Telemachus couldn't imagine life being any better than this. He was due for promotion again soon, and his beloved was a year closer to the age at which the Matriarch would consider it appropriate for Stasia to offer him a proposal. He was well aware that his grandmother and mother had already clandestinely began to plan the subsequent marriage celebration, but that day was yet several years away. He was content to know that no other male had ever enjoyed the pleasures of her bed, and he intended to continue to work very hard to prove his worth to her in order to keep things that way.

He'd been offworld for three weeks, and hadn't had leave for six months. She'd had little time for talk and had practically exhausted him with the intensity of her demands. He was almost grateful for a respite to recharge his energies when she eventually slid into a light sleep, her arm curled around his waist, one leg slung over his.

After a while, she stirred and smiled at him. She snuggled in closer as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his free hand toying idly with her hair.

"That's a welcome I could easily become accustomed to," he murmured, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Then you need to spend less time in the barracks. I'm sure my bed is much softer than the bunk you have there," she teased, nipping at his ear.

"I get more sleep in my bunk than I do I your bed," he countered, turning to capture her teasing lips in a demanding kiss.

"Oh? I wasn't aware that sleep was so important to an officer of the Home Guard. By all means, catch up on all the sleep you've missed," she huffed in mock annoyance, putting him at arm's length to sit against the headboard. She pulled the blankets up under her chin and crossed her arms in a pout.

His grin was positively feral. "I'd rather catch up on something else that I've missed," he purred, pulling her back into his arms.

That had been two weeks ago, now chaos ruled again.

Blood trickled from a freshly healing gash in his forehead. He blew past the reception desk and was only mildly annoyed that the young woman sitting there called security because of it. He had limped almost all the way through the lobby before a security guard and two nurses accosted him. He couldn't blame them. He would have stopped some deranged-looking soldier storming hell-bent through his medical center, too.

The young man was human, small and probably just out of his teens. Telemachus could have stomped him like an insect and kept moving, but the boy showed a surprising degree of courage — or stupidity - as he barred the stormy Nietzschean's path.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have to register at the desk first," he said, his voice quavering only slightly as he saw both sets of bone blades flare in annoyance. "It's our policy."

"I don't have time for policies," Telemachus snapped. "I'm Major Telemachus Rhade of the Home Guard. I received word from Lady Maria Theros that her daughter is here."

"Please, major, you're in need of medical attention," one of the nurses said, suddenly seizing her opportunity to press a bandage to his bleeding forehead.

He grabbed the gauze and adhesive from her hand and slapped it on his forehead, half missing the bloody gash. "Thank you, now I've had medical attention," he growled, trying to keep his temper in check. "I assure you I will survive."

She shrank back toward the reception desk. She repeated his name to the receptionist as though the other woman might not have caught the name.

Telemachus leaned forward to see the boy's name engraved on his ID badge. "Smith, how old are you?"

"Twenty, sir."

"If you want to make twenty-one, I suggest you find Lady Theros for me immediately."

"I will, sir. If you'll kindly have a seat," he gestured to the waiting area, "I'll locate her and bring her to you right away."

With weary disgust, he waved his hands in the air. "Fine, but it had better be done in under five minutes, or I'll find her myself."

Throwing himself into a cushioned chair, he stared dejectedly at his hands. The back of one of them was smeared with blood, but he didn't care. Absently, he wiped it on his pants leg and raked his other hand through his hair.

Two hours ago he'd been on one of the moons near the outer rim, running a combat drill with fresh recruits when the communication reached him. He cursed impatiently for the entire hour it took to locate and transport another senior officer to relieve him of command. Now he was here, waiting, which was his second least favorite activity.

Happily, little Smith escorted Maria Theros around a corner, with two minutes to spare.

She looked haggard and solemn, but her expression brightened when she saw him. She rushed forward and gripped his hands as he stood, and he bent to kiss her cheek in greeting.

She pressed her hand against his dirty cheek in alarm. "Dear Telemachus, is there a war starting that we don't know about?"

He half-smiled. "No, Lady, it was only a training exercise off-world," he assured her quickly. "And I crashed a shuttle craft in my haste to get here," he admitted reluctantly.

She almost managed a smile. "My dear child, I didn't say that she was in danger of dying—at least not now. I said she was conscious now and asking for you," she chided. "You needn't have risked your safety to be at her side."

"I would gladly risk life and limb anytime my Shadow calls for me."

Maria Theros did smile this time. So obvious was his deep devotion and affection for her daughter. She took him by the arm and began to lead him down long corridors with white tiled floors and angry fluorescent lighting.

"How is she?" he asked, delaying the question for as long as possible. He feared the answer. "The communication was thin on details."

"I know, and I apologize. I didn't want to worry you more than necessary," she said softly.

"Lady, had I known she'd even been anywhere near that station during those attacks, I would have set a new flight speed record to reach her," he said earnestly, still hurt that her mother and everyone one else had kept the news from him until scant hours earlier.

"Please don't think harshly of me because of it. Your work is important; those young men deserve to be taught by our best and brightest so they'll stand strong to defend our world," she explained in a Matriarch's patient tone. "Truth to tell, I honestly believed I had arrived in time only to claim my daughter's body and plan her funeral services, and there was no need to grieve you with her loss until I was certain." Her voice broke and she turned her head away.

Telemachus took the older woman in his arms and she rested her head against his dirty uniform and wept, the dam of strength she'd carried for days now broken.

"She was barely recognizable as my Anastasia," she whispered. "She was like a broken toy, and bravely fought long enough to beg me to bear you this message. 'Tell him, mother, tell him I'm sorry I wasn't a good enough soldier. I'll try harder next time.' I promised to tell you, and she was satisfied. They took her into emergency surgery immediately after that."

She wiped at her face and regained her composure. "They lost her twice during that surgery. Oh, my poor baby girl."

"She's a stubborn fighter," he pointed out proudly, with a knowing smile.

Lady Theros smiled and agreed. Down one more long corridor and around a corner, she stopped outside a closed door. She gently opened it and her breath caught for a moment. "Anastasia, I've brought you a visitor," she called softly, swinging the door open.

Stasia shrieked and covered her head with a sheet. "Mother!" she exclaimed, her voice raw and raspy. "I look hideous. You promised to give me fair warning before 'Lemachus arrived!"

He let loose a relieved sigh. If she was concerned over vanity's sake, she was closer to recovery than her mother would allow herself to believe. Telemachus strode across the small room and crouched by her bedside and coughed conspicuously. "Done anything interesting recently you might want to tell me about?" he asked.

"You have to leave, 'Lemachus. I'm ghastly," she announced, a talking lump of bed linen with protruding IV tubing.

"I'll be the judge of that," he said softly, gently removing the sheet.

"Ghastly" wasn't the word he would have chosen to describe her, but "wonderfully healthy" wasn't an accurate description either. The phrase "death warmed over" seemed apropos. He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and smother her with kisses, but she didn't look as though she could withstand much smothering, and her mother was an arm's length away. He satisfied himself with a chaste kiss on her pale cheek.

"You look horrible and you smell bad, just like rotten lemons!" she blurted, eyes wide. "What happened to you?" she demanded, grabbing his arm with her good hand.