The dawn was bright and new and glowing through the open window, and Arthur was lying with Rane wrapped in his arms, his face in her hair, when Limdur and his men strode in. Both of them started awake, grasping at the blankets around them.

"The sun rises, and day breaks," said Limdur merrily. "And you must make away soon my friends. Wake, now."

"Ugh. No." Rane ran a hand down her face, groaning. "Please no. It's too early."

"Jesus." Arthur sat up, glaring at them. He had never wanted to sock someone in the throat more than he did now, lying with his nude body twined around Rane's, hungover and half-awake. He yanked the coverlet over her hastily as she stirred at his side. "The hell are you doin'? We don't have any damn clothes on -!"

"You guys can step out for a second before kicking us out," said Rane, her voice loud and angry, glaring at them over the blanket. And then, when they didn't move: "Heca. We're both as naked as the day we were born, for Christ's sake. Ang'nll'nin."

THEY were striding from the steps of Hostas well before midday, clad now in Elven garb. Limdur had given each of them a pair of Eldarin-forged boots, and Arthur felt about a mile high in them. They were fashioned of some kind of cured leather, black and shining and incredibly dense, inlayed with a strange, lilting text. He'd never owned a sharper pair. As they reached the sandy ground before the gates of Hostas, one of Limdur's companions thrust a bag into Rane's hand. She looked inside, curious; it was laden with more lembas and meat, and another flagon of Elvish wine, rippling and purple in the morning light.

"We wish you well, peredhil, daughter of Rochon'baug, though I do not suspect you need well-wishers to greet with you," said Limdur on the steps. "You seem the sort to make your own fate. As does your handsome paramour."

"Guren'glassui," said Rane, inclining her head. "You saved us and you have my thanks."

"We are hard folk but we do not leave our kin to die on the sand," said Limdur, bowing. "Your friends are to the east. Follow the sun and the sounds, and you will find them, it should not be difficult. This island is small and they are loud. They are with another company now, or so my outriders tell me."

"Dangerous?"

Limdur laughed. "All mortals are dangerous. They are not a people who think, they are a people who act, as you well know, often to their own doom. So approach with caution." He looked at Arthur. "I am sorry we could do nothing for your weapons, paramour. We are a people of steel, I fear."

Arthur shrugged, patting his guns. "Ah, hell. There'll be more."

Rane sketched that same, curious gesture - fingers, trailing away from her forehead - at Limdur. He reciprocated, smiling in the morning sunlight, his long blond hair wavering in the sea breeze.

"We were well met, Rane Roth. Perhaps our paths will cross another time. I would much desire to see you again, someday. Tenna enta lúmë, namárië."

"Namárië." Rane bowed, and taking Arthur by the shoulder strode away, their boots casting sand up.

"What'd he say? At the end there?" Arthur asked, looking over his shoulder. The Elves were striding back up the walkway to their city, tall and elegant, cloaks wafting out behind them.

"He said it's half off breakfast day at Denny's," said Rane, and sighed lustily. "Man, I'd kill for a big ass stack of waffles and some sausages right about now. Best hangover food there is."

Arthur looked uncertainly at her. She laughed, shaking her head.

"He said 'goodbye until the time when we meet again.'"

"I dunno that I'd like to meet him again, myself."

"Me neither," said Rane honestly, hoisting the sack onto her shoulder as they strode through the sand. She glanced toward the sun, which was riding in the sky, halfway to its zenith, and made toward its direction. The surf's crash was loud and pleasant to their right, the gulls' cries faint in the morning air. "I trust that guy about as far as I can throw him."

"Yeah, he don't exactly inspire it," Arthur agreed. His guns clanked at his hips, useless though they were, and the morning sun dappled through the palms onto his unshaven face, making him handsome indeed. He coughed roughly. "Seems like a side-steppin' son of a bitch to me. He was ready to run us through on that beach, then next thing ya know he's bringin' us wine and meat and lockin' us in a goddamned tower, sayin' it's for our own good." He shook his head. "Strange people, if ya ask me."

"Yeah, well." Rane stepped over a downed tree lithely, her hair swinging. "Don't judge Elves on that meeting alone. They're mostly good. I've never had occasion to meet with Southern ones, they seem weird. I guess the same way Cajuns seem weird to a New Yorker."

"Wish I knew what that means."

"Yeah, me too." Rane pointed, grasping his arm. "Look."

Arthur did. There was smoke rising from the palms some ways off. He shaded his eyes with one hand, peering, the calls of tropical birds loud around them.

"You don't wanna talk anymore about last night," he said abruptly.

Rane didn't look at him, only dropped her grasp on his arm. "Eventually, maybe. Think I called you out plenty already."

"You still with me?"

Rane turned and pulled him to her by his shirt, kissing him hard. She met his eyes.

"I'm with you," she said, looking up at him. "This is no halfway thing for me, Arthur, I'm not your fucking prom date. You're either in it or not."

"I know. I'm in it." Arthur grasped her face in his hands. "I'm in it so damn deep I can't see the surface anymore and you know it."

Rane watched him a moment, then pulled away. "I still think you're an asshole."

"Well, you ain't the only one," said Arthur, but he watched her as she moved back to the trail, her face dappled by sunlight and her hair flying around her face in the sea breeze. "Maybe you're even right. You think that's them?"

"I'm positive," said Rane, and pointed again. Arthur squinted but couldn't see beneath the beating sunlight. "That's Micah. Taking a piss over the ridge. Nasty fucker."

"I'll take your word for it." But Arthur could almost see. There was a figure on the ledge beyond, barely visible between the palm fronds, leaning over the forest below, swaying slightly. It could be Micah.

"He's the only one I can't find it in me to like," Rane remarked, low. "Javier is a close second, but at least he's got some moral fiber."

Arthur looked at her, curious in spite of himself. "Why you say? Because he tried to shoot ya?"

"Because that man is a wild card if I ever saw one. No allegiances except to himself. And all the moral compass of a fucking pickpocket." Rane snorted, grim. "And yeah, also because he tried to shoot me. That generally turns me off of a person."

"Yeah, well, I sure wish Dutch agreed with ya," Arthur replied. "He's a slimy son of a bitch. Damn near got us all killed in Blackwater and more times than I can count later on. Him and Limdur'd probably get along like a house on fire. I dunno what Dutch sees in him."

"When a snake robs a bird's nest, the bird doesn't complain if she meets its eyes," said Rane.

Arthur looked at her and laughed, a trifle uneasily.

"I never took you for a poet, Miss Roth."

"My dad used to say that." Her voice was grim, and Arthur looked away, his smile fading.

"Yeah, I know what ya mean."

"Limdur said they were with other people."

"That he did."

"Stay behind me when we come up on them." Rane's hand was on her sword. "They're liable to fire and you aren't armed."

"Y'know, I don't much like havin' a lady protectin' me."

Rane looked back at him, smirking. "Howabout an Auror and an Elf? That suit you? The CIA couldn't do it better than me."

"Humble, to boot."

Rane laughed, turning away, but Arthur saw the wand and the sword in her hand and braced himself.

"DECLARE YOURSELVES!"

Rane sheathed her sword, glancing at Arthur and smiling. "French accent."

"You don't speak French, you goddamned idiot."

Rane raised her voice. "Nous ne voulons pas de mal. S'il vois plait."

The man standing on the ridge lowered his gun, looking at her. "Parlez-vous Francais?"

Rane shrugged. "Not much more than that, sorry. I have some Spanish. Lots of English."

"I got some English." The man approaching them was bare-chested, young, dark-complected. He didn't look terribly interested in her jokes. "Are you armed?"

"Yes. But we aren't here to start any shit, we're just looking for our friends."

Dutch appeared at his side, tousle-haired and filthy, his eyes on Arthur. "No, no, no, hang on, now, they're our friends. Oh, Arthur."

There were times when Rane wasn't sure about Dutch, but this wasn't one of them. He ran down the cliff, skidding on the sand, and when he reached Arthur he embraced him without hesitation, his grasp tight, breathing hard.

"Oh, Arthur. Oh, my boy." He leaned back, taking Arthur by the shoulders. "We thought you was dead, son. We surely did."

"Not yet," said Arthur, grasping Dutch's shoulder and grinning. "Takes more than a shipwreck, I guess."

"Where you two been?" Dutch pulled Rane in too, his grip firm on the small of her back. "We done been locked up and chainganged and marched off and escaped and Lord only knows what else."

"We met with some Elves," said Rane, and handed him the sack on her shoulder. "Here. They left us with some provisions."

"Elves?" Dutch took it, peering inside. "Hell, we was all sure you two were at the bottom of the sea."

"Who else, Dutch?" said Arthur.

"Everybody. Lucky." Dutch shook his head, putting a hand on his hip. "Hell, lucky ain't even the word. Javier was arrested, though, and we're likely gonna have to bust him out before it's done."

"Great," said Arthur, low. "Arrested by who?"

"Ah, nobody important." Dutch waved a hand. "Bunch of damn local yokels wearin' the colors, is all."

"Close?"

"Close enough. I dunno how we managed it without nobody dying, Arthur, truly I don't. What the hell are you two wearin' anyway?"

Arthur pulled at the Elven tunic he wore, smirking. "Yeah, I know, it ain't exactly much to my likin' neither."

"The hell?" a voice said above them. Rane and Arthur turned. Bill stood there, shaking his head. "You're alive, Morgan?"

Arthur coughed, but he was smiling. "Just about."

"Well, come on up, the both of ya." Dutch was starting back up the hill. "We'll bust into this food with our new friends. Damn, but ain't I happy to see you two. Little bit of good news in this shitshow, damned if it ain't."

THEIR new friends turned out to be rebels, most of them armed, and they sat around a fire, all of them filthy and bloodstained. Their leader introduced himself as Hercule Fontaine. Rane didn't put him over thirty, and had to respect him at once. She was irritable, though, torn over the conversation the evening before, and she drank deep on the Elven wine. She could not have been less poised to entertain. What she wanted was to be alone, to absorb this news about Arthur and think on it. Her posture, cross-legged and staring into the fire with her long hair in her face, spoke to it.

"You know about the Elves in the woods," she asked Hercule at length as they all sat around the bonfire. She was drunk on wine by now, still ruminating on Arthur's revelation, sitting cross-legged on the sand and picking at a chunk of lembas noncommittally. It was leaning toward late afternoon, the wind sharp and the sun orange overhead. The cries of insects and birds were loud and pleasant. Dutch, Bill and Micah sat against the trunks of trees nearby, all of them looking tired and bored. Arthur had taken his usual seat next to her, his hip touching hers, smoking a cigarette with clear relish and touching her back gently every now and then. He looked at her now, his gaze warning.

"You've seen them. In the woods. Haven't you?" She jerked her goblet toward Hercule. "You know they're there, I mean?"

"Hey." Arthur grasped her hand in one of his own, tight. "Take it easy. You been drinkin'."

Rane ignored him. Hercule met her eyes, dark over the fire. "We know about their city, but they are known as the Eldarin here in Guarma."

Rane laughed, cold. "If only you knew how they thought of you."

"How do they?"

Rane flicked more bread into the fire, her brow furrowed. "You better not ask me right now, I'll be more honest than you'd like."

Hercule watched her. "I'm asking anyway."

Rane met his eyes, leaning forward, quite unafraid. When she spoke her voice was cold and harsh.

"The way we think of bugs when we step on them. Expendable. Useless. That's the way Elves think of men. I'd say it in Elvish but you wouldn't understand, because mortals are too stupid to know it."

Dutch grasped her wrist and she jerked it loose, still looking at Hercule. She drank more, her hair blowing back in the wind. Dutch spread his arms, laughing, meeting Hercule's gaze.

"My friend here, she's had a little too much is all."

"Then we are useless?" said Hercule, ignoring him and glaring at Rane.

"Maybe you are." Rane's eyes were flashing and cold.

"We are revolutionaries. Our work matters a great deal to many."

"Maybe. And maybe you're just a bunch of dumb hicks going about your pointless lives on this dumbfuck island. That's what they think. Your Eldarin."

Hercule leaned forward. "Fortunately for me, we do not care much for the opinions of blonde men who hide in the forest."

Rane looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm drunk and that was a shitty thing to say."

"Is that an apology?"

"Yeah, that's what it is."

Hercule leaned back, nodding. Everyone was watching them, even Micah, sharply curious. He waved a hand.

"Everyone speaks too quickly with wine in their bellies," he said, his voice now lighter. "Think nothing of it."

"Don't take it personally, Hercule," said Micah, lifting a glass. "She's short with everybody even when she's sober."

"That's enough outta you," said Arthur.

"Have you treated with them?" Rane shook her head. A single day with the Elves and she was already speaking like them. "Met with them, I mean. Talked to them."

Hercule nodded, looking into her eyes over his chunk of lembas. He lifted it gently. "They give us supplies if we ask. They're kind. Though their leader -"

"Is a goddamned asshole," Arthur supplied, low, sipping at a glass of wine. Rane laughed.

Hercule nodded. "Yes. He is." He looked at Rane. "You're one."

Rane nodded, shrugging. "Sort of."

"That's why you carry that sword."

"Yeah."

"Hmm." Hercule was watching her speculatively. "You could help our cause."

"I could, but I won't," said Rane, low, looking into the fire. They all looked at her in surprise. Dutch leaned forward, looking thoroughly impatient.

"We're gonna help ya, Hercule," he said, eyeing Rane warningly. "However we can."

"Rane." Arthur elbowed her gently. "Knock it off, the hell you doin'?"

"What are you guys fighting for?" Rane asked airily. She was tired and irritable, and this man's revolution didn't interest her, especially not with Arthur's terminal illness hanging in her mind from the night before. "Lemme guess, some despot who won't let your people have any independence. Tale as old as time."

"For the freedom of my people from Fussar." Hercule was watching her with clear dislike. "You aren't like the other Eldarin I've spoken to."

"I'm not, no." Rane took the rest of her lembas and flung it away into the fire with a careless flourish. "I'm only half-Elf. The worst half is the human one."

"You care nothing for revolution, because you have never had cause to fight for your life," said Hercule shortly. "I have met many like you."

"I've had plenty cause to fight for my life in my days," Rane replied, staring off into the night with disinterest, her goblet hanging below her lips. "But no, I care nothing for revolution at this very moment. Think I care more about eating dry dogshit then revolution, if we're being honest."

"Alright." Dutch shoved at her shoulder, hard, causing some of her wine to spill to the dirt. "Girl, you keep it up and see what happens, I'm just about through with you tonight."

"Rane." Dutch was watching her, his gaze warning. Rane sat back, sighing.

"Why you sayin' shit like that?" Arthur said, low, grasping her arm. "Huh?"

"Because last night," Rane replied, matching his tone. "That's why. What, you thought I'd just forget about it?"

Arthur glanced around, shifting. Micah, Bill and Dutch were all eyeing them.

"This ain't exactly the best time."

Rane lifted her goblet, heavy with Elvish wine, and threw it all back, rivulets of it running down her chin.

"To Fussar's fall," she said, lavish. She was drunk, and Arthur watched her from her side with a heavy heart. Dutch, too, was eyeing her. "To the best of all possible worlds. To the downtrodden and the oppressed and the destitute. May your dicks always be harder than your lives. To whiskey glasses and fat girls' asses."

Bill and Micah both burst out laughing at this, slapping their thighs, Elvish wine flinging from their glasses. Hercule wasn't laughing. Neither were Dutch or Arthur.

"Get a hold of her, Arthur." Dutch was glaring at him. "Or I'm gonna."

"Get a hold of her, Arthur." Dutch was glaring at him. "Or I'm gonna."

"Who is this woman?" Hercule asked, looking at Dutch.

"An ally" said Dutch expansively.

"I cannot say I care much for her."

Rane pulled her wand and aimed it at his feet, hellishly quick even drunk. A spangle of sparks leapt out of the dirt, and Hercule leapt to his feet, his eyes wide. His gun was in his hand in a moment, and Rane, clearly only waiting for a reason to draw, got to her feet in a whirl of dark hair, her eyes on his and her free hand grasping her wand. The men behind Hercule drew too, the snicking of their hammers being drawn loud in the silence, and Dutch got to his feet hastily, hands stretching out.

"Boys, boys, now hold on -!"

"Try it. I'd welcome it, I'd welcome the distraction." Rane's eyes were on Hercule, cold beneath her brows. "Please, indulge me."

"You'd like that?" said Hercule lightly.

"Very much." Rane jerked her wand. "How quick are you with that thing? I bet you're not quicker than me -"

"RANE!" Dutch roared, loud. Rane started, glancing at him. "That's enough, I said! I ain't gonna say it again! You're drunk as a damn lord and antagonizin' these gentlemen who were good enough to give us shelter, now shut your goddamned mouth! What the hell is the matter with you anyway?"

Rane eyed him, and Arthur saw the tears standing in her eyes, bright in the firelight. She threw her goblet into the dirt and glaring at them all turned on her heel and strode into the forest, her footsteps crunching in the dirt. They all watched her go, her hair flying in the wind.