Author's Notes: Did I say this was going to be three parts? Uh. I lied. It'll be... well, as long as it needs to be. Once again: spoilers, don't bother reading if you haven't played the game (the spoilers aren't that bad, but really, the dramatic impact is lost if you don't know what happens). Feedback much appreciated, even just "I read it and it sucked/was great/bored me". Skip to the bottom for the snarky/spoilery stuff.

Aila woke swiftly, to soft blue light creeping in under the entrance to Lucia's home. Crisp air with an early-morning chill bit her skin. Dew and rain hung heavily on the air; it was still near dawn, then, if the sun hadn't yet had time to dry the plains.

She sat up in bed and threw off her covers. One moment she'd been asleep, the next awake. Her sleep had been dreamless, deep and sound, as always when she had to condense a full night into a few hours.

Rumpled bedclothes beside hers attested that Lucia had awakened ahead of her. She was nowhere to be seen, but there was a pot of black coffee and a tray of breakfast food out on a side table. Steam still curled from the coffee, and Aila had to juggle the big mug she filled from hand-to-hand for a moment to keep from burning herself. It was fresh and thick, and she relished it. Calerians had strange ideas about coffee, involving strange contraptions and spices. They should keep their peculiar notions to soda, she felt, where they belonged.

The maize porridge was good, too, but blander than she remembered, so she took advantage of the little dishes of goat cheese and berry preserves on the tray. All stirred together, it was a sticky pinkish mess, and she'd finished the bowl and was licking the remains off her fingers when Hugo pushed back the drape over the entrance and stuck his head in.

"Morning, Aila." He glanced around the room, then grinned. "I guess she beat you getting up, too?"

She pulled her fingers out of her mouth guiltily and cleared her throat. "Ehrm. Hey, Hugo. Yeah, she was gone when I woke up. You had breakfast?"

He nodded, but crossed the room and grabbed a strawberry anyway, eating it all in one bite. "Thanks." Head tilted to one side, he stared at her, while blonde hair flopped in front of his eyes. The strange too-knowing look from the previous night was gone, completely; she could have believed he was the same Hugo of two years previous. "I'm going out hunting with Hubert after I find mo-- Lucia. You want to come?"

"Oh, hey." Aila found herself grinning. "That would be fun. I can show you this new bow of mine, it's great."

Hugo beamed back and snagged another strawberry off the tray. "You and your weapons. Just don't miss and shoot me, all right?"

She refilled her coffee and snorted. "I never miss."

Grinning, he walked backwards out the entrance. "Don't shoot Hubert, either. See you later, then."

When he was gone, she put the coffee down and stripped out of her clothing. Luckily, she'd managed to avoid getting vomit on herself, but she could use a bath. Badly.

A quick check around the room found Lucia's wash basin turned upside-down and being used as an end-table. Oh, to hell with it, she decided. I'll take a change of clothes and go stream-bathing.

She hacked out a chunk of the big block of Chisha-style soap Lucia kept in a corner, grabbed some yucca root, and tied them and her spare clothing inside one of her dirty shirts. Pack slung over her shoulder, she stepped into the open. Sunlight streamed down on her face; the sun had fully risen while she was eating breakfast. It took her a moment to adjust. Everything on the plains was so much brighter than Caleria, where cumulative layers of buildings and fortifications, ridges and canyons veiled everything in intricate lacework shadows.

The path to the stream was free of villagers, after she'd passed the limits of the village proper. Beecham had mentioned something about a new well last night; few people had even bothered to bathe in the stream after the first one had been put in, when she was twelve.

Rich baritone voices of the earth spirits spirits bid her a pleasant day, in between the soprano trilling of the wind. Face turned up to the sky, she took a moment to whisper her greetings back. It has been too long, they told her. Fire took many of those who spoke to us; now, those who hear us mumble, or hear us only dimly. Water spirits burbled in agreement, and made a few "suggestions" as to how she might remedy this problem for them.

She resolutely ignored the very improbable image of herself and Hugo that appeared before her eyes. Uh-uh. No. Too young, and too Hugo. Try again. Promising to speak to them later, she headed downstream towards a rocky. The stream bed grew wider at the bottom, and deeper too; the little "waterfall" was good for washing her hair.

Her bag was on the ground the second the ground turned rocky beneath her feet, and she'd tugged her shirt off halfway, when a flash of movement under the water caught her eye.

What the -- oh no.

Breaking the surface of the pool, Borus spat a long stream of water upwards, and then shook his head like a dog. He was turned away from her, hip-deep. Thin scars criss-crossed his back, stretching from shoulder to mid-back.

Whip marks? The thought made her wince, but she ignored the sympathetic pangs and glared knives at the naked Zexen. I hope they flayed you, coward.

Hefting a flat rock from the streambed in one hand, she drew her arm back and skipped it far out over the water. I am not going to let you cheat me out of my bath.

The "plonk" as the stone finally sank got his attention. Borus turned around quickly, cheeks flushed and mouth open to say -- something, anyway. Whatever words he'd been planning died on his lips, and his eyes slowly grew wary.

Aila refused to look away and glared straight at him, arms crossed over her chest. "You done yet?"

He cleared his throat, furrowed his brow, and coughed. "I... I beg your pardon, milady. I didn't realize anyone else--" Coughing again, he stopped himself and bowed, slicked blonde hair nearly touching the water's surface. "I'll get out."

"Don't call me that," she snapped, teeth grinding at the 'milady'. He didn't straighten from his bow, or move, and she intensified her glare. "Well? Get on with it!"

He lifted his head and glanced at her, then looked away towards the side. "I beg your pardon... would you mind turning around?"

Was he blushing?

"What?" Borus made no answer, just coughed again. "Why should I turn around, so you can stick your sword in my back?"

That got his attention. He looked back up, scowling, and started to snap out a reply, then visibly bit his tongue and looked away. Through the water, she could see his hands clenched in fists at his thighs.

"For... modesty's sake, mi-- miss." He shivered once, then stopped himself. "My sword is back in Lady Ruth's home, peace bonded and locked in a trunk." Drops of water fell from his hair as he jerked his head to a pile of clothes a few feet away. "My clothes are there. You can check them for weapons, if you wish."

"Like I'd touch anything that had been on you." She turned around abruptly and sat cross-legged on the ground. "Hurry up and go away."

"Thank you, milady."

She didn't even deign to correct him, just kept an ear out for the telltale swishing of a body emerging from the water, or that of a knife being drawn.

After a moment, a pair of Zexen-style boots crossed her vision. She looked up to a bowing Borus and scrambled to her feet. "What?"

Once more, he choked his words back and bowed. "The stream is yours. Once more, I apologize." Not waiting for a reply, he turned and walked back up the hill. She didn't turn around until well after he'd gone out of earshot.

Warn me next time he's around! The attending spirits muttered and sulked while she stripped, but acquiesced in the end. She waded a ways into the stream, then stretched out on the surface, yucca root and soap on her stomach.

Floating on her back, she stared up at the sky, robin's egg blue and cloudless. Warm water lapped over her thighs as she kicked, propelling herself towards the fall. Even the breeze was unusually mild. She tried to cling to the sharp red shards of her anger, but it melted away like snow on a bright day.

Who does he think he's fooling? Chief Lucia wouldn't be taken in by that 'milady' stuff, but Ruth... She closed her eyes as the fall water sloshed onto her face. Feet planted firmly in the silt, she stood up and started scrubbing the root, working it into lather that she rubbed into her hair. Her scalp itched; it would be good to get the week's worth of dust out of her hair.

When her skin had been so scrubbed it was nearly raw and no soap remained, she waded out of the water and stretched out on a mostly rock-free patch of ground to dry.

She must have dozed off; a shadow falling across her body and blocking the light was instantly noticeable. Opening one eye, she squinted up, and vaguely made out the shape of knees in baggy pants.

"... oh. Hi, Hugo."

He squatted down beside her and grinned. "Hey. You ready to go hunting, or do you want to nap some more?"

Aila hauled herself upright and nudged him in the ribs. "I wasn't napping, I was just drying up." Casting around for her clothes, she locates them by feel and tugged her shirt over her head. "Hand me my pants?"

The Hugo of a few years ago would have put them on her head or something; now, he just handed them over with a sheepish grin and sat quietly while she tugged them on. "Thanks. What do you want to hunt?"

"Well, if you wanted to show off that bow of yours, how about grouse? The sharp-tails are all out this season, and Hubert likes chasing them."

"Sounds good. Let's go."

---

By the time they returned to the village, the sun was directly overhead. Hugo took off to find Lucia, leaving Aila with a brace of plucked grouse and nothing to do.

Ruth was outside her house, pounding flour. Holding the birds out as a peace-offering, Aila crept up beside her.

"Hugo and I went hunting; would you like these?"

Ruth smiled as she looked up, reached for the birds with one flour-covered hand, then thought the better of it. "Spirits bless you, yes! Thank you. I was wondering what else to make for dinner..." She got up and dusted her hands off on her skirt, then tucked the flour bowl under one arm. "Come on inside, I think I have enough now..."

Aila followed, looking around for somewhere to put her kills. "Um, do you want me to debone these?"

Ruth indicated a high, broad wood table with a draining groove that ran it's length, then emptied out over a tin bucket, neither of which Aila remembered from before. "If you wouldn't mind... I'll make the batter. You know where the knives are."

Selecting the smallest of the boning knives, Aila got to work. She had made a point of keeping in practice in Caleria; Jacques had never managed to beat her for speed. The new block made it even quicker than usual. The wood-working wasn't familiar, and old Red, the only villager with a hand for wood, had fled to Chisha during the war and never came back.

"This is nice, Ruth. Who made it?"

"Oh, some folk in Chisha, I think; maybe some Safir refugees. I'm not sure."

"You... aren't?" Aila cleaned the knife off carefully, then glanced over her shoulder.

"Mm." With a thoughtful frown, Ruth licked batter from her fingers. "C'mere and tell me what you think of this -- and no, Borus got it for me when the last caravan came through. Do you believe, they had all this furniture tied atop their wagon?"

Biting back her instinctive reply, Aila leaned over the bowl and swiped her fingers in the batter. "Hrmm..." It was much stronger than the porridge from the morning; the taste of maize was heavy, but not overpowering. "It's good. You going to add molasses?"

Ruth licked clean another finger-full, then pursed her lips. "Yes, that's a good idea. I think I will. Get me the jug?"

Aila trotted obediently over to the cold pit dug in one corner of the floor and hauled up the cover. "Still the blue Safir one?"

"Mm-hmm. I hope it hasn't gotten too solid."

She hefted the jug and brought it back, then pulled out the cork and took a sniff. "Doesn't seem like it..."

Ruth took it with a grateful smile and poured out a large circle atop the batter, the size of a Zexen double-stag coin. Stirring it in with a spoon, she didn't say anything. Aila found herself shifting from foot to foot and studying the new rug beneath her.

"I'm really sorry about last night. I don't-- whatever I think, he was your guest. So, I'm sorry."

"It's all right, dear. It's my fault for not telling you. S'pose I've gotten so used to Borus I'd forgotten."

The words were out before Aila could bite her tongue.

"Forget what? That he killed half the village?"

Ruth looked up, gaze steady, then closed her eyes and shook her head. "Not that. Never that. Don't think I forget the ones we've lost for a moment, Aila."

"I'm sorry, I-- I didn't mean it like that."

After a moment, Ruth finally spoke again. "I'd forgotten how hard it was to let go my anger." She waggled the spoon under Aila's chin. "Here, better now?"

"You? Angry?" The batter was a bit sweeter, but... "Could use a bit more."

This time, Ruth poured a thin trail of syrup around the bowl in a slow spiral. "Yes, me. I get angry, sometimes."

"What stopped you?"

That drew a long sigh from Ruth, before she set back to stirring. "I was just so tired. Anger's not a weight I carry well. It wears a person, and it doesn't give anything back. Sorrow I can bear; it gives you sympathy and compassion, but anger -- it just takes."

"I... I hadn't of it that way."

"You're young, dear. Of course you didn't." Ruth handed her the bowl and looked her straight in the eye. "He'll be at dinner. And you're not going to run off with Hugo."

Aila closed her eyes, then nodded. "All right. Okay."

"Good. Now get to stirring, my hands are tired."

---

Ruth had some mercy; Aila and Borus were seated at separate (but not quite opposite) ends of the table. The blond knight didn't speak much, only quietly responding when he was called upon to resolve disputes over Zexen trade policy and political procedure. Warm gold-brown eyes tracked the conversation from speaker to speaker; he'd mastered the trick of eating without looking at his plate, and seemed intent on keeping up with what was being said.

At one point, she called out for the duck sauce, then noticed abruptly it was in his hands. He started to lean across the table, stopped himself, and handed the jar off to be passed around to her.

Other than that, dinner was entirely uneventful, until just before desert. Standing up and grinning broadly, Hugo fished out a stoppered vial of-- grouse eyeballs?

"In honor of our noble guest -- here, Sir Borus. The eyes of a good kill bring wisdom and foresight." He plonked the vessel down in front of the knight. "For you. Dig in."

Aila boggled, and Beecham nudged her with an elbow and winked, mouthing the words "it's a tradition!". She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Borus eyed the vial warily, then swallowed and picked it up, holding it arms length. "I, uh... thank you. Er, Sergeant, didn't you say eyeballs were supposed to bring -- ah, virility?"

"Kwa kwa kwa!" Joe slapped Borus on the back with a wing. "That's frog eyeballs, boy!"

"Besides," piped up Hugo, "the Sergeant's from Duck village. Totally different tradition."

After that, she felt much better.

Even staying back to wash dishes with him wasn't so bad. Ruth had told Borus he didn't need to help with Aila there, but he protested and got into a very polite argument with her. Finally, she commanded they could both do the dishes while she rested her feet.

Elbow-deep in soapy water, Borus managed to avoid looking at her, just handed her dishes to dry without speaking.

The urge to heckle him proved too great. "You know, that's not really a Karaya tradition." You idiot.

He held out a plate, then swallowed. "Ah, yes. Actually. I did know."

"... you did?"

He suddenly became quite intent on scrubbing out the last bowl. "... Percival and I used to do that kind of thing to Roland."

"You did?"

"It was Percival's idea. But, yes."

Aila snorted. "Hrmph. I don't know whether raise my opinion of you, or call you a jerk."

Glancing up, he frowned, then got a painstakingly solemn look on his face. "It was unchivalrous of me."

"... maybe not jerk. Pompous jerk covers it."

He nodded, expression still deathly grave. "That, too. 'Pompous git' is Percival's favorite." Holding out the bowl, he coughed. "That and 'foul tudge'."

"Hrmph." She did a half-assed job drying the bowl, stacked it atop the rest, and stalked off to find Ruth.

w00t! This is becoming even more fun to write. And, looky looky, Aila talks about soda! See, I listen to my reviews. *cough* In case you were wondering/didn't realize, Karayan cuisine == Navajo/Dineh food, basically. Yes, I am insane. And the Calerians are kind of North African/Morrocan.

If you're wondering what the fuck is up with Borus' scars, I won't tell you, because it's a spoiler! ... however, if you think you know, I'd be curious to hear people's opinions. My Borus characterization is largely ripped off from inspired by Mooncalf (http://www.mooncalf.org); however, if it sucks, it's all her my fault.

I think I'll take a break after this chapter and write Albert/Caesar porn instead. Or maybe Zexen Christmas fic. I dunno. Somethin'.