Title: We Could Be Heroes

Fandom: Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light, by Tanya Huff

Fanfic Author: Scylla the Healer

Started: July 21, 2003

Finished: December 24, 2003

Chapters: 8

Rating: PG-13 for adult content, language, and some violence

Summary: Continuation of the book, seven years after the end of GoDCoL. The unicorns are in danger, and when Roland and Evan are charged with the duty of saving them, hell almost literally breaks loose in Central Park. Written as a long-awaited Christmas gift for my good friend D_V, found here as skitz_phenom. This is how we wanted the book to end the first time. ^_^

Disclaimer: I wouldn't deign to claim Roland and Evan, Rebecca, Daru, Mrs. Ruth, and any of the concepts of Light and Dark. However, Sam's my original character, as is Pasha and the concept of unicorns, since they weren't discussed in the books. I hope this concept meets your approval, Huff fans!

Roland squinted at the morning sunlight, grunted, and flung a forearm across his eyes. Another day. Didn't I just finish one…?

He had. Five hours ago. But when Ease called, there was no stemming the inevitable response. The harp almost literally held him captive on the University grounds from dusk to the beginnings of false dawn.

Ease. I should have named you Insomnia, he thought at the lady in question, now resting comfortably in her new felt-lined case. An F-sharp plucked teasingly, answered by a soft, strumming C-chord chuckle from Patience beside her.

"Great. Even the instruments are against me. Well…there's always the pawn shop, you know. And I'm not making empty threats."

He was, and they knew it. But nevertheless, his tone brooked no argument, musical or otherwise. The harp and the guitar fell silent. Despite himself, he felt a little lonely for their voices in the otherwise quiet apartment. For distraction, he swung his feet to the floor, and yanked his dragging body forcibly out of bed.

Milk for the littles. Right. Blinking blearily at the brilliant and unwelcome glare of the sun, Roland staggered his way to the kitchen for the carton of milk. Even though he couldn't stand milk…never could, really…he kept buying it. And putting out the little bowl on the balcony every morning, after the first saucer had flipped out the window and shattered.

I promised Rebecca. To the eyes of most people, the milk just slowly evaporated over the morning, afternoon, and was gone in the evening. Roland – and occasionally Daru – saw the not-squirrels and the pixies and the tiny little men and women with tiny little opposable thumbs that came to drink.

He'd been wrong. They were much better than cockroaches. Cockroaches didn't clean your apartment. And no maid he'd ever known would consider cleaning an apartment for a bowl of milk in the morning.

Rebecca. Bare feet were already beginning to cook on the concrete patio. He nudged the shallow, yellow china dish under the shading branches of an ornamental orange tree that held court among the other plants – a gift. From Rebecca. She didn't forget me, after all.

Neither did Evan. The heavy, coiled torc that lay on his headboard attested that. Finework…an arc of braided filament-thin silver wires cradling sapphire-blue beads. The finest thing he owned. Nestled lovingly around a fortune cookie and waiting for him on the kitchen counter, one day after the pair of them abandoned him for the Light. No…not abandoned…they didn't have much of a choice, after all.

He wondered if they truly thought that music was all he needed, as a Bard. Seven years had passed. He was well into his thirties now…a full Bard, with all the critical acclaim that went with that. Thankfully, there were no more black-clad elven princesses to lure him to their beds as payment for the beautiful music that Ease and Patience poured into his hands.

But music – unlike the silly tales that Bards sang at themselves and one another in an attempt to assuage long-nursed grievings – was not enough.

There were no women at all, strangely enough, after the tangle with the Dark Adept. And no men – but that was an anomaly, which he didn't consider.

Much.

Evan was different. He would have been worth the fight. Hell, he still is.

The sun's warmth became a benediction, rather than a glaring reminder of his late night with the precocious harp in his lap. Blue-gray eyes closed, turning to let the full effect beat upon his eyelids. His ears caught the furtive rustling of littles coming to take the offering left to them, and he eavesdropped shamelessly. This place is perfect. Thank the willing Daru…maiden-warrior aspect…whatever… for the ease with which she processed the paperwork to settle Rebecca's apartment in his name.

He liked it better than anywhere else he'd stayed, and certainly it was an improvement over Uncle Tony's basement. Though it seemed empty without Rebecca. And without a certain Adept of the Light? The niggling voice at the back of his mind prodded. Sighing, Roland conceded to it, and shoved it away before it could snicker at him like the pixies that perched among the orange shrub's squat and leafy branches. Seven years, and it still felt just on the painful side of empty. Sighing again, he turned and tugged the patio door open again, and hand on the doorknob, he supposed it always would feel that way.

The insistent scratch at the patio door four hours later promised that he was right…and forever wrong.

Was it one of the littles...? What could possibly want into his apartment that truly needed to ask?

He should have known that something was wrong when the visitor did not knock…and that the scritching, scrabbling sound of nails on painted metal was far too low for even a child. The door swung inward, and a pair of amber eyes gazed up knowingly from a lumpy, bony bundle of white fur puddled on the concrete.

"What're you doing here? You're at the wrong apartment, kitty."

She – it was obviously a female's manner – made no fuss of introductions as her lithe, long-limbed form sorted itself out, sauntered between his shocked legs and thudded into the cushions of the couch.

Maiden, Mother, and Crone…not another cat.

"Can I help you…?" The Bard asked slowly, turning to regard the pale elfin face as the cat washed a dainty forepaw and coolly returned his gaze.

"Is there something I can do for you?" he tried again.

On she washed, giving the paw a delicate shake before switching to the other.

Cats. I'm wasting my time. She's just strange…not smart, like Tom was. He approached her stealthily, hands at the ready to scoop up her midsection and relocate the animal to the hall. As though she'd sensed his intentions, the snowy, triangular ears snapped to attention and the yellow-orange gaze turned icy. Shoulders hunched. Tail twitched malevolently.

"Look," he harrumphed, backing off a step or two, "it's nothing personal. I just don't like cats. You're not helping." Coffee was more appealing than negotiating with an uncooperative feline. He turned for the kitchen again. The cat chirruped at him and followed.

He tugged out a box of pizza from the previous afternoon. Canadian bacon and pineapple. Evan's influence again…after encountering the Adept, Roland found himself trying things simply for their own sake. Eating had and now always would have more sensuous joy after watching the Adept savor his meals.

The cat watched him digging into the cheese of his first slice…she licked her lips slowly. Calculating.

For all your species supposedly has independence coming out the ass, you make excellent beggars. "No," he told her firmly, and tugged a slice of meat free to chew. The cat shot him a disgusted look, and leapt from floor to counter in a single fluid bound. Whereupon she was nearly on top of the remaining pizza before he caught her.

"Come on…you're a cat. If you're that hungry, go catch something." Then he realized what he was saying, and mentally winced. Cats were like Adepts and Bards, and some very special 'normal' people. They could See.

He'd rather not have a Seeing cat out hunting his balcony. Not with all the littles. As though she'd caught the drift, the cat glared with disdain, and continued to stalk the pizza.

"Oh, here." Relenting, he picked loose another bit of meat and tossed it to her. And another. A bowl of milk followed that. Filled at last, she returned to her pose of sleek, nonchalant whiteness on the sofa.

Having nothing better to do, Roland joined her. "I'd appreciate an explanation." He made a half-bow in deference, "Such as you can offer, of course."

She said nothing, but her silence was nearly apologetic. In a heartbeat or two, however, a small, snuffling voice spoke from nowhere, startling the Bard nearly out of all wit.

"Excuse me," it tinkled, halfway between a sneeze and a tinny radio, "but Pasha can offer little in the way of explanation. I, on the other hand, can answer any question you might have."

"Who…what…?" Roland's gaze darted across the cat's furry back, at the cushions, at the door, even at the windows, which were fastened closed. "Where are you?"

"I am Sam, and that is Pasha. I am a Greebo, and she is a cat. I am not here yet, and she is sitting on your couch."

It took the Bard a moment to decipher that all of his reflexive questions had been answered at once. He shook his head in bemusement – this looked to be an interesting meeting.

"When are you going to be here?" He asked. Suddenly, there was a muffled pop, and a clatter of tiny finger-cymbals, and a furry ball slipped into a midair existence above the last unoccupied cushion on the couch…and landed with a disgruntled curse.

"Now," The furball answered, and uncoiled itself. Nothing had ever looked so like and yet so unlike an opossum – a long, flexible snout attached to a head the size and roundness of a ping pong ball, with tiny ears that seemed no more than bits of pink tissue paper rolled in at the corners and glued to his head. Red fur covered all three inches of his rotund little body, but for bald, bubble-gum pink lion-pad feet, and white circles scribed about each bilious green pebble-eye. A Greebo.

Hideous and sickeningly cute at once. The bright, opaque little gaze looked him up and down appraisingly, and the snout twitched from side to side as thin filament whiskers flickered to and fro. "You are the Bard Roland, are you not?"

The voice belonged to Sam, unmistakably. It sounded suspiciously as though he were whistling the whole of his question through his enormous, extraordinary snout. Roland's eyes widened. "I am."

"Good then," the ruddy little creature replied brusquely, "that shall save us much trouble. I am an emissary of the unicorns."

"Unicorns?" Roland recoiled at the matter-of-fact way in which Sam mouthed the word of an infamous fantasy creature, and chuckled at himself immediately afterward. Here he sat, faced with an 'emissary' somewhere between a lemur and a lemming, with opossum and speech thrown in for zest. On his left was a pure white cat with uncanny amber eyes and an expectant look upon her face that shouldn't be there, by any stretch of imagination.

And I'm shocked at the word 'unicorn?' I should just consider myself lucky he didn't mention dragons.

"Yes, unicorns," the Greebo snapped impatiently. "Years and years and years ago, they were invited into the world of gray by you humans, and they have flourished here. Until recently."

The cat by his side – Pasha – suddenly looked for all the world as if she were fighting tears. And at last, one single fat saline drop soaked into the fur at the corner of each almond-shaped amber eye. Unfazed, Sam continued on.

"Now, humans turned to the Dark are hunting them, as they did in your Medieval times, when the unicorns dared walk openly among the mortals. We have found four bodies so far…one of them a mare in foal. This must stop, before all of these creatures – and the Balancing force that they bring to your world with their Light – are wiped out completely."

At the mention of 'turned to the Dark,' Roland's eyes and ears were riveted on the snuffling, puffing Greebo. "An Adept…?"

"Hardly," Sam snorted, "An Adept is entirely too limited in his ways and means to pass through the barriers. It would have taken a powerful invitation to the Dark to bring one through. More likely some virtually powerless demon with a little more ambition than most. Easily stopped. But," One lion's paw was held up, the first of the four digits waved in warning, "you will need help."

Good. Because I've never tried to stop a demon, harmless or not. I'm not sure I can.

"You'll need to call an Adept of the Light."

And everything, everywhere ground to a screeching halt at the power of those four words. Adept of the Light…

"An Adept…?" Roland squeaked lamely, in a voice that he didn't remotely recognize as his. Did he dare hope? Then again…did he even want to hope for that…? "Isn't that going a bit overboard?"

"We know your music can win over that which the Dark has claimed, and much more easily than any Adept could ever dream. But Adepts handle the purest forms of Dark – and a demon is something given life and breath by the shadows and unfiltered evil. That is what makes them so pathetically weak. Their motives are always driven by entirely selfish needs. They cannot be turned from the Dark, because they are the Dark. You could never hope to defeat one yourself."

Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. "How do I go about summoning an Adept of the Light?"

"You can communicate with the dead, if you try hard enough, and ask a phantom to carry your message. You have done so before, have you not?" Sam was growing increasingly nervous with each passing moment, and now, his nose and the long, luxuriant tassel of his tail flipped back and forth in exaggerated nervous twitches. "Contact Ivan. He will probably be the most kindly disposed to you. And Pasha will help you."

"Pasha…?" Roland found himself repeating the Greebo's words once again, and winced. He wasn't usually this verbally vibrant. It must be nerves. Added into the concept of perhaps seeing Evan once again. Could he request a particular Adept? Or would Ivan simply go and fetch him the most convenient one? Or…would Ivan be agreeable to cooperate at all?

"Yes, Pasha." Sam affirmed, and skittered across Roland's lap to the white cat perched regally beside the Bard's faded denim-clad thigh. "Pasha, a guardian. A near cousin of your Tom, and just as well-trained."

"But she's just a cat…"

Pasha looked affronted, and Roland immediately felt a wave of shame. "Sorry," he murmured, "I'm still getting used to all of this."

Sam made a tutting noise of displeasure, and after a few moments' muttered council with the cat, he tucked himself into a red, furry ball, and popped his way out of existence.

Roland and the cat observed one another in silence. Eventually, the man felt obligated to break it. "Well…" he began a trifle uncomfortably.

A blur of white flipped from the sofa and solidified upon the lovelorn guitar case.

"Shouldn't we wait until tonight? It's hot out there!"

Pasha watched him expectantly, unmoving.

"I mean…last time I did it was at midnight…"

She sat.

"Really, a few more hours won't hurt, you know…"

She glared.

Roland sighed. "All right, you win." He stalked back to the bedroom alcove to change. On an afterthought, Evan's necklace was snatched from his bedside table and wrapped about his throat. He settled Ease against his shoulder blades, and soon the plastic handle of Patience's guitar case was in his hand. He paused on his way out, one hand on the doorknob, and turned back to look for Pasha. She was poised attentively on the couch once more, forepaws primly together, whipcord tail curled about her feet. Her clean white fur made an impressive splash of Light in the otherwise shadowy room.

"Are you coming?"

She was at his side in a flash.