Boring Legal Stuff: Sonic the Hedgehog and all related characters are the property of SEGA, DIC, and Archie Comics. I did not get permission to use them, but since I'm not going to be selling this story, it's all good. Corwyn, Harley, and any other new names that may crop up in this series are mine, obviously.

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While the battle raged eternal between Doctor Robotnik's soulless mechanical forces and the small but determined pocket of resistance known as the Freedom Fighters, the people of Knothole not actively involved in the fighting tried their hardest to go about their lives. It wasn't easy, as the constant shadow of fear darkened the otherwise peaceful valley. fear that any moment they would be discovered and rooted out. Except for the Freedom Fighters, who were only six strong, very few people had any fighting ability other than what they could find near at hand to take a swing with. But life, true to its nature, went on. Most were content to live their lives in relative security, trusting in their Princess to keep them safe.

Most, but not all.

Corwyn Darkstripes, on the other hand, was far from content. He yearned every day to join the fight, to strike at the tyrant that had taken his family and those of millions, and to win back the world. But even though his ideals were strong, he was far from being able to contribute anything to the cause. He was no gifted hacker, as Tails and Rotor were, nor a brilliant tactician, like Sally and her computer, NICOLE, not even a half-way decent fighter, as were Sonic, Bunnie, and even Antoine had proven when pressed. No, he was just an artist. Good, to be sure. Some said very good. But in a world where the shadow of war cast a pall over everything, the ability to draw a picture didn't seem all that useful.

He sighed, and picked at another clump of grass. He liked to relax near the Power Ring Pool, to rest near a major site of importance in this war. Though he was nearing his twenty-third year, the younger side of him reveled in feeling that importance, if only by proxy. He shook his head. He was getting depressed by these thoughts. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants, and headed into town to pick up some supplies.

He'd been getting nowhere with his art these last few days, he thought as he picked his way through the Forest. Maybe that was why he was so down. Certainly, there was nothing sweeter than finding himself in the grip of creation, pushing himself to the end of exhaustion in order to bring his thoughts into reality. It was a kind of magic, that allowed him to make his dreams real. He smiled and nodded at a small knot of people as he passed by.

Maybe today would be different...

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"S'cuse me, Harley?"

Harley looked up at the tall grey raccoon, trying to remember where she'd seen him before. Her eyes lit up in recognition as she noticed the paint-smeared jeans and the large bag slung over his shoulder. "Corwyn! What a pleasant surprise!" She rose from where she'd been crouched over a particularly deviously-wrapped bundle, and shook his hand. "How've you been, kiddo? It's been ages!"

Corwyn chuckled, nodding to the bundle Harley had been fussing with. "Another paranoid trader?"

Harley scowled, her thin feline tail lashing back and forth. "I'm more inclined to think he's trying to stiff me. Last time I got a load like this, I ended up with furs so badly damaged they wren't even useable! Pah!" She spit in the dirt, her blue eyes narrowed. "Can't trust anyone these days." Then she smiled, eyes twinkling in anticipation. "So what can this little kitty do for you?"

Corwyn grinned. Now the fun part began. "You know, the usual. And please, could you give me real pigment this time, not that useless powdered plastic you set me up with last time!"

Harley swatted his shoulder. "You know better than I do I can't guarantee the quality. I'm just the middle-kitty." She arched an eyebrow and sighed. "I don't know why I waste good cargo space with powdered rocks, anyhow..."

At this, Corwyn let his bag fall to the floor. As he knew it would, the thump of the heavy cargo and the rattling of wood inside galvanized her attention. "'Cause I make it worth your while, you snob." He grinned. "After all, who else would feed your addiction if it weren't for me?"

Harley could take no more. With an abnormal lack of restraint, she craned her neck, peering into the bag, trying desperately to see what was inside. "Come ON, you ruthless tease!"

Laughing merrily, he opened the flap, pulling all four canvases out and laying them side by side for her to see. "All right, here you are. This season's offering."

Harley paid him no heed, dropping to her knees and peering at each painting, studying them closely. "My Goddess, Corwyn... These are incredible!" Each image was different, both in subject and style. The first was a landscape, showing a small grotto he'd found at the end of an underwater cave. He'd apparently set up a light to paint this one, as brightly glowing bands of reflected light washed over the rock walls, lending a mystical air to the cave. The second, a portrait he'd done of Julayla after he'd heard about her death. Every detail of the picture radiated kindness and patience, exactly as he'd known from his life here in Knothole. The third was unexpected fare from a Freedom Fighter, a dark and looming scene of Robotropolis, showing roboticized Mobians milling about with large, menacing SWATbots watching them, waiting for one of the mindless slaves to step out of line. Above it all, in a sky full of dark blue-grey clouds, a pair of burning red eyes stared down at its domain. But the fourth...

Harley's breath caught. "Corwyn... What is this?" She let her hand roam lightly over the canvas, her sensitive fingerpads taking in every last detail. The entire canvas had been painted the color of sandstone, and on that, built up in as many layers as he could, were almost true reliefs of a scene that could have been carved on a rock wall ages past. There was lightning striking Robotnik's Command center, which was crumbling to pieces. Below, a rough figure that was easily recognized as Princess Sally stood on a pedestal, holding aloft a Chaos Emerald that gave off rays of every conceivable color. On either side, primitive pictograms marched spiderlike in columns. Were it not signed by Corwyn, she could have believed this to be an ancient, restored work of art.

Corwyn grinned. "You like it? It just came to me to do it like that. You know me, I'm not big on ego-boosting, but I got this -- feeling. As for the writing, I cribbed that from a book I'd gotten from Sally. I didn't tell her what it was for, or she'd never have loaned it to me." He laughed. "She's about as humble as they get, you know..."

Harley nodded, still staring at the painting. "Corwyn... I think you should keep this. Put it in your personal collection. These other three, they'll more than pay for the materials, but... I wouldn't feel right taking this one." She looked up. "Has anyone else seen these?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Come on, Harley. You know you're the only one who sees why I lock myself in my house." He shifted his feet, embarassed. He'd long worried that if people knew he spent all his free time painting, he'd get chided for 'not doing something worthwhile.'

Harley stood up and frowned. "That's a damn shame, kiddo. You're good... No, not just good. There's something in you, something special. To make things like this, that's a gift, and it needs sharing." She looked down at the portrait of Julayla. "I hope this isn't the only one you did. Does Sally have the other one?"

"Er... no... I've been meaning to give her the original, but she's always busy..." He flushed deep red under his fur, tail twitching. "You know how it is..."

Evidently not, for Harley swiftly cuffed him upside his head. "Goddess damn it, Corwyn! How could you not give it to her? When I come back, I'll be talking to her, and if I don't hear that picture's made it to her hands, you are CUT OFF. You understand?"

Corwyn squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. "Yeah, I get it. Just... keep quiet about it until you go, okay? I want it to come from me, you know?"

Harley peered at him, snorted and nodded. "I'm not kidding, though. You'll have to go rock-hunting yourself from now on if she doesn't get that painting."

He made a big deal about shoving the bundle of pigments and the fourth painting into his bag, avoiding her eyes. "I heard you the first time! And... thanks for the shipment." Before she could say another word, he walked quickly away.

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Harley has no idea, he grumbled to himself, of how difficult it's going to be now. If I just go up to her and hand her that picture, she's probably going to think I've got some kind of school-boy crush on her! And she's almost eight years younger than me! He shivered. He didn't need THAT kind of publicity. The rumor-mill around Knothole could be a vicious one, and if people got it into their heads that he was making passes at the Princess... Gods! He'd never be able to show his face in Knothole again!

He sighed as he walked among the supply wagons, picking up a canvas sack and filling it with various breads, cheeses, fruits, and cured meat. Food, at least, was free, thanks to the multitudes of sympathizers. It was the specialty items that cost. He was fortunate to find an art lover among the lot, or he'd have run out of good supplies years ago. And now that supply looked to be drying up, thanks to his hemming and hawing over a painting that, by all rights, should have made it to Sally the day of the funeral. He grimaced as he made his way back to his house. She was right, of course, but it didn't make what he had to do any easier. Still, there had to be a way...

Walking into his cool, brightly-lit living room eased his mind some. He took a deep breath, reveling in the bitter scents of paint and solvent. He looked down, and noticed a sheet of paper that had been slipped under his door. He picked it up, setting his bag down and easing into his chair. It was the sentry assignments for the week. It seemed he was slated for the western lookout point. He grinned as an idea hit him. Of course! Sally's house was right on the way! And since he had the late shift, he could get the portrait to Sally without anyone knowing it was him!

Humming to himself, he sat down and started to write a quick note. When that was done, he got a large piece of heavy brown paper and set about carefully wrapping the picture up.

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Sally was working hard on mapping out the next set of movements for another hit-and-run attack on Robotropolis when her concentration was shattered by a quick, insistent knock on her door. When she opened it, however, nothing was there but a large brown package, to which a note had been pinned.

Puzzled, she took the package into her room, and set it on her desk. Picking up the note, she read it, hoping to find out who had done this. It certainly didn't seem Sonic's style...

Sally --

This should have found you a long time ago.
I hope it still carries the same meaning it

would have then.

No name, nothing beyond that cryptic remark. Sighing, she started to tear at the wrapping. But when it was unwrapped, the picture was face down. It had to be a picture, with a strip of wire to hang it from. She turned it over, more curious by the moment.

It was a long time before she could think. She sat down heavily, her mouth open, one hand on her heart. This painting... it was Julayla. Her mentor, her surrogate mother, and her best friend... She was there, sitting peacefully before a softly lit wall. Her hands were folded on her lap, and she was smiling faintly, amused at her ward's antics. Her eyes carried every inch of the kindness, warmth, and patience Sally remembered from her childhood. Even now, it seemed that Julayla would at any moment step off the canvas and hold her close. The only thing that kept her from believing this was the banner painstakingly detailed across the bottom: "In Memoriam: Beloved Julayla"

She swallowed, trying to force down the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat. Her eyes stung, and her vision went blurry. Wiping her eyes, she picked the painting up and carried it to the living room. Removing the old landscape that hung over the fireplace, she reverently placed the portrait of Julayla in its place.

She stood there for hours, lost in memories both joyful and hurtful. "Thank you..." She didn't know who had given her this gift, and at the moment, it didn't matter.

Julayla was with her again.

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C&C, please!