisse peeked another glance at the stranger who'd walked in earlier that day. He'd been sitting there for hours, and had hardly touched his drink. He'd sharpened a knife, taken a doze, and ordered a roll of bread, but he hadn't drank even a third of his pint. Surrounded daily by drunkards and worse, Kelisse was unused to his clean, undrinking and (from what she'd experienced so far) polite personality. She frowned to herself and eyed him again. He couldn't possibly be up to any good, she thought. She took a mental note to keep an eye on him.

After scanning the taproom, she went to the back of the tavern, which doubled as both a storage space and a living space. As she selected a new keg of ale for the tap, which was running low, she sighed. There on the floor lay a fresh delivery of wine bottles, packed up in a crate. Wondering why on earth the barkeep couldn't bother to unpack his own wares, Kelisse set to the work herself, using all of her strength to haul up the big, dark glass bottles. As she was about done, she caught sight of her own reflection in the glass bottles and frowned.

She didn't have many chances to look at her own reflection, much less in an actual looking glass, but every time she did, she grew more alarmed. Her expression troubled, Kelisse put a hand to her breast, which seemed to have grown some since she last saw herself. She turned and looked at her reflection from a different angle and confirmed with growing anxiety that the once-baggy dress she was wearing was beginning to draw snugger at her hips, and the apron that she wore thinner about her waist. Quickly, feeling exposed, Kelisse excused herself from her work and tucked into a small room, her room, which housed a small bed and footlocker. She dragged a small stool over to keep the door closed and stripped off her dress. She took out a long length of thin fabric from her footlocker and began to wrap it around her chest, on top of the fabric that was already there, pulling at it determinately until it wound so tight she could hardly breathe. She tied it off and dug through her clothes to find the baggiest, most unattractive dress she could find and put it on. She put her apron back on, but tied it loosely so it would hang about her hips in an incredibly unflattering fashion. All this done, she made sure her hair was suitably messy, and went back out to finish her work.

She didn't know what she would do in a few years, when she finished growing. There'd be no hiding it, then. Kelisse was only thirteen, but every day she was beginning to look more and more like a woman, and that scared her – for good reason. She knew what happened to women who worked in places like the Raven. She was old enough to know how all of that worked, and she'd heard too many stories from the other women to think that she was exempt from the dangers posed to young women in places such as the Raven.

Truthfully, Kelisse wasn't all that pretty, even when she wasn't dressed in rags and greasy hair, but true beauty didn't mean much to those thugs, and if they saw something they wanted, they'd be sure to get it. Especially when they're at the drink all day, Kelisse thought to herself. She'd seen how brutish men could get when drunk, and she wasn't fool enough to think she stood a chance against any of them. Kelisse was strong for her small size, and had developed a mean right hook over the years, but she simply wasn't big enough to have any hopes against any of those drunks. And so, she protected herself the only way she could: she disguised her femininity altogether. She bound her chest and hid the curve of her widening hips beneath baggy clothes, and whatever beauty her face might've held was buried beneath a bird's nest of ill-kempt hair. It was quite a bother to keep the charade up every day, and rather painful in the case of her chest, but Kelisse was too afraid to try otherwise. So long as they didn't even recognize her as a woman, they wouldn't bother her. Now that she was growing, however, Kelisse wondered if, in few years time, she wouldn't be able to hide it. And then what would she do?

Before she could answer her own question, a soft knock sounded on the back door, a rhythm she recognized.

"Hello, Patrick," She said halfheartedly as she opened the door. His freckles dimpled up at her.

"Hello, Kel, I was just here for… Well, you know." He shifted his weight nervously. She halfway wanted to roll her eyes, but sufficed with a sympathetic smile and stepped aside.

"Come on in, Patrick." She said in a longsuffering sort of way. Patrick did, and frowned when he could see her in the candlelight of the back room.

"Kel, you look awful. Really, Shammock should treat you to better clothes, he should. It's not right." He frowned, genuinely saddened by his friend's haggard look. Kel only smiled slightly.

"Oh, you know him, Master Shammock, he doesn't really think of that kind of thing. But it's really fine, Patrick, they're more comfortable than they look," She said, picking at her clothes and smiling. She didn't even think of telling him why she was really dressed that way – Patrick was too innocent and kind-hearted to comprehend the sort of perversion she faced on a daily basis, let alone consider that she'd sacrifice her own comfort and hygiene just to avoid it.

"Oh," He said, obviously not consoled, "Well, you should tell him to treat you better, anyway," He murmured, thinking that Kel looked anything but comfortable.

Kel cleared her throat. "Well, let's get this over with. How many?"

"Oh, uhm… Six." Patrick said.

"Six?" Kel said, startled. She let out a heavy sigh and turned away to retrieve a small crate of wine bottles from the storeroom. She counted out six, uncorked one, and poured it into a barrel. The rest she opened and promptly poured out onto the ground. She winced as she watched the crimson liquid spill off through the soil. "I can't keep doing this, Patrick," She told him as he came up beside her and began to pour out another bottle, "Shammock'll have my hide."

"I pay you the same, don't I?"

"Well, yes, but he wouldn't care. It's wasting his wares," Kel set aside the empty bottle and began on another.

"Wares that I pay for, though."

She shook her head at him. "I tell you, he doesn't think normally, Shammock. Set the empty ones over there. I'll get the water." Kel rose and returned a few minutes later with two buckets filled with water. She poured them into the barrel with the bottle's worth of wine and mixed them together. While Patrick emptied the last two, she began refilling the other four with the watered-down wine.

"Does this actually help any?" Kel asked him.

Patrick shrugged. "I can't see how it can hurt any more, at least. She's going to drink anyway. This just means that she'll hurt herself less with each bottle."

"Won't she taste the difference?"

"No. I don't think she can taste anything anymore." Patrick said sadly. Kel didn't try to reply. They worked in several minutes silence before Kel said,

"There's a pack of wax on the low shelf, there. I'll get a flint and a tin."

They melted the wax and re-sealed all six of the bottles, now filled with watery wine, and they looked as though they'd never been opened.

"That should do it. Thanks, Kel," Patrick said. He dug into his pocket and handed her payment for all six bottles. "I suppose I'll be going, then." He said. At that moment, his stomach decided to growl loudly enough for both of the teens to hear.

"You haven't eaten today, have you?" Kel said accusatorily. Patrick blushed. She sighed.

"Patrick, just because your mother can't help herself doesn't mean you have to go hungry for her. Come on, let's get you some dinner."


Patrick ate just outside the Raven. He hated going into the nasty taproom, and besides, it was a beautiful evening outside. Kelisse had made him a bowl of what stew was left, and insisted that he take it for free, as no one would end up eating it anyway. It was quite delicious – for however disgusting the tavern was, Kelisse had developed an amazing cooking ability.

Kelisse and Patrick had known each other for years, since they were small children. Kel had been an orphan long before Patrick's father had sailed away, and in her street wanderings, she'd met and befriended young Patrick, who was too soft-hearted to turn her away when she decided to follow him everywhere. After his father had left and he was turned out onto the streets, Patrick had found Kelisse and the two had stuck together, helping each other as they could. Just before Patrick had found a home at the stables, Kelisse had been hired to work at the Raven. Neither of them liked it, but the pay kept Kel alive, and she'd convinced Patrick of the same. They didn't see each other as often as they used to, but were no less friends because of it. Nevertheless, they had changed over the years. Patrick had grown tired from his duties with the horses and his mother's failing health, and Kel had grown harder and colder than she'd been before after working at the Raven for a few years. Neither of them liked each other's situation, but neither of them stopped liking each other because of it. That's what friends were for, Patrick thought.

He glanced up at the sinking sun and realized that he needed to leave before it grew too dark. Patrick dusted off his hands and set his bowl and spoon right outside the door, as Kel had instructed him to.

Just as he was about to pack up his things and leave, Patrick spotted something that made him frown.

The freshfaced young traveler staying at the Siren stepped out of the Raven. Patrick couldn't quite see all of the man's face because of the cloak, but he was sure it was him. But why would he be here of all places? Mrs. Calloway had a much finer, cleaner tavern, and obviously the woodsman could afford it. Why on earth did he choose to come here? Patrick wasn't willing to think that he was the type to solicit places like the Raven. Was he?

Will glanced around, and for a moment, Patrick thought that he'd been seen, but then he turned his eyes away and disappeared down the road. Trying his best not to wonder too much about the strange circumstance, Patrick picked up his wares and hurried back to his mother's home.

He didn't make any noise when he entered. He snuck around to the place where his mother had her wine and drinks delivered every so often and switched out the strong wine she'd ordered with the watered-down stuff he'd bought. Then, he took the offending bottles out with him to the beach.

"Stupid drink," He grumbled, tossing one of the bottles out to sea. "Ruin her life, why don't you? Ruin my life," He heaved another. "Keep me cooped up here, just trying to keep her sober," He stopped for a breath, and the lapping waves brought one of the bottles floating back to shore. He grit his teeth and went to pick it up, but as he did, a stray wave picked it up and smashed it against the rocky shore, so when his hand reached it, he grabbed at shards. He gasped and drew back a bloodied hand. The sound of the waves taunted him. Unbidden, tears grew in his eyes. "Go on, you devils!" Patrick growled suddenly, tossing bottles as far as he could, ignoring his bleeding palm. "And don't come back! Not ever! Let the waves carry you away where you'll never come back, just like they did to him!" He screamed as he threw another, "Just like you did to her!" He threw the last one and added, as the bottle flew through the air, "Just leave me, will you, just like they both did!" He cried, wishing the tears weren't there, and fell back against the sand. He looked at his own hand expressionlessly, and ripped off a section of his shirttails to wrap it in.

He must've been a miserably weak boy, Patrick thought, because he knew that real men didn't cry like this. He didn't want cry, didn't want to be so angry at the sea and the bottles, but he'd spent too long hating them to stop. "I'll never get them back," He told the waves and the wine. Then, downcast, he added, "as if they'd want me if they ever did come back." They'd taken everything from him, even if it hadn't been much to begin with.

Molly nudged his back, and Patrick turned to her. He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. "I'm sorry, Molly," He said softly, stroking her foreleg from where he sat on the ground, "I suppose I've still got you." He had to smile just a bit when she blew into his hair, but he grew sad again as he clambered up beside her. "You musn't ever leave, girl." He told her sternly. "I don't care how old you get, you mustn't ever leave, alright?" He hugged her neck, sniffling. "You're all I've got, you know. And you'll never leave."

He knew it was a lie, and Molly seemed to know it too, but neither horse nor master made any comment about it that day. They walked silently back over the hill where Patrick's mother stayed, and down to Estroch and the Siren. Patrick cleaned and bandaged his hand, bedded down Molly and Tug, climbed up to the hayloft, and fell asleep quietly.

Later, he woke up.

But it wasn't quite the right amount of 'later' to be morning, Patrick realized with a strange awareness. He could see darkness beyond the stable ceiling, and then, as his ears woke up a bit more, he realized that he could hear someone talking down in the stables.

"…Just go out and have a look, for now." He heard someone whisper. As quietly as he could manage, Patrick snuck over to the edge of the hayloft and peeked down.

Wrapped in a cloak, the young woodsman finished buckling Tug's girth and mounted up easily. In the soft moonlight, Patrick could see a massive longbow and quiver silhouetted against the man's back. Patrick suddenly remembered the previous day, when he'd seen the man outside of the Raven, and wondered to himself at how strange the young man was. Where was he going?

Will rode out of the stables quietly, leaving Molly snoozing in her stall. Patrick leaned carefully over the loft's edge to watch him go. He was a strange young man, with strange traveling habits. Strange, and yet…

Patrick couldn't help his own curiosity. Thinking the whole time that he'd gone mad, Patrick pulled on his boots and a warm tunic, and climbed down the ladder. He leaned out and saw that Tug was taking his master toward the dark western woods. Patrick took a deep breath, and not sparing a second to think about how stupid he was being, he began to follow them.


A/N: A intensely weird chapter. Bleh. Oh well. As I said before, I'm sorry this took so long, Arliss! Hope you enjoyed it, and they'll be more soon, as often as I can find time to write. Thanks for reading!

Read and Review, please.