Enter Author (grovelling on stomach and holding pages of writing above her head) : Oh God! Forgive me! I am sooo sorry peoples, I bring these pages as an offering to beg for your forgiveness! I don't know why I ever left you! I don't even have a good excuse! wails Sorry! Sorry!
African Times
The assassin's leader was called Hunter amongst his team. No one knew where the name had come from, or what his real name was. That was the way with assassins, nobody new who anybody else really was or who they were.
The assassins were not racist, biased, emotional, compassionate. They were not allowed to be. They were educated on almost every culture so as to be able to blend in with crowds in foreign countries. Despite the extensive training, not many knew the ways of the African Shaman.
Hunter did.
Which was why he was currently kneeling in front of a fire, with the Head Shaman of the tribe placed on the other side. Hunter's head was bowed, but his eyes never left the man before him. His hands were placed spread on the ground beside him, but the knives hidden up his sleeves were ready to spring free at any moment.
After the appropriate amount of time, the assassin looked up. "Mahan." He began, using the formal title for an unintroduced man of status. "I am called Hunter." The giving of a name before another was a sign of respect. "I seek a man and a child who recently passed this way. Can you help me?"
The Shaman looked up for the first time, face almost hidden by the dancing flames between them. "The Gypsies help no one."
Hunter had been expecting this, in fact, he would have been extremely suprised if the the Shaman had not refused him. "Of course." Hunter said demurely, "But it would not be help, for we offer an exchange."
The Shaman's face was carefully blank, "What can assassins have that Gypsies would ever value?" There was no derision or mocking in his voice, nor was there curiosity.
"Safe passage across the sea."
There was a long pause, the seas around Africa were wraught with dangers, the pirates preyed on ships leaving African soil in hopes of reaping the magical riches found in the country. The Gypsies would, every so often, travel by ship to another part of their land; there were often deaths on such voyages.
"What exactly is it that you wish?" The Shaman's voice was low and questioning, his blind eyes fixed on the flickering flames.
Hunter smiled inwardly to himself, "A man and a child. The man murdered the child's parents and kidnapped the child."
The Shaman was silent for a long time, as if turning this information over in his mind.
"And what do assassins care about a murderer and kidnapper for?"
The irony was not lost on Hunter, he allowed a small smirk to lift the corners of his mouth, "If the money is good enough, then we may care."
"No, not you. You do not care for much, do you, assassin?"
"No, not much." Hunter agreed. If the Shaman wanted to milk him for information, he'd play along, for as long as it suited him for.
"Who are you doing your hunting for?"
"Not anyone who cares to be named." Hunter teasingly dropped that word into the sentence. -Care.-
"What would you say, Hunter, if I said that I have not seen your murderer or child?"
"I would say that you are trying to trick me, for you are clearly blind." Hunter retorted carefully.
A small smile graced the Shaman's lips, "And if I said I have not heard, felt or knew of this murderer?"
Hunter sensed the truth of the man's words.
"Then I would say that I will take my leave and meet you on the southern coast for my end of the bargain."
The Shaman nodded.
Hunter bowed slightly, then backed away.
The Shaman was silent for a long time after the assassins left.
The young man had contacted him through the fire and said that the man was innocent about halfway through the conversation. He had not lied, for he had not met a murderer if this was true.
Finally, the Shaman lifted himself to his feet, and carried himself back to his wagon.
ONE YEAR LATER
Sirius looked up sharply as he heard a child's yell, he had been sitting at a fire with Kiima, a woman about his own age, learning how to play a complicated tattoo on the drum. He smiled and relaxed as he watched Harry run past, pursued by the two six-year old twins he had made fast friends with.
Sirius had never been able to completely let down his guard throughout the year they had been with the gypsies, half-expecting the assassins to come back when he least expected it, but for now he relaxed into a smile, watching Harry mock-fighting with the boy twin, Hukai.
He turned back to Kiima, and she flashed him a laughing smile. Funny how she never had to use words to convey her thoughts, Sirius noted, as he smiled charmingly back, all that was needed was one of her looks. She was a passionate lover, and had accepted him as he was, with his insecurities, mourning and all.
He turned back to his drum; music and dance were a huge part of the Gypsy's culture, they grew up surrounded by rhythm and free movement, and so almost every night at camp was filled with the beats of drums and feet on the hard earthen ground.
Harry tripped and fell on top of Hukai, laughing breathlessly as he began to tickle his friend mercilessly. Shimah, Hukai's twin, screamed. "PILE-UP!" A phrase she had learnt off Harry, and jumped on top of the two boys.
"Aarggh!" Harry grunted.
"Geroff!" Hukai choked, fingers scrabbling at his throat.
Harry grinned and flipped Shimah off him, a trick he had learnt from Yeriah, the fighting instructor - the gypsies trained almost everyday - and crawled backwards off his friend.
"Oh, you wuss!" He said in the gypsy's native language, swiping a hand across his brow.
"Your accent is getting better, you know." Shimah said thoughtfully.
Harry grasped the words 'accent', 'better' and 'know' and grinned at Shimah, grasping her meaning.
"Thanks, I -" He was cut off as Hukai tackled him from behind, yelling inarticulately.
TWO YEARS LATER
Kick. Spin. Shift. Knee. Kick. Block. Step. Punch. Shift. Balance. Slice. Sidestep. Kick. Punch. Punch. Roundhouse. Flip. Kick. Slide. Duck. Punch. Pause.
Harry finished the long dance of attack and defense patterns and flipped his long dark hair out of his eyes and looked hopefully up at his instructor, green eyes blazing with adrenaline.
Yeriah smiled slightly, his short, muscular body planted in a wide stance with his feet on his hips. "That was a difficult sequence, young Harry, you ... did well."
Harry's young, seven-year old face practically glowed, "Really?" He asked breathlessly.
Yeriah suppressed a smile and nodded solemnly, "Really." He said indifferently.
Harry whooped and punched the air with his fist, running at Sirius, who had been watching Harry's skill test carefully. The man's face broke into a grin that rivalled Harry's and he lifted the lean boy into his arms, twirling him around in the air before hugging him tightly.
"Nothing to be surprised about, really." He said gruffly, holding his Godson with pride, "You have been training for three years twice as much as the other kids to catch up. I was about to go to the law about child labour laws."
"Pa'foo." Harry laughed, struggling out of his arms, "You wouldn't do that! Your face is much too handsome for them to forget it so quickly!"
Sirius was torn between exasperation and amusement. Harry had never learnt, or just plain refused to say Sirius' nickname correctly, and was learning how to flatter his superiors far too young for Sirius' comfort.
"So I guess this means you can start learning how to fight with daggers now, eh?" Sirius asked rhetorically, eyeing Harry carefully.
The boy was heavily tanned, and wearing a loincloth, something Sirius had been rather skeptical about at first, but realized that all the other children wore them during training, and often wore them during hot days, running between the trail of moving wagons, darting into living-wagons and the working-wagons as if they owned the place.
"Harry! HARRY!" Harry flashed Sirius a quick grin before he turned and ran towards the other children who had gathered around the children's free wagon, waiting for Harry's result, too afraid of distracting Harry to watch him from the boundaries of the temporarily set field.
Harry grinned and ran off, long, messy hair flying behind him, almost in dreadlocks.
"He really is something" Murmured Kiima, coming to stand beside Sirius, leaning against him, the man felt his pulse quicken slightly.
True to tradition, Kiima had never worn a cover over her upper half, only beaded tattoos adorned her skin and she wore a intricately woven skirt which fell to her ankles, for it was a cool day. Her long dark hair had small rat-tail plaits through her hair, with feathers and colored stones woven through it.
Sirius slid an arm around her bare shoulders, pulling her closer, "Yes." He agreed softly, "So young, so alive, so much like Ja - " He broke off, unable to continue.
"Shhh." Kiima whispered, placing a long, dark finger across his lips. "Harry is here, and so are you. Dwell not in the past, but in the now." She smiled softly at him, her black-brown eyes meeting his dark blue ones.
A cold wind ruffled his black hair, and lifted hers off her neck. She took his hand and lead him to her wagon, lighting a candle as she entered. She pushed him gently onto the bed and lay down beside him, head nestled into his shoulder.
He was did not move for a long time, and Kiima waited, eyes closed as she breathed in his scent.
Finally he raised himself onto his elbow, looking down at her. She had never borne a child for all the time she had been with him, and she hurt sorely at this, and late at nights he would hear her crying softly, not wanting to wake him. Other nights, when she thought he was asleep, she would slip out of his warm embrace and leave the wagon.
He suspected there was more to her sadness than her inability to bear children, but let her have her space, her privacy was precious to her and he knew almost nothing of her past.
The wind outside picked up and howled around the wagon, making it rock oh-so-slightly. Involuntarily, Kiima shivered and snuggled closer to Sirius.
He ran a hand through her hair and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Her lips curved up into a smile as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a passionate embrace.
He would not stay forever, and they both knew that.
They would not let it get in the way of their lovemaking.
ONE YEAR LATER
Harry's skin prickled and he sat up, rubbing his eyes. On the night that he had past his first skills test, the head Shaman had repaired his eyesight as a reward. His emerald eyes glittered strangely in the starlight as he frowned, trying to figure out what had awoken him.
There!
A slight sound, the scuffle of earth against a shoe, a muffled curse. The dark-haired boy's eyes widened, no Gypsy swore in that way. As silently as he could, he crawled over to the twin's beds, which were, rather thoughtlessly, placed side by side, allowing free bickering to occur during more normal nights.
He quietly woke them up, and mouthed a single word.
Intruders.
He motioned for the suddenly wary children to follow him and he carefully eased open the low wooden door a crack, peering about in the night. The moon was new and there was barely any light at all. Nevertheless, Harry saw a two figures emerging from between the two wagons in front and slightly to the left of their own.
Sirius had told him in, perhaps parnoia, what to look for in an assassin. A stealthy walk, a certain stance, a just-so look in their faces of deadly indifference.
If Harry was right, he was looking straight at two assassins, possibly the ones who had been hunting him and Sirius years before. He was still young, but not so young anymore to think of the hunt as a game that would eventually end in laughter. He knew that if these men found Padfoot, bad things would happen.
He slid silently out of the door, stepping down into the shadow cast by the wagon. Hukai and Shimah followed him just as quietly. He crept around the corner, Padfoot would probably be in Kiima's wagon. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, in bed and - yeuch! He shook his head, dispelling those thoughts, and resumed his earlier thought. Kiima's wagon was two ahead of the children's one.
Kiima looked sadly out the window of her wagon, into the darkened night sky, then back at the man lying beside her, his hair spread out around his head like a piece of the velvet of the sky itself torn out. She traced a finger down his cheek, feeling the stubble that had begun to grow grazing her finger.
She looked up suddenly as she heard the door to her wagon open stealthily. She sat up, sheet falling down to her bare waist and reached out for the pair of daggers she kept on her bedside table. She didn't know why, it was just a feeling.
The door creaked open wider and Sirius stirred, just as three figures walked silently into the wagon.
(A/N I was going to leave it here, but I thought I needed to write a heap more to earn forgiveness, so ... )
"Harry?" She gasped, recognizing the boy's face and beginning to lower her weapons, "Mother Of Earth and Sea! I almost died of shock."
The young boy with laughing eyes looked unusually nervous, "You might want to keep those handy." He said, pointing with one hand.
She took a few moments to realize what he was talking about.
Her daggers.
"Harry ... What?" She asked faintly, grasping the hilts of her daggers tightly.
"Assassins." Hukai said grimly.
Kiima's eyes widened, just as Sirius's opened.
"What's going on ... Harry?!"
"Assassins." Kiima whispered urgently.
The blood drained from Sirius's face. "Kiima." He paused, "We must leave, I - "
She broke him off as she often did, by laying a finger across his lips. "Then go." She whispered, softly kissing him, then drawing back.
Her lover's eyes were full of confused emotions, fear, apprehension, loss, hate ... Heavens, was that - ?
Her thought broke off as Sirius roughly pulled her closer to him, his lips meeting hers in a furious, passionate kiss. When he finally broke away, she had to hold onto him to keep herself form falling.
"Sirius?" She breathed.
"I'll miss you ... love." He whispered brusquely, and fled the wagon, Harry in tow, who had just brought his hand down form covering his eyes.
-How did they find us? Why did they come back? How will we get away? What if they catch us? What will happen to Harry? Oh Gods, Kiima...-
With a rough shake of his head, Sirius realized tears were falling freely down his cheeks. He cursed himself and looked back at Harry, whose hand was tightly clutched in his as he maneuvered them away from the caravan. He couldn't cry in front Harry, not now ... Harry was crying.
Harry never cried. Not since ... -Oh gods-. Not since Mali.
Not again.
Harry'd lost his parents that he'd never known.
Lost his best friend, abandoning her as she lay bleeding.
Left his new culture to the mercy of assassins looking for them.
And the tears flowed freely from Sirius's eyes as he ran, the dark night enveloping the pair as they ran through their sorrow.
Finally, they were far enough away to escape the apparition tracing equipment. With a last fearful look in the direction from which they had come, Sirius disapparated.
The ten assassins stalked the barrier set before them, circling the magical shield like cats prowling, hunting for prey. Hunter stood in front of the Head Shaman, who had enclosed his people in a magical wall drawn from the earth. The Shaman stood with his feet in a wide stance, arms spread wide with his fingers slightly crooked, eyes closed.
The children huddled in the middle of the circle, with the adults, women and men, standing guard around them, bristling with sharp daggers and spears.
Hunter's amber eyes snapped angrily, "Four years." He stated clearly, voice ringing out across the group and out across the open savannah.
"Four years." He repeated. "We have hunted for this man and child, never once faltering, never once giving up. And now." His voice softened, "Now I find that they have been here, here, where our search first began."
Years of false leads and cold trails, of lies and deceit. Four years of his life.
Four years of his men's lives.
Some of them had been planning to retire after that job, the pay-off was amazing. But four years of their lives. Four years.
Wasted.
He had decided to research further on Shamans. Discovered that they could communicate through fire. Realized that the entire conversation he'd had with the Shaman, the old man had been focusing on the fire. It was nothing more than a hunch. But a hunch was the best lead they'd had.
"Where have they gone?" He demanded.
"I know not." The Shaman said, never moving, his voice low and controlled. "But if you wish to live, you will leave."
The wind howled through the long grass ominously, as if timed to do so.
"Tell me!"
"Leave!"
"Never!"
"Leave!"
The Shaman's voice thundered out on the last word, and out of nowhere, rain clouds gathered, lightening flashing to the ground dangerously close to the black cloaked killers.
"I'll be back." Hunter whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
-I swear it.-
Ducks tomatoes still being thrown at her by angry readers who can't believe she stopped writing.
How was that? I can't apologize enough for leaving this story, sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry!
Please review, I know I don't deserve it, but please, just a word or two?
Flinches apprehensively
African Times
The assassin's leader was called Hunter amongst his team. No one knew where the name had come from, or what his real name was. That was the way with assassins, nobody new who anybody else really was or who they were.
The assassins were not racist, biased, emotional, compassionate. They were not allowed to be. They were educated on almost every culture so as to be able to blend in with crowds in foreign countries. Despite the extensive training, not many knew the ways of the African Shaman.
Hunter did.
Which was why he was currently kneeling in front of a fire, with the Head Shaman of the tribe placed on the other side. Hunter's head was bowed, but his eyes never left the man before him. His hands were placed spread on the ground beside him, but the knives hidden up his sleeves were ready to spring free at any moment.
After the appropriate amount of time, the assassin looked up. "Mahan." He began, using the formal title for an unintroduced man of status. "I am called Hunter." The giving of a name before another was a sign of respect. "I seek a man and a child who recently passed this way. Can you help me?"
The Shaman looked up for the first time, face almost hidden by the dancing flames between them. "The Gypsies help no one."
Hunter had been expecting this, in fact, he would have been extremely suprised if the the Shaman had not refused him. "Of course." Hunter said demurely, "But it would not be help, for we offer an exchange."
The Shaman's face was carefully blank, "What can assassins have that Gypsies would ever value?" There was no derision or mocking in his voice, nor was there curiosity.
"Safe passage across the sea."
There was a long pause, the seas around Africa were wraught with dangers, the pirates preyed on ships leaving African soil in hopes of reaping the magical riches found in the country. The Gypsies would, every so often, travel by ship to another part of their land; there were often deaths on such voyages.
"What exactly is it that you wish?" The Shaman's voice was low and questioning, his blind eyes fixed on the flickering flames.
Hunter smiled inwardly to himself, "A man and a child. The man murdered the child's parents and kidnapped the child."
The Shaman was silent for a long time, as if turning this information over in his mind.
"And what do assassins care about a murderer and kidnapper for?"
The irony was not lost on Hunter, he allowed a small smirk to lift the corners of his mouth, "If the money is good enough, then we may care."
"No, not you. You do not care for much, do you, assassin?"
"No, not much." Hunter agreed. If the Shaman wanted to milk him for information, he'd play along, for as long as it suited him for.
"Who are you doing your hunting for?"
"Not anyone who cares to be named." Hunter teasingly dropped that word into the sentence. -Care.-
"What would you say, Hunter, if I said that I have not seen your murderer or child?"
"I would say that you are trying to trick me, for you are clearly blind." Hunter retorted carefully.
A small smile graced the Shaman's lips, "And if I said I have not heard, felt or knew of this murderer?"
Hunter sensed the truth of the man's words.
"Then I would say that I will take my leave and meet you on the southern coast for my end of the bargain."
The Shaman nodded.
Hunter bowed slightly, then backed away.
The Shaman was silent for a long time after the assassins left.
The young man had contacted him through the fire and said that the man was innocent about halfway through the conversation. He had not lied, for he had not met a murderer if this was true.
Finally, the Shaman lifted himself to his feet, and carried himself back to his wagon.
ONE YEAR LATER
Sirius looked up sharply as he heard a child's yell, he had been sitting at a fire with Kiima, a woman about his own age, learning how to play a complicated tattoo on the drum. He smiled and relaxed as he watched Harry run past, pursued by the two six-year old twins he had made fast friends with.
Sirius had never been able to completely let down his guard throughout the year they had been with the gypsies, half-expecting the assassins to come back when he least expected it, but for now he relaxed into a smile, watching Harry mock-fighting with the boy twin, Hukai.
He turned back to Kiima, and she flashed him a laughing smile. Funny how she never had to use words to convey her thoughts, Sirius noted, as he smiled charmingly back, all that was needed was one of her looks. She was a passionate lover, and had accepted him as he was, with his insecurities, mourning and all.
He turned back to his drum; music and dance were a huge part of the Gypsy's culture, they grew up surrounded by rhythm and free movement, and so almost every night at camp was filled with the beats of drums and feet on the hard earthen ground.
Harry tripped and fell on top of Hukai, laughing breathlessly as he began to tickle his friend mercilessly. Shimah, Hukai's twin, screamed. "PILE-UP!" A phrase she had learnt off Harry, and jumped on top of the two boys.
"Aarggh!" Harry grunted.
"Geroff!" Hukai choked, fingers scrabbling at his throat.
Harry grinned and flipped Shimah off him, a trick he had learnt from Yeriah, the fighting instructor - the gypsies trained almost everyday - and crawled backwards off his friend.
"Oh, you wuss!" He said in the gypsy's native language, swiping a hand across his brow.
"Your accent is getting better, you know." Shimah said thoughtfully.
Harry grasped the words 'accent', 'better' and 'know' and grinned at Shimah, grasping her meaning.
"Thanks, I -" He was cut off as Hukai tackled him from behind, yelling inarticulately.
TWO YEARS LATER
Kick. Spin. Shift. Knee. Kick. Block. Step. Punch. Shift. Balance. Slice. Sidestep. Kick. Punch. Punch. Roundhouse. Flip. Kick. Slide. Duck. Punch. Pause.
Harry finished the long dance of attack and defense patterns and flipped his long dark hair out of his eyes and looked hopefully up at his instructor, green eyes blazing with adrenaline.
Yeriah smiled slightly, his short, muscular body planted in a wide stance with his feet on his hips. "That was a difficult sequence, young Harry, you ... did well."
Harry's young, seven-year old face practically glowed, "Really?" He asked breathlessly.
Yeriah suppressed a smile and nodded solemnly, "Really." He said indifferently.
Harry whooped and punched the air with his fist, running at Sirius, who had been watching Harry's skill test carefully. The man's face broke into a grin that rivalled Harry's and he lifted the lean boy into his arms, twirling him around in the air before hugging him tightly.
"Nothing to be surprised about, really." He said gruffly, holding his Godson with pride, "You have been training for three years twice as much as the other kids to catch up. I was about to go to the law about child labour laws."
"Pa'foo." Harry laughed, struggling out of his arms, "You wouldn't do that! Your face is much too handsome for them to forget it so quickly!"
Sirius was torn between exasperation and amusement. Harry had never learnt, or just plain refused to say Sirius' nickname correctly, and was learning how to flatter his superiors far too young for Sirius' comfort.
"So I guess this means you can start learning how to fight with daggers now, eh?" Sirius asked rhetorically, eyeing Harry carefully.
The boy was heavily tanned, and wearing a loincloth, something Sirius had been rather skeptical about at first, but realized that all the other children wore them during training, and often wore them during hot days, running between the trail of moving wagons, darting into living-wagons and the working-wagons as if they owned the place.
"Harry! HARRY!" Harry flashed Sirius a quick grin before he turned and ran towards the other children who had gathered around the children's free wagon, waiting for Harry's result, too afraid of distracting Harry to watch him from the boundaries of the temporarily set field.
Harry grinned and ran off, long, messy hair flying behind him, almost in dreadlocks.
"He really is something" Murmured Kiima, coming to stand beside Sirius, leaning against him, the man felt his pulse quicken slightly.
True to tradition, Kiima had never worn a cover over her upper half, only beaded tattoos adorned her skin and she wore a intricately woven skirt which fell to her ankles, for it was a cool day. Her long dark hair had small rat-tail plaits through her hair, with feathers and colored stones woven through it.
Sirius slid an arm around her bare shoulders, pulling her closer, "Yes." He agreed softly, "So young, so alive, so much like Ja - " He broke off, unable to continue.
"Shhh." Kiima whispered, placing a long, dark finger across his lips. "Harry is here, and so are you. Dwell not in the past, but in the now." She smiled softly at him, her black-brown eyes meeting his dark blue ones.
A cold wind ruffled his black hair, and lifted hers off her neck. She took his hand and lead him to her wagon, lighting a candle as she entered. She pushed him gently onto the bed and lay down beside him, head nestled into his shoulder.
He was did not move for a long time, and Kiima waited, eyes closed as she breathed in his scent.
Finally he raised himself onto his elbow, looking down at her. She had never borne a child for all the time she had been with him, and she hurt sorely at this, and late at nights he would hear her crying softly, not wanting to wake him. Other nights, when she thought he was asleep, she would slip out of his warm embrace and leave the wagon.
He suspected there was more to her sadness than her inability to bear children, but let her have her space, her privacy was precious to her and he knew almost nothing of her past.
The wind outside picked up and howled around the wagon, making it rock oh-so-slightly. Involuntarily, Kiima shivered and snuggled closer to Sirius.
He ran a hand through her hair and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Her lips curved up into a smile as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a passionate embrace.
He would not stay forever, and they both knew that.
They would not let it get in the way of their lovemaking.
ONE YEAR LATER
Harry's skin prickled and he sat up, rubbing his eyes. On the night that he had past his first skills test, the head Shaman had repaired his eyesight as a reward. His emerald eyes glittered strangely in the starlight as he frowned, trying to figure out what had awoken him.
There!
A slight sound, the scuffle of earth against a shoe, a muffled curse. The dark-haired boy's eyes widened, no Gypsy swore in that way. As silently as he could, he crawled over to the twin's beds, which were, rather thoughtlessly, placed side by side, allowing free bickering to occur during more normal nights.
He quietly woke them up, and mouthed a single word.
Intruders.
He motioned for the suddenly wary children to follow him and he carefully eased open the low wooden door a crack, peering about in the night. The moon was new and there was barely any light at all. Nevertheless, Harry saw a two figures emerging from between the two wagons in front and slightly to the left of their own.
Sirius had told him in, perhaps parnoia, what to look for in an assassin. A stealthy walk, a certain stance, a just-so look in their faces of deadly indifference.
If Harry was right, he was looking straight at two assassins, possibly the ones who had been hunting him and Sirius years before. He was still young, but not so young anymore to think of the hunt as a game that would eventually end in laughter. He knew that if these men found Padfoot, bad things would happen.
He slid silently out of the door, stepping down into the shadow cast by the wagon. Hukai and Shimah followed him just as quietly. He crept around the corner, Padfoot would probably be in Kiima's wagon. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, in bed and - yeuch! He shook his head, dispelling those thoughts, and resumed his earlier thought. Kiima's wagon was two ahead of the children's one.
Kiima looked sadly out the window of her wagon, into the darkened night sky, then back at the man lying beside her, his hair spread out around his head like a piece of the velvet of the sky itself torn out. She traced a finger down his cheek, feeling the stubble that had begun to grow grazing her finger.
She looked up suddenly as she heard the door to her wagon open stealthily. She sat up, sheet falling down to her bare waist and reached out for the pair of daggers she kept on her bedside table. She didn't know why, it was just a feeling.
The door creaked open wider and Sirius stirred, just as three figures walked silently into the wagon.
(A/N I was going to leave it here, but I thought I needed to write a heap more to earn forgiveness, so ... )
"Harry?" She gasped, recognizing the boy's face and beginning to lower her weapons, "Mother Of Earth and Sea! I almost died of shock."
The young boy with laughing eyes looked unusually nervous, "You might want to keep those handy." He said, pointing with one hand.
She took a few moments to realize what he was talking about.
Her daggers.
"Harry ... What?" She asked faintly, grasping the hilts of her daggers tightly.
"Assassins." Hukai said grimly.
Kiima's eyes widened, just as Sirius's opened.
"What's going on ... Harry?!"
"Assassins." Kiima whispered urgently.
The blood drained from Sirius's face. "Kiima." He paused, "We must leave, I - "
She broke him off as she often did, by laying a finger across his lips. "Then go." She whispered, softly kissing him, then drawing back.
Her lover's eyes were full of confused emotions, fear, apprehension, loss, hate ... Heavens, was that - ?
Her thought broke off as Sirius roughly pulled her closer to him, his lips meeting hers in a furious, passionate kiss. When he finally broke away, she had to hold onto him to keep herself form falling.
"Sirius?" She breathed.
"I'll miss you ... love." He whispered brusquely, and fled the wagon, Harry in tow, who had just brought his hand down form covering his eyes.
-How did they find us? Why did they come back? How will we get away? What if they catch us? What will happen to Harry? Oh Gods, Kiima...-
With a rough shake of his head, Sirius realized tears were falling freely down his cheeks. He cursed himself and looked back at Harry, whose hand was tightly clutched in his as he maneuvered them away from the caravan. He couldn't cry in front Harry, not now ... Harry was crying.
Harry never cried. Not since ... -Oh gods-. Not since Mali.
Not again.
Harry'd lost his parents that he'd never known.
Lost his best friend, abandoning her as she lay bleeding.
Left his new culture to the mercy of assassins looking for them.
And the tears flowed freely from Sirius's eyes as he ran, the dark night enveloping the pair as they ran through their sorrow.
Finally, they were far enough away to escape the apparition tracing equipment. With a last fearful look in the direction from which they had come, Sirius disapparated.
The ten assassins stalked the barrier set before them, circling the magical shield like cats prowling, hunting for prey. Hunter stood in front of the Head Shaman, who had enclosed his people in a magical wall drawn from the earth. The Shaman stood with his feet in a wide stance, arms spread wide with his fingers slightly crooked, eyes closed.
The children huddled in the middle of the circle, with the adults, women and men, standing guard around them, bristling with sharp daggers and spears.
Hunter's amber eyes snapped angrily, "Four years." He stated clearly, voice ringing out across the group and out across the open savannah.
"Four years." He repeated. "We have hunted for this man and child, never once faltering, never once giving up. And now." His voice softened, "Now I find that they have been here, here, where our search first began."
Years of false leads and cold trails, of lies and deceit. Four years of his life.
Four years of his men's lives.
Some of them had been planning to retire after that job, the pay-off was amazing. But four years of their lives. Four years.
Wasted.
He had decided to research further on Shamans. Discovered that they could communicate through fire. Realized that the entire conversation he'd had with the Shaman, the old man had been focusing on the fire. It was nothing more than a hunch. But a hunch was the best lead they'd had.
"Where have they gone?" He demanded.
"I know not." The Shaman said, never moving, his voice low and controlled. "But if you wish to live, you will leave."
The wind howled through the long grass ominously, as if timed to do so.
"Tell me!"
"Leave!"
"Never!"
"Leave!"
The Shaman's voice thundered out on the last word, and out of nowhere, rain clouds gathered, lightening flashing to the ground dangerously close to the black cloaked killers.
"I'll be back." Hunter whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
-I swear it.-
Ducks tomatoes still being thrown at her by angry readers who can't believe she stopped writing.
How was that? I can't apologize enough for leaving this story, sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry!
Please review, I know I don't deserve it, but please, just a word or two?
Flinches apprehensively