Ilsa let out a shriek as she felt her body pulled from one place to another. The sensation had been far too overwhelming for her fragile ego. Frantically, she began to rock back and forth to try to calm her muddled thoughts. Then, she felt a warm hand on her cheek, and she allowed the gentle man with the kind blue eyes to pull her to a sitting position.

"Hey, it's okay. You're in one of my private safe houses. No one can find us here. I bet you'd like to get clean, wouldn't you?"

She nodded at the caring sound in his voice, not exactly understanding his meaning. Though, the word clean had put a smile on her face. Clean was a happy word with happy feelings associated with it. Passively, she allowed him to lead her to another room, one with a large glass enclosure and metal protruding from the ceiling.

She didn't like the shape of the metal protruding from the wall; it reminded her of pain and fear. She crouched down, refusing to go anywhere near it. She had expected the man to hit her, but he simply led her away from the glass and into another, smaller room. This one had a hole in the floor covered by green marble. Thankfully, there were no metal stalks to be seen.

Her eyes widened in surprise as water rapidly filled the hole. She allowed the man to untie her dirty clothes. He kicked them as far away from them as he could manage, bringing another smile to her face. She did not like those clothes. They stank as badly as she did.

Without fear, she stepped into the tub. The warm water was bliss on her dry skin, and she sighed in contentment. The man let her soak in the water until she resembled a wrinkled raisin, and then he rubbed her from head to toe with soap as gently as he could.

The sting of the soap in her many cuts was agony, but the pleasure of being rinsed clean was worth the pain, and she only whimpered a few times. He apologized whenever she made an unhappy sound. The highlight of her bath was definitely the massage that went with her hair washing. By the time he had rinsed the shampoo away, the water was becoming tepid and she was practically asleep.

Grinning, the man drained the tub and quickly refilled it with more warm water. Then, he stripped off his own clothes and stepped into the spacious tub with her. She was impressed by the speed in which he cleaned himself. And, when he picked her up, depositing her onto a luxurious, soft mattress covered in warm towels, she thought she couldn't get any happier.

Dripping wet, he made sure she was dry and tucked under numerous blankets before tending to his own needs. He showed no embarrassment over his lack of clothes, and she studied him with frank curiosity. She thought he was very handsome as she watched him pull on a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt.

Her mind provided her with a strange word, one tied to his clothes, and she quietly voiced it. "Anachronistic."

A pleased grin lit up his face, showing off his dimples and temporarily crinkling the skin around his eyes. "They might not fit the time period, sweetheart, but they are comfortable. Do you want to get dressed first, eat or sleep?"

She considered his question and found a more pressing need. "Thirsty."

Propping her up with several squishy pillows, he placed a sweet, refreshing liquid to her lips. When she had drunk her fill, he sat beside her.

"Better?"

"Mm-hm," she mumbled, her eyes already closing in sleep.


When she became aware again, she was in a different bed. The mattress was firm without being hard, the sheets a luxuriant, finely woven linen. She was wearing a soft flannel gown that covered her all the way to her neck, leaving her toasty warm. It would have been perfect except for the argument taking place directly above her. She recognized one of the voices immediately. It was the man with the kind eyes.

"Okay, so I bounced and got here a little early! You seem willing enough to believe in time travel, so you tell me when I should have aimed for. Sixteen years after your civil war began? 'Cause I've got to tell you, there would have been a hell of a lot more casualties."

The voice that answered was familiar, but she couldn't recall a name. Even so, he filled her with fear. It was all she could do to remain still.

"Everyone in this room appreciates what you've done for us, myself more than most. You have proved the harlot false, thus preventing a war that would have been devastating for our people and planet. But, you cannot expect the king to acknowledge a woman who, even if she proves to be his, by your own admission is still in the womb at this point in time. While the Court might accept the explanation of time travel, the people will not. Such a thing would cause a panic for the same reasons why we must keep Gemma's betrayal secret. The masses are a paranoid, superstitious lot, and the knowledge that some unknown enemy has cuckolded the king for her own aims would cause rioting in the streets.

"What kind of planet is this? She's his daughter, for fuck's sake. I'm not asking him to acknowledge her publically! This isn't about finding an heir. She's ill! She needs somewhere to heal, somewhere safe, a place where people care for her. I can't find any information about her mother's people, but I thought that he, at least, would be glad to see her."

The voice which petrified her grew angrier. "There's no proof that she's his. Why should we take your word for it? For all we know, you have done this for your own purposes. Forgive us if we are wary—"

"Gedrow, enough. I understand your caution, especially after the wedge Gemma tried to drive between us. However, it would be prudent to withhold judgment until the test results come back. If she is my daughter, we can discuss what is to be done with her then. If she is not, I will ban them both from the kingdom. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to speak to Lord Rick in private.

Ilsa smiled, although no one was paying her the least bit of attention. This voice was as familiar as the man with the kind eyes. This voice was comfort and affection and safety. Then, her perception flipped, and she felt ashamed, guilty, unworthy.

"I do not advise such a course of action, Sire."

Before Rouchmel could respond, Ilsa whimpered and everyone's attention was suddenly riveted on her. Too frightened to open her eyes, she crossed her arms and rocked back and forth on the bed. Rick immediately went to her side.

"Hey, it's okay, sweetheart. We're someplace safe, just like I promised."

Trusting him, she looked curiously around the sunny, cheerful room. Everyone appeared glad to see her except the man who stalked out the door. His shoulders had stiffened in anger, and she vainly hoped his fury wasn't directed at her. The two remaining men smiled at her with genuine affection, however, and she soon forgot her unease.

She reached up to touch the cheek of the man who had so lovingly washed the filth from her body. It was partly a show of affection and partly to reassure herself that he was real. She felt so peculiar, as if she were stuck in some sort of dreamscape with no way of waking. His solidity was a comfort, as well as the chaste kiss he placed on her forehead.

"Ilsa—"

"That's a made up name."

His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yep, although a very pretty one. Have you remembered your real name yet?"

The question frustrated her. She could feel a name on the tip of her tongue, but no matter how much she furrowed her brow, the knowledge would not come to her. After a few moments, she felt the man's warm hand smoothing the lines on her forehead, and she readily gave up her search.

"Cupcake, I want to meet your father."

She shrank away. "My father hates me."

A peculiar expression stole over the older man's face, but her attention was fixated upon the man sitting beside her. She knew she deserved to be thrashed for counterdicting him, but instead, he tenderly brushed his fingers against her cheek. He glanced at the older man, the one who looked pained and sad, before turning back to her.

"I think you're confused, sweetheart. Your father doesn't hate you. He's never met you."

"He does," she insisted. "It's my fault Mother died."

Unexpectedly, the strange man with the familiar voice choked back a sob. She sat up to stare at him curiously, although the motion caused her to feel extremely dizzy and she sagged against the kind-eyed man.

"We can talk about it later, okay? I promise he doesn't hate you. I bet you're hungry right now, though. The physician said they practically starved you. Who knows when you ate last?"

"Four days, sixteen hours and twenty minutes ago," she whispered automatically.

"Gemma used to do that." The other man's voice was croaky, like he had a bad cold. "She used to do that at very boring receptions to liven things up."

"She needs some soup."

"Of course, forgive me. The last four weeks have been difficult."

He abruptly left, barking out orders that a tray of soup and bread be delivered to the room, and she was left with the man who took care of her. Alone, she could see the worry behind his smile, the dark shadows under his eyes.

"Don't be scared."

"That's what I'm supposed to tell you, princess."

He playfully tapped her nose as her reassured her. The action was both a comfort and an irritant, although she couldn't put a reason with the reaction. Curious, she did the same to him. He took her hand and kissed it. She liked that much better.

"Now that we're alone, I want you to be very honest with me. How are you feeling, Ilsa?"

"That's not my name," she insisted, much like a needle on a phonograph might get stuck in a certain groove and play the same thing over and over again.

He responded with gentle patience. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry you can't remember. Can you tell me how you're feeling? Does anything hurt? Are you in pain?"

She thought seriously about her answer before giving him an earnest reply. "Being broken doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would."

His smile wavered and his eyes grew shiny. "I'm sorry."

She studied the yellow roses painted on the walls, clearly confused. "You didn't break me."

"It . . . ." His voice became croaky, too, just like the other man's had. "It took me a long time to find you."

She flung her arms around him. "I'm glad you did. I didn't like it there."

He held her for several minutes in absolute silence. She had the oddest idea that she could feel his sorrow. His left hand rubbed rhythmically up and down her back, lulling her into a semi-doze. Then, he pulled back and gazed anxiously into her eyes.

"Do you remember?"

She understood instinctively what he had asked. She didn't like the question. It hurt to think about it. But, for his sake, she tried to answer.

"Pain. I remember pain. And hate, so much hate. I was scared. Please don't be mad at me. I wanted to be brave, but it hurt so much."

She couldn't help herself; she bawled like a baby. He held her again, and she could feel him crying on the inside. It made her cry harder. He murmured words meant to soothe in her ear, but they were meaningless under the weight of his regret.

Soon, she was crying for him, begging him to not be sad on her account. He cried on the outside then, although his tears were silent, rolling down his cheeks in two thin streams. His emotions gradually changed. They were confused and disbelieving, but there was an underlying timid, contented feeling that put an end to her sorrow.

Wiping her runny nose with the back of her hand, she sniffed back her last tears. "I don't want to remember anymore. It makes you and me sad and hurts my head."

He pulled out a handkerchief and let her blow her nose. "I won't ask again, sweetheart. I promise."

The soup came then. It was not too hot and not too cold. It was salty and flavorful and in a mug so she didn't have to hold a spoon. There wasn't anything to chew, but her stomach filled up quickly. She placed the bread in his hands, and he ate it without argument. It made her feel good to share her meal with him.

She had shared her meal with him. She had shared her meal with him. Her entire body went cold, like she had been thrown into an icy stream. She saw them sitting together, before the hatred and the pain. One metal plate sat between them. He was smiling as he put a piece of food in her mouth. It was mushy and tasteless, but she was grateful for it. She rolled up a green leaf between her fingers and popped it in his mouth. He made a joke, but she didn't say anything in response. She didn't talk at all as they finished their unappetizing meal.

Shivering, she began to rock back and forth. "I was so quiet."

He immediately put his arm around her. "What's wrong, princess?"

"We ate from a metal plate. I didn't talk. It's making me cold."

He took the cup from her fingers and put a blanket around her shoulders. "Yes, we shared our meals in the cell. The plate was tin, and the food was horrible. You . . . ."

He stopped talking to put his fingers on her neck. She could feel her pulses beating against them.

"Hey, it doesn't matter. Don't try to remember right now, Ilsa. Just calm down."

"That's not my name," she declared distantly. The distinct memory of Tuem softened, until it was nothing more than a vague recollection, and the icy coldness that had gripped her loosened its hold.

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

Needing comfort, she rocked back and forth, and he rocked with her.


Gedrow Salow was a world class asshole in any time period, Rick thought sourly as he waited with Rouchmel in the physician's office for the results of Ilsa's paternity test. For the last five days, the oily Lord Salow had constantly insinuated that Ilsa was an imposter who feigned illness to get close to the king.

If only that were true. The poor girl's mind had been shattered, most likely by the Daleks since the Time Agency didn't have equipment powerful enough to induce such a fractured state of self-awareness. The few times she had remembered a snippet of the past, she had quickly gone into shock. Each time, it had taken every ounce of his imagination to distract her before she reached the point of losing consciousness.

"I am surprised to see you sitting here so calmly, Rick. Or perhaps merely envious. I admit that I find myself more anxious than I had expected."

Rick sat straighter in his chair. "Why, Sire? I thought you were happy at the prospect of finding your daughter."

"I am overjoyed, which is why I find myself so anxious."

He stared at the dull, gray walls pretending to read the ornate certificates on the wall. "You're beginning to believe your advisor."

The king shifted uneasily in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. "Lord Salow and I have been friends for thirty-five years. In almost all things, I trust his judgment. However, his dislike of Gemma was instantaneous. He thought I fell in love with her too quickly, that I was bewitched by her exotic beauty."

"And then he was proven right."

"No," Rouchmel corrected harshly. "Gemma never bewitched me. I saw her flaws, and believe me, they were there. She was passionate to a fault. She used to spend hours arguing with the other archaeologists over interpretations of the map my ancestors had left to the lost Depository of Knowledge. It didn't matter to her how logical the argument, she would cut it to shreds, insisting she was the only one with the correct interpretation. You should have seen her gloat when the discovery was made using her calculations."

"Her betrayal must have hurt you very deeply."

"It hurt," he agreed bitterly. "It hurt me to lose her, for any reason. I loved her, Rick, and I truly believe that she loved me. Were I not king of Galbon, I would buy a ship and track her through the stars, and finding her, would forgive her without a thought. But, I am king of Galbon, and she betrayed my people as much as she betrayed me. I am glad she escaped. I do not think I would have had the strength to kill her."

"If it's any consolation, I think she loved you, too. She seemed genuinely remorseful for having to leave you, and she argued heatedly with her superior about her actions here."

Incredulous, he gripped Rick's arms. "You spoke to her?"

"Not exactly. Look, it's complicated. Let me see if I can explain without making things more convoluted."

The explanation stuck in his throat as the physician walked into the small space. The balding man was obviously tense. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his right hand, and a soiled handkerchief in the left. Bowing to Rouchmel, he sat down at his messy desk and nervously fiddled with the papers he had brought will him.

"Your Highness, I have done every test imaginable on both you and the girl in question. It is difficult, however, to give you the definitive answer you seek."

That did not sit well with Rouchmel. "How so, Ledrine? You have taken more samples from us than I care to imagine. All I'm asking is for you to tell me if she is or is not my daughter. Certainly, that can't be too difficult."

The Court Physician was rotund enough to sport a triple chin and red, swollen lips. Rick couldn't help but be reminded of a particularly ugly fish indigenous to the oceans of Boeshane as the man began to sweat profusely.

"The girl's DNA is a triple helix, my Lord. We have never encountered such a complicated pattern in any species, and have been unable to analyze it completely. Since she is, at the very least, partially alien in origin, there is no one test we can perform to give you a decisive answer. We have, therefore, been forced to rely on several tests and observations that would rule out paternity rather than prove it conclusively."

"So, what you're saying is you were forced to prove their relationship by trying to disprove it."

The sweating physician gave Rick a thankful glance. "Precisely. We have found nothing so far to disprove the possibility of a father/daughter relationship, but neither can we say with certainty that such a relationship exists."

The king did not appear to be pleased, but he kept his voice even. "I would like you to explain your results—all of them."

Ledrine flushed. "Yes, Sire."

Picking up the papers, his tone became businesslike. "First, there is the matter of your sterility from the red fever you suffered as a boy. Although you were told that you were sterile, a study of your semen proves this to be false. Your sperm count is low enough that it would be almost impossible for you to naturally father children, but it is the almost that must be taken into consideration. It is physically possible for you to have fathered a child, although if you wish to produce a legitimate male heir, I would suggest in vitro fertilization."

Rick watched Rouchmel out of the corner of his eye. The man was visibly relieved.

"Go on."

"Also, there are certain outward features that you and the girl share. Your faces are similar in shape. Your chins are almost identical, and her nose is a Blevel nose through and through. Although these features can be influenced by cosmetic surgery, there is no indication that her bones or skin have been altered in any way. She is of an average height for a Galbonian female, and her bone structure is also indicative of the Blevel bloodline. Her cheekbones, pale skin, hair color and irises are recognizable traits of Gemma's. In addition, you are both left-handed and share the same adverse reaction to the lomal seed."

"And, how the hell did you test for that?" Irate, Rick half-stood from his chair, ready to run out of the room to check on Ilsa's welfare personally.

Rouchmel eyes blazed, and sweat rolled heavily down the physician's face as he realized his mistake. "We placed a small amount of the seed in her tea the day after you arrived. We were able to control the resulting palpitations very easily."

The man's explanation didn't impress Rick. "Palpitations? You mean heart palpitations? You gave a woman with two hearts who's been tortured and malnourished for weeks something that could affect her hearts? Are you insane?"

Rouchmel also seemed deeply troubled. "She is more sensitive to it than I am? I had not thought that possible."

"Her physiology is somewhat different, Sire." The corpulent man's neck was the color of a cooked lobster. Rick was so disgusted that he had to briefly look away.

"But compatible to ours?"

"Yes, Sire, entirely compatible. In fact, certain strands of her DNA that we have been able to isolate exhibit markers common to your ancestors."

"So, she is my daughter."

The man gripped the papers in his sweaty hands so tightly that the ink began to run onto his fingers.

"I did not say that, Sire. As I said, the tests cannot conclusively prove—"

Rouchmel had had enough. "You cowardly toad! I asked you to give me an answer, not protect your precious reputation. I understand that a normal DNA test is impossible. What about her blood?"

The papers crumpled into a soggy ball. It is the same basic type as yours, Sire. If necessary, she could be given your blood. However, the reverse is not possible."

"And you are still unwilling to speak what is more than plain to me? The child is my daughter, Ledrine. Why do you have such a difficult time admitting it?"

The man started gibbering. "Lord Salow said . . . that is . . . he suggested . . . but the time required to unravel it would be decades! I apologize, Sire! I should have released the evidence two days ago."

Rick cursed to himself. Gedrow Salow was going to be a problem. The arrogant man had admitted to confronting Ilsa's mother and accusing her of infidelity the morning she had announced her pregnancy to Rouchmel. That part of the memory he had seen had been true enough. He was not going to accept Ilsa in any way, shape or form.

Rouchmel stood, indicating the meeting was over. Rick, however, wished to know one more thing. "Forgive me, Sire, but those tending to Ilsa have refused to give me an assessment of her overall health."

"Well, Ledrine," the king impatiently ordered.

He made a show of reading from the papers, although they were too soggy to be legible. "Yes. . .well . . . the girl is mentally impaired. Surely, that much must be apparent to you, Sire?"

"Ledrine," he warned.

"My apologies." He waved the soggy mass of papers at the king's chest. "Her brain is too dissimilar from ours to assess, but the child seems to be suffering from some sort of dissociative disorder. Her immune system is functioning at a much lower level than a Galbonian of the same age, and she seems to be anemic, although, again, it is impossible to say for certain. Overall, I would have to say her health is fragile, Sire."

Rick clenched his fists. It wasn't anything he hadn't suspected, but the bluntness of the Court Physician's diagnosis brought a lump to his throat.

"Just what treatment do you suggest?"

"Treatment?"

This time, he clenched his jaw so hard that he had trouble biting the words out. "Yes, treatment. Or have you given up on her already?"

"I . . . ."

Ledrine, you're dismissed. I want your personal possessions packed and you out of the palace by nightfall."

Caught off guard, Rick looked appreciatively at the king. His fists were balled up just like Rick's, and his anger was palpable. The Time Agent was impressed. Before the physician could react, Rouchmel had stormed out of the office. Knowing where he was headed, Rick raced to catch up.

"She'll get better, Sire, if I have to nurse her back to health myself."

Guilt was a strong motivator. It was his fault that she had been tortured by the Daleks. It was his fault that she had lost much of her very self. She couldn't even remember much from the prison, although he was glad. The guilt of sitting idly by while his partner had violated and degraded her was bad enough without seeing the condemnation in her eyes.

Her frequent nightmares only added to his shame. On those nights, he would have to rock with her for hours, promising over and over again that she was safe until she fell into an exhausted slumber. It was his fault she was a mere shadow of herself, and it would be his penance to nurse her back to health. It was the least she deserved.

Rouchmel abruptly stopped in the empty corridor. "I have seen how protective you are of her. I have no doubt she will flourish under your care." Pensive, he studied Rick's eyes. "You will stay, won't you? I know you intended to hand her over to her family, but surely you must realize by now that you are as much her family as I? After all, I did not rescue her from the horrid prison in which she languished."

The thought of being permanently tied down to a physically weak, mentally unstable teenager filled him with abject terror. He was tempted to teleport out now, before he got in too deep, and either turn freelance himself or brazen it out with the Time Agency. There was no proof at the moment that he had done anything other than spend his vacation in the archives.

As swiftly as the terror overcame him, it was replaced with a growing sense of shame. The king of Galbon, a man he'd quickly come to like and respect, had asked him to tend to his daughter, a task he trusted to no one on his staff. And, it was his fault if Ilsa was physically weak and mentally unstable. Even broken, however, she had such a beautiful spirit. In the end, the decision was an easy one.

"I'll stay for as long as she wants me, Rouchmel."

And, for once, he meant every word.