Chapter Twenty-Eight: Since When is War Civil?
Araphel ducked low to avoid leaving his head behind as Firar's pony hurtled onward, into a gray land where many sights and sounds assailed his keen senses. At first it reminded him of Kaylee's world...the alternate version. But life as yet thrived here, though not as much so as on Mychal's world. There was smoke, heavy in the air, and the sound of weapons-fire...like the weapons Magnum had used.
Firar slowed his mount as Bronwe's panicked horse wheeled unpredictably. Araphel jumped down lightly and ran to grab hold of the animal's bridle, heedless of the danger to himself.
Between Bronwe and Araphel, the stallion calmed down a little, though he still stamped and snorted nervously at each nearby 'bang.' Giving Araphel a relieved look, she glanced around, "What just happened?"
Firar leaned heavily over the pommel of his saddle, unused to riding at such speeds. "Your guess would be better than ours, Lady." He tried to untangle his windswept beard without much success. "But I would bet mud to money it was Shkena."
"Nay, I say Austus. He has a notable lack of style," Araphel said sourly.
Just as she was about to dismount, Bronwe noticed that they weren't alone. "I think we are surrounded," she said in an undertone.
"Mother's beard!" Firar whispered in surprise and shock, sliding down from his pony's back. "It's those fire-sticks again! Beware, Lady, they can hurt you without moving an inch!" Araphel turned, but did not relinquish his hold on the stallion's bridle.
Sure enough, a dozen or so men were slowly making themselves visible from the underbrush, each holding a loaded rifle, pointed at either Araphel or Firar.
"Well, well," said a tall, pimple-faced man, "What've we here?"
"Looks like some Confederate skedaddlers," sneered a shorter one, "And the poor lady looks like she's been through the ringer."
The meaning of the men's words was beyond Firar, but he knew when he could push his luck and when he couldn't. This time he most definitely couldn't.
Araphel raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "We mean her no harm--"
"Oh, puh-lease!" the first man rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on his gun, "It's completely obvious what's going on here. You two got yellow streaks a mile wide, ye ran and kidnapped this lovely lady. Ye made her wear the white dress as a truce flag so we'd let you get close then you'd ambush us and take our gear. Ye're out of luck, we ain't that dumb, and we ain't gonna fall for it."
"Again," the short one muttered under his breath, scuffing his boot. He was quelled by a fierce glare from the taller one and settled for narrowing his eyes at his prey.
Bronwe, of course, knew what a rifle was. She was also smart enough to act dumb. "Is there a problem, sirs?" she inquired politely.
"Ma'am," the tall one answered, "There's no need to keep up the pretense. We understand completely. My name's Murphy, and this here's Thompson," he used his shoulder to indicate his companion. "Don't worry, you're safe now. We'll take you to the Captain. He'll see you're rightly done by and that these...men," he nearly spit the word, "answer for their crimes."
The Dwarf's pony snorted and stamped, as if indignant at the idea of these men restraining her master. Firar calmed her with one rough hand. He knew they would not escape this rather sticky situation easily.
"I speak truly," Araphel added, motionless near Bronwe's horse. "The lady is with us, she is a member of our party."
"Please," Bronwe added, "they have done nothing wrong." Now she knew a little of how Araphel felt when she condemned him to the loony bin.
Thompson looked sorry for the lady, she was obviously afraid of retribution if she admitted her true predicament. He motioned for Araphel, "Release the horse's bridle and step away from the lady."
The Healer darted a glance at Firar, who was looking at him as if for information. Araphel was suddenly aware of the light weight of his necklace, and realized that the Keeper didn't understand what the men were saying. But that was not his immediate concern as he reluctantly loosened his grip on the horse, taking three steps away.
Keeping one eye on Araphel, Thompson walked towards Bronwe and reached to take Araphel's place holding the bridle. The horse, already unsettled by smoke and noise, reacted by trying to bite the soldier's hand and rearing. Thompson jumped back reflexively.
Bronwe waited until the horse placed his forefeet on the ground before jumping down and catching hold of the bridle herself. She whispered softly to the horse, and though his eyes rolled and his ears were flattened against his head, he did stand still. Only then did she give Thompson her attention. "He does not like to be touched by strangers," she said, a trifle smugly.
"Just so, lady, just so," Thompson agreed, keeping a safe distance between himself and the insane horse.
Murphy nodded to the other soldiers around the trio and the men melted back into the landscape. He tipped his head towards the prisoners, indicating that Thompson should look after them. That taken care of, he strutted over to Bronwe and took hold of her left arm, "If you will follow me, Lady--" He never finished his request.
Bronwe released the reins and, with lightning speed, whipped her arm around, hitting Murphy across the chest and knocking him off-balance. She then kicked his feet out from under him. As he lay, winded on the ground she looked down at him, unimpressed. "I do not like to be touched either. Sir," she added as an obvious afterthought.
Firar made a conscious effort to close his mouth. His first attempt failed. Luckily, he got his jaw in working order on the second try. The Peacekeeper wasn't as peaceful as she had first seemed, as if the demonstration with the knives hadn't been enough. He held his tongue, however.
In a pathetic attempt to regain his dignity, Murphy jumped to his feet and brushed himself off quickly. "So I see." He cleared his throat and bowed shortly, "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to my captain? I am sure he would like to make your acquaintance." It was obvious his politeness was just as forced as his smile.
"And what of my friends?" Bronwe inquired.
"Don't worry about them," Thompson answered, sounding distinctly ominous, "We'll take care of 'em."
Keeping her face impassive, Bronwe inclined her head to Murphy, gathered up the reins and turned to follow him. She paused, however, turning back to look at Araphel. Do nothing stupid. We will get out of this together, she thought, still not sure if elves from different worlds could read thoughts.
It is not I who will act foolishly. I fear for Firar, however. His dealings with these kind of men were far from pleasant. Araphel cast a covert glance at the Keeper, who was rigid with uncertainty. Sevineaux had instilled a fear of advanced humanity in the Dwarf, though Firar himself would never admit it. Take no regard for us, he looked back to Bronwe, locking gazes. Do what you must for yourself.
So he did understand her. Interesting. Bronwe nodded imperceptibly and followed Murphy towards a tent city, leading her horse.
Once Bronwe and Murphy were out of sight, Thompson turned to the pair, smirking. "Ye're lucky you ain't dead yet. We'll give ye a trial and all, we ain't uncivilized like 'y'all' are in the south," he said with contempt. With that, he prodded Firar with the tip of his musket. "Move. That way," he said, motioning for them to follow the Peacekeeper.
The Dwarf understood the gesture well enough, and firmly kept his pony's reigns in his hand as he did as he was told. Araphel followed, not saying anything, but memorizing their surroundings with a keen eye. Something told him that to try and talk to Firar about their current predicament would not be taken well.
With his gun trained on the spies, Thompson guided them through the rows upon rows of tents. He was met by a rather portly fellow who looked rather surprised and the small parade. "What's this then, Bill? More poachers?"
"No," Thompson replied, "These two were roughing up a lady just over there on the hill. She's all right, but they're gonna hang." He was enjoying this.
"I beg Master Thompson's pardon, but we were not harming her in any way. Lady Bronwe is a friend of ours," Araphel replied, a touch indignantly. Firar simply nodded for emphasis.
Turning to answer, Thompson stated firmly, "I know what I saw. She's lucky we got there when we did. And I know who you are. Ye're Confederate deserters. Spies. We hang spies."
Portly spoke up, "Um...Bill...neither of them're wearing gray...and they don't sound like they're from the deep south, neither."
"Scott," Bill glared, "Don't bother me with trifles. I know a spy when I see one, and right now, I see two."
The Healer sighed to himself. Why did these situations always seem to go against them? It was as if some higher power, Austus, most likely, deliberately put these kinds of obstacles in their way. "We are not spies," Araphel said patiently.
"Save it for the judge," Bill sniffed. Honestly, spies were so predictable. "Tie 'em up, Scott."
Rolling his eyes, reminding Araphel strongly of Kaylee, Scott rummaged around in a barrel, coming up with ropes and strips of cloth. Mumbling an apology to both, he then proceeded to tie their hands behind their backs and gag them both.
When Thompson was satisfied that they were no longer a threat, he lowered his gun and smiled. "Have a seat, gents," he said, as if welcoming them to his parlor. "Someone will be with you...eventually." And, leaving them in Scott's care, he about-faced and returned to his post.
I am going to killShkena, or Austus, or whoever the addle-brained idiot is that brought us here! Firar thought to himself savagely as he strained at the bonds encircling his wrists. Not even able to understand a single word, how maddening! With the exception of Araphel, but it was rather useless to try and understand a one-sided conversation.
Bronwe and horse were brought to a slightly larger tent in the center of camp. The guard stepped in front of Murphy and spoke softly, though she heard every word. "The captain is...in conference, and is not to be disturbed."
Curious, Bronwe shifted her attention to the voices coming from the tent.
"I'm sorry, Captain," a young voice was saying, "but that way is blocked. The men can't possibly go that way. It's madness!"
"What is madness is ignoring my orders, Lieutenant!" came the outraged reply. "It is not your place to question me!"
"But sir, the horses can not make it through the swamp and not only the men, the canons will get stuck in the marsh!"
"Has it not occurred to you that I have already thought of that?" The captain bellowed.
The captain sounded a little stressed, to say the least. The longer she listened, though, the more confused Bronwe became. If she didn't know better, she'd be sure there was only one person in the tent...
Murphy sighed. He turned back to face Bronwe and said, "My apologies, Lady, but the captain is occupied." He looked nervous, as if hiding something. "If you would wait in my tent? Can I get you some refreshment? Some...hardtack? Or perhaps some ale?"
Thinking quickly, Bronwe came up with an idea. "No, thank you, but," and here she smiled, taking full advantage of blue eyes and dimples, "is there somewhere I might lie down? This afternoon has been rather trying."
"Of course." He nearly fell over trying to be accommodating. He reached for her arm before catching himself, "If you will follow me?"
Still leading her horse, Bronwe followed him to the tent next door. She looped the reins around a tree branch and ducked inside.
He snatched his hat off his head and rolled it anxiously in his hands. "I'm sorry we don't have more suitable lodgings at the moment..."
Bronwe assured him she'd be fine, thanked him graciously, lay down on the bed facing the canvas wall and closed her eyes. Murphy studied her back a moment before slipping out quietly. On his way back to his post, he mentioned to the captain's guard that she should not be disturbed.
The guard nodded and took a moment to glance at the door from where the woman had just disappeared into.
Forcing herself to lie perfectly still, Bronwe lay listening for all she was worth. She had the feeling that it was up to her to get all three of them out of...wherever they were.
Have I ever steered this unit wrong?" came the voice of the captain from the neighboring tent. It was so close to Bronwe's head now, she could not help but hear everything. "When have I put this unit in danger?"
"Well, there was the Battle of Five Forks, er... two months ago, sir."
Smack! "I did not!" the captain roared.
Maybe he isn't alone in there, Bronwe thought. But the voices were so similar.
That was one of my triumphs! They did not take one single fork from this camp! Nor spoon! And even all the knives are accounted for! Five Forks was a success!"
"Yes, sir," the soldier said meekly.
"And now! This battle will top them all. The Battle of Nine Sporks!" There was a sound as if someone had just unveiled a war map. There was a pause in the conversation as most likely the lieutenant was absorbing what was just said.
"Sporks?"
"Sporks."
"I beg your pardon, Captain, but...what are...sporks?"
Bronwe knew full well what a spork was, but apparently the inferior officer did not.
"Inform the general that I have devised a plan to get us behind the Confederate line and will catch the Graybacks completely by surprise! GO NOW!"
Wonderful. She was in the middle of another war. What was this one about? Milk in bags vs. cartons?
There were sounds of feet shuffling but no one seemed to leave the tent.
Bronwe waited for another enraged outburst when the order wasn't obeyed immediately. None was forthcoming, however.
As there were no sounds of interest coming from the tent, she turned her attention to the dozens of other conversations around camp, trying to piece together what was going on.
Meanwhile, Araphel and Firar were still sitting miserably, hands tied uncomfortably behind them in the presence of one known only to them as Scott. The Healer sized the man guarding them up, before deciding that if he was going to be stuck in the middle of yet another human skirmish, he wanted to know what it was all about. Unfortunately, with a gag in his mouth, such a thing was impossible…for the moment.
Firar was in no position to help him with his bonds, so he would have to free himself. Or...wait. Perhaps the little Keeper could help him. In fact, he had already. Araphel had pilfered one of the Dwarf's small knives, and hidden it up his sleeve. With just the right application of sideways momentum and trusting to gravity...ah! The small blade slid into his hands.
Working the edge carefully against his bindings, Araphel tried not to twist and fidget overly in his chair as Scott selected yet another potato from his pile and set about removing its skin. There was neither sound nor warning as the ropes parted company, and he slowly brought up one hand to remove his gag, while secreting the knife in his sleeve once more.
Scott continued peeling potatoes, humming contentedly under his breath, completely oblivious.
Araphel cast one sideways glance at the still-restrained Firar before daring to speak. "Excuse me, Sir Scott. Might I inquire as to the cause and purpose of this battle?"
Scott jumped, dropped his potato and stared at Araphel open-mouthed. "I thought you were gagged!" he managed to squeak.
The Healer half-smiled. "I was. And I am still willing to be your prisoner, but all I seek is information." He sat back languidly, lacing his unbound hands in his lap in an almost-casual manner. "I promise you that I shall not leave."
Scott's eyes widened even further, if it were possible, "I could get into trouble, talking to you, sir." He was clutching his peeling knife tightly in his right hand, watching the prisoner warily.
At that, the Healer sat up straighter. "Why? Do we look like your enemies? Do we even appear to be from around this part of your world? I think not. Please, even if you do not believe me, there is still no harm in telling me why you fight."
Being blessed, as he was, with a good deal of common sense, Scott heard the logic in the stranger's words. He relaxed slightly and went back to peeling, still keeping an eye on the two others in the tent. "Well," he finally started, "I don't rightly know all the reasons we're fighting. I suppose there's more than one. The main one for me is... well, I don't think its right for one body to own another body, you know what I mean?"
The elf nodded, more to himself than to Scott. "Yes. And the people you fight, they are the ones who would condone this enslavement?" He cast a sideways glance at Firar, who, by the look on his face, wasn't following the one-sided conversation.
Scott nodded, "They seem to think it's they're God-given right. But it ain't right! The blacks are people too!" In his excitement, he was not paying close attention to his work and the knife slipped, slicing his thumb. Hissing in pain, he dropped the knife and wrapped his hand around the injured digit.
Immediately, Araphel crossed to the man. "I am a healer, allow me." He pressed his own thumb to the deep gash and closed it easily, wiping away the remnants of blood on the grass. "At least your knife is sharp," he said lightly, sitting back. "You would have a hard task if it was dull."
Scott sat, frozen, staring at Araphel, his face as white as the peeled potatoes in the pot.
The Healer regarded him, falling silent. A cold feeling crept over him, as if he had done something that he shouldn't. Kaylee had always taken such actions as his in stride...but this man was different. Had Araphel misjudged his safety on this planet? Thoughts of Magnum came to him, but he brushed them aside. It wouldn't happen like that again.
Scott finally found his voice, "Wh-wh-," he stammered. He swallowed and tried again, "Who are you?"
Araphel blinked somewhat owlishly at the question. "I...am a healer. My name is Araphel." The man looked prepared to bolt.
Finally managing to peel his eyes off the ...Healer, Scott looked down at his now perfect, if not a little bloodstained, thumb. He flexed it several times before looking back at Araphel. He tried again, "Who are you?"
"I have told you. I am Araphel." The elf wasn't quite sure what else to say. That he had come from a different world? That he was a pawn in a game as yet unknown to him? Somehow he thought that would not go over well, so he said nothing else.
"Look, Arafel," Scott said, having found his voice, "I don't know anybody who can do what you just did. You...aren't from around here are you? ...are you Canadian, or something?"
"I...yes, I am." Any port in a storm, the Healer figured. "I beg your pardon for startling you so."
Somewhat relieved, Scott nodded. He had heard strange stories about their northern neighbors, and now he had a new one to add to his repertoire. He bent over and picked up the fallen knife, wiping it on his pant leg and swishing it through the fire to his right before picking up another potato. "S'alright, sir. Just wasn't expecting something...like that."
"Understandable." Araphel settled back in his chair.
Scott looked up and studied Araphel's companion. "Your friend, sir," he said, nodding towards the short man, "He says very little."
"My friend does not speak your language, good sir. We...Canadians," Araphel pronounced the word slowly, "have a different language. Please excuse him. Notwithstanding the fact that he is gagged."
"Oh, right," Scott replied, "French....or...is he an Eskimo?"
"French," Araphel bluffed, going with the first option. "What is to be done with us, do you suppose? We are not spies, nor are we involved in your battle."
Bronwe almost forgot to breathe. They couldn't! They wouldn't! ...yes, they would. She knew enough about a mortal's way of thinking to believe them capable of that, but... Think fast, girl, they have little time left.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes in case anyone was watching. She had to speak to the captain, now.
"But sir," a hushed voice insisted, "She might be a spy."
"Female spies?" an amused voice replied, "Rubbish. What will you think of next?" Bronwe recognized the second voice as the captain's guard and thanked her lucky star that prejudices sometimes worked in her favor.
Purposely making the cot squeak, Bronwe stood up and approached the tent door.
Suddenly a shriek of pain came from the neighboring tent. It sounded as if someone was either dying or being tortured.
She jumped, wondering what could possibly be happening. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of the tent, only to be confronted by the captain's guard.
"Sorry, Miss," he said, standing in her way, "but I'm afraid the captain's still in conference and cannot be disturbed."
Bronwe tried to look concerned, not a stretch at the moment. "I just heard a horrible shriek. Is everything all right?"
"Yes Ma'am, everythin's under control." The guard tried to give a friendly smile, but ended in grimacing. "Are you feeling well, Ma'am? Are you hung'y or anythin'? Food's not great here but-"
"No, thank you," Bronwe interrupted, "I am fine. But I really do need to speak to your captain."
"Again, I'm sorry, Miss, but the captain gave orders that he wasn't to be disturbed. Are you sure you don't want any food?" the guard insisted.
"I have eaten," she answered vaguely. She was getting frustrated. "Please, it is very important."
"Ma'am, you don't know the capt'n. He gets right angry when he's disturbed, and he was downright insistent that--" The guard's warning was drowned out by another shout from within the tent, this one of terror.
She'd had enough. Faking a step to the left, she waited till the guard countered before whirling around to her right, walking past him and pushing open the tent flap.
The scene that met her eyes was completely not what she has expected to find.
The tent was simple enough; a thin, worn rug spread over the ground, a primitive cot covered in rough wool blankets in the far corner, several large bags under the bed that held a few changes of clothing, weapons were placed carefully on a small table near the foot of the cot. A large square table was in the centre of the tent and it was covered with a map of the surrounding area. On top of the map were tiny models of the two opposing armies and their current positions on the grounds. Sitting at the table, was none other than the captain of the army...who was playing with the tiny soldiers as if he were a small boy. The blue uniformed toy soldier that was in the captain's hand was seemingly jumping on a grey uniformed soldier that had been laid down on the table.
"I'm very sorry, you'll have to come back later," the captain said without looking up to see who was addressing him. Thinking it was just one of his soldiers, he just brushed off whoever it was. "I'm too busy torturing this Confederate soldier. He's nearly ready to talk."
After he finished speaking, his free hand lifted the small grey soldier slightly off the table, and let out yet another scream.
Not letting herself jump, and unsure what to make of the captain, Bronwe spoke quietly, "I beg your pardon, sir. If I might have a moment of your time?"
The captain looked up sharply. "A
woman?!" He stood with
surprising speed and turned to look at Bronwe
standing in his doorway. After looking her up and down, his eyes stopped and
rested on her...neck. "You are a
woman, aren't you!"
She gave him an odd look. "All my life... sir."
Something about him was...strange. Well, besides the obvious
eccentricities. She studied him intently, trying to figure out what it
was.
The captain took off his dusty blue hat and bowed low to the ground. "A thousand apologies, my good lady. I did not realize
that I was in the company of such a vision as yourself."
When he stood up straight, he placed his hat on backwards and over his eyes.
"Would you care to take a seat?"
"Thank you," Bronwe said, somewhat puzzled. She
sat gingerly on the edge of the cot and turned to look at the captain.
After feeling around for the chair that he had just jumped out of, the captain
sat down again. "My goodness, where are my manners? My mother would be
ashamed of me." He stood back up, took his hat off, and once again, bowed
low to the ground, "I am Captain Theodore Kelley." And he promptly
hit his head on the table, knocking half of his army down. Clenching his
eyes tightly shut as he rubbed his sore forehead, Captain Kelley groaned. He
straightened again and gingerly sat back down at the table. He placed his
hat in the middle ground between the two armies.
Standing once more, Bronwe dropped into a low
curtsey. "My name is Bronwe Mason, sir," she said,
falling back on her alias, "and I have come to address the issue of…" Her voice
trailed off. Was it her imagination, or was he...glowing? Of course not. It was a trick of the light.
Obviously, this man had not bathed in weeks, perhaps longer. This whole
'changing worlds' business had disrupted her more than she'd care to admit.
While rubbing his temples, trying to relieve himself of the very large headache
he had just placed upon himself, he semi-turned towards Bronwe. "Sorry? My head must be ringing now. Too
many bells rattling around there that I didn't catch that last half of your
sentence."
In for a penny, in for a pound, Bronwe thought
irreverently. "My apologies, sir," she couldn't afford to annoy him by
contradicting him. Not yet, anyways. "I said,
I have come to address the issue of my companions. They have been wrongly
accused."
"Accused? Of what, good lady?"
That gave Bronwe pause. What were the
charges? "I believe, sir," she started uncertainly, "they were assumed to
be spies, and there was a...misunderstanding which led your men to conclude my
companions were trying to...harm me..." she finished rather lamely.
"Spies, you say?" Kelley chuckled, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I'm not surprised. My men...let's just say, are not the sharpest swords
in the armory...much to my dismay."
Bronwe stomped down on the thought about the pot and
the kettle being black. I have got to stop thinking in cliches, she thought to herself. "So you believe
me?" she asked hopefully. "You will release them?"
"I am sorry. I do believe you for there's truth your voice, but I can't
just release them like that. It's not that simple. I will do everything that I
can to release them--I am captain after all--but they must stand a small trial.
It's happened before. Your friends aren't the only ones that have been taken
for spies, and very few have actually been hanged."
Feeling a little light-headed, she sat down suddenly. It was now Bronwe's turn to pinch the bridge of her nose.
Hanged...not good. She had a feeling the group needed their Healer and
Keeper without stretched necks. And she didn't feel able to place much
confidence in the captain's abilities of persuasion or logic. He had been
beating up small metal soldiers only moments before, after all.
"A Mr. Thompson and a Mr. Murphy, I believe, sir," Bronwe answered, glad to know something for certain.
Kelley sighed. "Murphy...why am I not
surprised?" he said more to himself than to Bronwe.
Just then, a tall young man with reddish brown hair and moustache, dressed in a
muddy blue uniform, entered the tent. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Capt'n, but you're needed for the trial of two spies we've
discovered. Sergeant Murphy iz askin' for you."
Kelley sighed again. "Very well. Thank you,
Corporal, I will follow. Tell the Sergeant that I will be right there." As
the soldier turned to leave, the captain put up one hand. "Oh,
and Jimmy, one more thing." 'Jimmy' turned to face the higher
officer to get the last minute order. "Tell Murphy that if he's finished
with the corset, I would like it back, if he would be so kind."
Jimmy blinked. "Uh...yes sir." He saluted and exited the tent.
Bronwe blinked. Corset?
This was going to be interesting.
Kelley stood up again, placed his hat on his head the right way and turned to
face Bronwe. "It looks as if it's time for me to
play cavalry. Shall we, Ms Mason?" He bent slightly at the waist and
offered his arm to her.
Gathering her poise, Bronwe rose to take his
arm. As he straightened, their eyes met
and they both froze. Theystood there for a moment, not
saying a word to each other.
Kelley blinked, trying to absorb the thoughts that were now speeding around his
mind. Could it be?
For her part, Bronwe was trying to reconcile the
klutzy, idiosyncratic man who played war in his tent with the reality before
her. She was about to say something when the guard poked his head in the
doorway.
Feeling an awkwardness that he hadn't known in quite a long time, Kelley forgot himself, dropped his arm from Bronwe's hand and exited the tent alone and very quickly. Not here. Not now.
Bronwe stood still a moment before following him, feeling as stunned as he looked. Her thoughts were racing behind her impassive face. So, Mr. Captain Theodore Kelley, she smiled to herself, I know your secret. You are hiding, just like I am. The worlds just are not safe for elves anymore, are they?
[Key's A/N: Thank you for choosing Shkena and Austus' Time Travel Service! This month's special: a journey back to the Civil War! Sure to impress all ages and species, including Elves, Klingons, and Dwarves! We hope you enjoy your 'blast of the past' and remember, there is no refund available, should you be mistaken for a spy and hanged. Thank you!]
[Drew's A/N: This just in: Readership is up, reviewership is down. Authorship morale is approaching all time lows. Please, send your support soon! Authors need feedback like athletes need endorsements. Or...something like that. Anyhoo, shameless begging aside, if you're still reading this, I'm assuming you're enjoying the story. Thanks for your interest. We'll try to stay worthy of your attention. Many hugs. D]
[AW's A/N: I take full responsibility for the blond elf moments. If you have any complaints, bruises or sore sides because of him, Drew's email is.... Ha! I hope you enjoyed his version of 'Risk', because, he certainly did. Keep an eye out for more of him in the next chapter... Do...or die.]
