See prologue for disclaimer. . .I do not own most of the characters in this story. Only the Patterson family, and the personalities of certain characters from the movie. Don't worry. I've kept Luke true to himself (I hope). Quick note regarding the names. . .most of the names I've chosen for the characters that either didn't have names or the names were never mentioned directly in the movie, are Greek. 'Neda' is a Slavic name, however. When I tried to change the names of the characters in question, I got stonewalled. . .so they stayed Greek.

Calling the Wind

Part One

The Dust Settles

He was swaying on his feet, but he couldn't quit. Not yet. Not until Neda and the baby were safe. He felt the baby move under his hand when he stood at Neda's side, and he couldn't accept that he somehow caused that child's death. He was trying to save Neda. . .but instead, he may have killed her. The exhausted mercenary looked around. They were all down. Whatever soldiers he didn't shoot, the villagers did. . .women, children. Didn't matter.

A child's cry drew his attention back to Neda, and Luke saw the child in the arms of the midwife. His eyes shifted from the newly-born child to her mother. Neda smiled at him, a smile that said 'I knew I was right about you. I knew I was right to have faith in you.' Luke found himself smiling back. . .a real smile, the first one he could remember since his mother died and his father. . .

The moment didn't last. Neda's eyes closed and she slumped back. Luke saw his own dead mother in her place, and wanted to weep. The shots distracted him. . .or brought his attention back. He should have been dead. For a soldier was pointing his rifle at him now, but Luke didn't feel the familiar burn of a bullet as it tore into his flesh. Instead, the shots continued, one right after the other.

Stunned, Luke turned his attention to the direction of the shots. . .and received a surprise. He recognized the woman holding the rifle, the woman who just saved his life. A slight, dark-haired woman, who looked like she could have been Neda's sister. She was holding a rifle, tears streaming down her face, as she screamed at the soldier in Greek. That was the second surprise. Luke knew this woman. . .and up until now, thought she was deaf and dumb. Until a few minutes earlier, he never heard her speak.

The soldier who almost killed Luke crumpled to the ground, himself dead and his face a stunned mask. The woman fell to her knees and dropped the rifle, crawling on her hands and knees to Neda. She reached out a hand, and Luke closed his eyes. Not just to look away from her naked grief, but because the dizziness was becoming worse by the moment. He was tired. . .so very tired.

Through a haze of pain and dizziness, Luke vaguely heard the midwife telling the woman to see to him. . .they would take care of Neda and the baby. He shut the rest of the conversation out, choosing to focus on remaining upright. He didn't have the energy to spare, the energy required to think in another language. After a moment, however, it wasn't necessary, because an arm snaked around his waist.

Half-reluctantly and half-gratefully, he leaned against the strength offered. . .he had none of his own left. His ribs throbbed from where Elijah kicked him, and his shoulder sent pain pulsing through his entire body. Fortunately, this newcomer didn't touch his ribs. . .or anything else, for that matter. Luke was vaguely aware that his support, though considerably shorter than he was, managed to lead him to shelter without touching bare skin.

It looked like the Major was wrong. He saw an airplane and he wasn't dead. Luke wondered a bit fuzzily what he thought about that, and after a moment, decided he was glad. He wasn't ready to die. He wasn't finished. . .he still had unfinished business. It wasn't enough that he saved the baby. No. He cost the child her mother, and Luke had more to do before he could atone for that.

It was then that Luke received the third and greatest surprise of the day, and it sapped what little strength he had remaining. His support said quietly in English, "Get this one to bed, then see to Neda. . .oh god, Neda." Luke almost fell as he realized that the woman who prevented the soldier from killing him was another American. He forced his eyes open and saw the woman for the first time.

He never really paid her that much mind during his time in the village. . .he was struggling through what he saw after being shot. She was small, around the same size as Neda, and not as pretty. But then, he never saw Neda's face tight with rage. The woman stared back at him coldly. She wished him dead. Wished it was him lying out there, instead of Neda. And yet, she saved his life.

Luke wasn't entirely certain if she could read his expression or if he spoke the words aloud, but she replied, her accent clipped and cultured, "I shot that dog because I didn't want all of Neda's hard work to be for nothing. Get him inside before he falls down." Too late. Luke's knees buckled and he started to collapse. But warm and willing hands grasped him. . .unfortunately, about his waist and shoulders, and the pain sent Luke spiraling into darkness. He never felt himself lifted and carried into the house.

. . .

Neda. Oh God, Neda. The woman turned away from the house, resolutely forgetting about the unconscious man carried inside. She didn't care about him. He cost Neda her life, with his stupidity and carelessness. He was a mercenary. . .one who killed for money and gold. He was a mercenary. . .one of the men who killed her husband and turned the twenty-five year old Juliet Patterson Walker into a whore.

Oh, he wasn't in the same gang as those bastards. . .but he was made from the same cloth. Three years passed since Juliet was rescued by the Teacher and his young, lovely wife, but the scars remained. Juliet moved slowly, stiffly, away from the house and the staring eyes of the severed head put on dispay. Monsters. She hated the blond-haired mercenary called 'Luke,' but she hated the soldiers more for what they did to her savior and what they would have done to Neda.

She knelt quietly beside her dead friend, that slight smile still hovering on Neda's lips. Juliet saw Neda smile at the mercenary after the baby was born. The smile which said she never gave up on him. Juliet touched Neda's cheek, then kissed her forehead, whispering in English, "Rest well, my friend." She rocked back on her heels, looking at the midwife wearily. The older woman gently placed Neda's daughter in Juliet's arms, and the young woman drew her close.

"Angela," she whispered, "Daddy's little angel." She often heard the Teacher call his unborn daughter that. He believed Neda without question when she stated their child was a girl. Juliet kissed the baby's tiny forehead. She looked at her friend once more, wishing the old hatred of the mercenary would come back. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to hate him for old wrongs done against her and her husband. She wanted to hate him for not taking Neda with him. She wanted to hate him for not being more careful about where he shot and not noticing that Neda was behind his target.

She wanted to hold onto her grief and anger, but she was too tired. The last few days had been exhausting, between the revelation of the Teacher's severed head, the capture of the town. And most annoying of all, her rational, logical side was starting to reassert itself. It wasn't very practical for the mercenary to take a heavily pregnant woman with him, greed aside. She knew that.

Even if the mercenary's bullet hadn't struck her, there was a very good chance that Neda wouldn't have survived long after her daughter was born. Juliet lived here long enough to know what would have happened to her friend. . .what would have happened to them all. Her rational side told her that when all was said and done, it wasn't the mercenary's fault. Her heart, on the other hand, wasn't ready to forgive.

The midwife said quietly in Greek, "You must not blame him. He did not lead the soldiers here. He is not one of the soldiers. And Neda believed in him." Juliet smiled without any real humor. Yes, Neda believed in him. Neda. Not Juliet. The older woman sighed and took Juliet's hand, saying softly, "She loved you, Juliet. Never did she think to take your younger sister's place, but she loved you as an older sister."

Her younger sister. Juliet bowed her head, thinking about Drusilla. More than three years passed since she last saw her little sister. Drusilla was how old now? Almost twenty-one? Yes, that sounded right. Her baby sister was a woman now. Juliet hoped she was continuing her studies. Drusilla fought like a banshee for admittance to a reputable medical school. . .and her little sister was just as stubborn as Juliet herself.

Stubborn and ferociously protective of what was hers. Drusilla warned Bruce, Juliet's husband, what would happen to him if Juliet was harmed in any way while they were in Europe. The older sister smiled grimly to herself, wondering what Drusilla would make of Juliet's Macedonian adventure. No doubt, she would eviscerate and castrate the mercenaries responsible for her elder sister's disgrace.

"You and Luke must take the little one to the United States, child. It is time for you to go home. . .and she has the hope of a better future in your country," the midwife said quietly, startling Juliet. The American woman raised her head and the midwife, Sophronia by name, continued, "It is how it must be. Sooner or later, the soldiers will come back. When that happens, none will survive. If the soldiers do not kill all, then it will be one of their renegade bands. You know this."

Juliet looked at her friend's daughter and wondered if her own lost child would have looked like this. She was pregnant at the time of her own abductions, but she lost that child thanks to the tender treatment of the mercenaries and the strain of watching her husband murdered, then beheaded. She said softly, "I will take her to America with me, old mother, and raise her as my own."

She made no mention of the mercenary, but the midwife said quietly, "You will need him, little one. You will need his protection. He is a killer, but that will work in your favor. He can protect you from others like him. Unlike them, he has a heart. He merely forgot how to use it. Neda reminded him. He will protect you, and the child, because of guilt. You must forgive him, child. If you are to survive, you must."

Unfortunately, Juliet couldn't argue with the old woman. The midwife was right, dammit to hell. She looked down at her friend's still, peaceful face, and murmured, "What did you see in him, sister, that I cannot?" Neda never lost faith in the mercenary. Even when he rode away with the gold that was Angela's birthright, she never lost faith that he would come back.

"His name is Luke, Juliet," Sophronia said in gentle reproof, "he is not one of the nameless shadows who cost you your husband and your child. He is capable of gentleness, it is merely hidden. And though he may find it easier to kill than to love, it is not impossible for him to love. His name is Luke. And he is your best chance to see your homeland again. Have you not missed it?"

Juliet never allowed herself to think about that. It would hurt too much. She said softly, "If I go home, it will not be to Baltimore, where I grew up, but out West. My sister has spoken of opening a practice out in our West. They would be more accepting of a woman doctor. Out west, it would not matter, my past." In Baltimore, it would. She would still be the daughter of Sydney Patterson. . .eternally a disappointment because neither she nor Drusilla had the decency to be born a boy.

She wondered, a bit irrelevantly, if her father would have been pleased with a son such as the mercenary. She dared not think of him by name. Luke. It meant 'light,' and he had a dark soul. The rational side of her once more reminded her that she was being unfair to him. She had a darkness in her own soul, and who was she to judge him? But still, her heart couldn't forgive him.

Juliet looked at the old mother, saying softly, "If I do go. . .what will happen to you? To the children? To the women?" She nodded at Phaedra, one of the first female villagers to take up a rifle when the gunfight erupted. The young Macedonia woman returned the nod, grief reflecting in her eyes. There were other questions about her departure. What would they do for money, for one thing.

"That is our concern, child, though we love you for worrying for us. Your part in this is done. You keep telling yourself that you cannot forgive Luke for Neda's death, but the truth is, you already have. You would have not saved his life, otherwise," Sophronia replied. Juliet shook her head. No, that wasn't it at all. She killed that soldier to spare the children the necessity of picking up a gun. She killed him because if she hadn't, one of the children might have. She killed him because it was necessary.

It had nothing to do with the mercenary, aside from Juliet not wanting to see her friend's hard work turn to ash. That was it. She didn't care if he lived or if he died. Unfortunately, she knew Sophronia was right. It would be pure stupidity if she attempted to make the journey alone, just she and Angela. Juliet looked down at Neda's daughter, now her daughter.

Then she looked back at the old woman and sighed, "I know I need his help. But we cannot leave immediately. He hasn't the strength to travel, and I need time to plan. We will need money." It took all of her strength to admit that. It was bad enough that she couldn't do this alone. It was even worse, knowing that her and Angela's best chance for survival was a mercenary. But Juliet owed it to Neda. She owed it to Angela.

Sophronia patted her cheek, saying softly, "You will have no need to worry for money, child. But make your plans. In one month's time, once the boy has regained his strength, you and he will leave with the infant. And perhaps the two of you may heal each other's wounds." Yes, Juliet thought to herself with more than a touch of sarcasm, and perhaps pigs might learn to fly!

. . .

The child was stubborn as the day was long. . .but it helped to save her life. No doubt, those same headstrong tendencies would see her well through the coming days and weeks. Sophronia the midwife was also a healer. . .it was she who taught Neda about healing and nursing. It was Sophronia who cared for the injured young American mercenary when Nedda required rest.

It was also Sophronia who tended to the shattered young widow when the Teacher and his men carried the unconscious Juliet into their village three years earlier. She was draped over the arms of his second in command, her face ashen. Three weeks, she was in the hands of the animals who murdered her husband. Three weeks, she was their plaything. And three months was she mute with the horror of those three weeks.

Even now, she spoke little. She hadn't the heart for it. The only time the real Juliet would appear was when she was with children. Then, a true smile would light her face and she would actually laugh. The other time was when she was around Neda. Sweet Neda. Sophronia mourned the girl's loss. She was a bright spot to everyone in the village, from her husband to the mercenary whom she saved.

Now, as Sophronia tended to that mercenary, still unconscious from blood loss and exhaustion, she smiled to herself. He was strong, just as Juliet was. A lost soul, just as Juliet was. They were more alike than they were different, but it would take Juliet much time to see that. Poor child. Sophronia could never bear to tell Juliet that her lost child was a daughter.

However, it was not Juliet who needed her right now. The boy's name was Luke, Sophronia learned during his first time in this village. He was around the same age as Juliet, older than Neda by about five or six years. His handsome face was pale and Sophronia clucked under her breath. . .either he was shot once more, or his previous shoulder wound was reopened. Neither was good.

"Foolish, foolish boy," she chastised in Greek, never mind that he couldn't hear her, "What did you do to yourself?" Perhaps that was the wrong question. A quick examination told her that some of his ribs were cracked. Bruises decorated his side, and Sophronia realized that the boy was beaten. As she touched his side, he moaned, even unconscious. A month before he was fit to travel, before he was fit to protect once more.

Blue eyes fluttered open and stared up at Sophronia. He wasn't awake. . .he was awake, but he wasn't truly with her. He looked so confused. By the pain? By being alive? Sophronia gently stroked the dark blond hair back from his forehead, murmuring, "Sleep, child. Just sleep. Old Sophronia will take care of you. Just sleep." She continued to caress his hair, as she would have one of the children.

His lips formed words, and he coughed, the spasms shaking his slender body. Sophronia watched him carefully, to make sure he was not coughing blood. When no blood appeared, she gently raised his head and gave him a little drink of water. Not too much, and the boy whispered, "Why?" Sophronia looked at him as she eased his head back to the pillow. Again, he rasped out, "Why?"

Ah. He wanted to know why they were taking care of him. . .why they put so much effort into saving him. He wanted to know why they thought he was worth saving. Sophronia caressed his hair again, answering in English, "Because, child. You are not a bad man. You left, yes. . .but you came back. If you were a bad man, you would not have returned. You came back. You kept the soldiers away from Neda while she fought to bring her baby daughter into the world."

"I. . .killed. . .her," came the hoarse answer, and tears sparkled in his blue eyes. The grief and guilt Sophronia mentioned to Juliet was there. Did he love Neda? Perhaps. Sophronia knew men such as this. . .they learned how to fight, but love was not something they understood. It was not that they were incapable of love. . .but they never had anyone to love them and teach them to love.

"No, child. Shhhhh. . .just rest now. Whatever your sins, you must have a chance to atone. I know a way to do that. Now rest. You will need your strength for what is to come," Sophronia soothed gently. The eyes staring up at her were indeed those of a child. He was so terribly young to her. She was an old lady, but in some ways, he seemed very much like her fourteen year old grandson.

She wasn't entirely certain how old Luke was, but her instincts told her that he was perhaps a year or two older than Juliet. She was twenty-eight now, passing her birthday only a few months earlier. You would be pleased, daughter, Sophronia told Neda's spirit, someone still watches over both of them, your American strays. That was what Luke and Juliet were called. Neda's American strays.

Luke closed his eyes, his breathing evening out as he fell asleep once more. He required that, more than anything else. Sophronia looked out to where Juliet was walking with Angela. The child always did that. . .walked when she was troubled. Sophronia sighed quietly. There was a third part to Juliet's fury toward Luke, and again, it was not truly directed at him.

Sophronia knew she wasn't the only one in the village who noticed that their unexpected American guest was quite handsome. Neda noticed. She loved her husband, but she still noticed. As did Juliet. Sophronia often heard Neda teasing Juliet about the way she would look at Luke while he was recuperating from his gunshot wound. Yes, that helped matters not at all.

It was bad enough that Juliet was looking at someone twice for the first time since her husband was murdered. But it must have seemed like a betrayal to the girl, to notice a man such as those who killed her husband. She had to feel like she was betraying her husband's memory twice over. Sophronia noticed the way Juliet looked at the other American. She also noticed the way Juliet avoided touching him directly when she led him away from the gun battle.

The old woman shook her head, murmuring to her aide to lift Luke up from the bed, so she could stabilize his cracked ribs. Foolish children. When they lived to be her age, they would learn that life was too short for such foolishness. If Bruce Walker cared for his wife, he would be pleased that she was moving forward with his life. On the other hand, she had her doubts about whether Bruce loved his wife.

Delicate questioning of the widow told Sophronia that she knew little of pleasure. To her, pleasuring was unheard of. Conjugal relations were a duty, not a pleasure. Sophronia scowled, though not at her patient or at Juliet. No, she was scowling at whoever taught the young widow that her pleasure was not important. The Teacher knew better. Indeed, Juliet overheard one such session between the husband and wife quite by accident, and it was such an occurrence that led to the conversation between Sophronia and Juliet.

So many similarities between her patient and her young friend. One found it easier to kill than to love, for he never really learned how to love. The other. . .the other covered her own passionate impulses with a thick layer of ice. She could love. Her baby sister was as devoted to her as she was to Drusilla. But to anyone who didn't bother to look, she was cold and remote.

A faint smile touched Sophronia's mouth as she thought about the coming months, as Luke and Juliet traveled together. He would travel with them, Sophronia knew, to protect them. That was never in question. But what she found amusing was the idea of the pair. A young widow with a shielded heart and an impulsive young gunman whose trigger finger worked much faster than his brain.

Luke could melt the ice around Juliet's heart, and she could restore his soul to him. That was, of course, assuming that they didn't kill each other first!

. . .

It took no education and little intelligence, really, to know that Juliet was troubled. She was walking with the baby in her arms, outside the house where old Sophronia was caring for the American mercenary. She always walked in such a way when she was troubled. But what Phaedra didn't know was the reason for Juliet's worries. She and Juliet never truly got along.

There was mutual respect, of course. Each respected the other's place in Neda's life and heart. They just didn't like each other. Now, however, Phaedra almost felt responsible for Juliet. Perhaps because Juliet picked up a rifle to defend Phaedra's village. Everyone knew how much she hated guns. It was no secret. Just as it was no secret that she hated the mercenaries.

No, Phaedra could never call herself Juliet's friend, but she did pity the American woman, and she did respect her. It took a woman of great strength to keep living after suffering a loss such as Juliet did. Perhaps it would have been easier if the widow ever thought herself unique. . .thought she was the first person to lose her husband and her child. But she did not.

Perhaps that was what made Phaedra so angry. Though she knew it took strength to keep living from day to day after such a loss, it made Phaedra angry to see Juliet's quiet acceptance. Did she think she deserved such pain? Such grief? It angered her to see the quiet acceptance, and the utter lack of arrogance. Whatever arrogance Juliet Patterson Walker possessed, it was gone by the time the Teacher found her.

And she was Neda's friend. She took up a rifle, something she hated, to defend Phaedra's village, to avenge the deaths of so many. It was this that pushed Phaedra away from her point of observation and approach the widow. Juliet's face was tight with grief, and Phaedra said softly in Greek, "I mourn for her as well. Many of us loved Neda, though we feared the American she brought here."

Juliet looked up with a sigh, answering in the same language, "I feared that as well. We were right to fear." This was said with bitterness, and Phaedra wondered why it was that only Juliet blamed the man for Neda's death. It was his bullet that struck her, yes, but. . . Juliet went on after a moment, "How can you forgive him? He refused to take her with him. He could have avoided all this."

Since she was holding Neda's daughter, Juliet jerked her chin in the general direction of the village. Phaedra answered quietly, "Because he came back. He could have kept going, but he came back. And his distraction was quite imaginative." Using the greed of the soldiers against them. That was quite good, in Phaedra's opinion. And unlike Juliet, Phaedra saw the horror in the eyes of the mercenary when he realized his bullet struck not only his target but Neda as well.

Juliet merely grunted, and Phaedra added, "I think you wish to hate him. He is not a bad man. A bad man would not have come back. A bad man would not have grieved about shooting Neda. It was an accident, Juliet. He came here to rescue her. You did not see his expression when he saw Neda fall. Nor did you see him smile at her, after the baby was born. A real smile, one from his heart."

Phaedra saw, though. She saw Neda smile at the tall, blond man when her daughter was safely delivered. She saw him return the smile. . .an unexpectedly sweet smile, one that went to Phaedra's very heart. She regretted not seeing the danger to him in time, even as she was grateful that Juliet did. Whatever her reasoning, Juliet saved his life, just as Neda did.

Someone would have to tell him that, if he didn't already know. One thing she learned about the blond American. . .he protected what was his. The moment Juliet picked up a rifle to deal with the soldier threatening his life, she became his. Just as Neda became his when she picked him up and cradled him against her body. Just as the little one was now his, though Phaedra knew it would take him time to accept that.

Knowing that, she said softly, "He came back. He came back, and he tried to take Neda to safety. Why is that worth nothing? Because he is not the Teacher? Because he does not always think with his brain? Most men are like that, Juliet. They think with their lower brain. The mercenary thinks with his trigger finger, but that does not make him a bad man."

Juliet didn't answer. Phaedra sighed, then asked softly, "Do you think I betray our friend, Juliet, when I forgive him?" Juliet shook her head slowly. So this wasn't about Neda. At least, not completely. Phaedra reached out tentatively and put her hand on Juliet's shoulder, encouraged when the American didn't move away. She said softly, "Long have we had our differences, Juliet. But we both mourn for our friend. We both loved her. Forgive him. . .because you did love her."

Slowly, Juliet released her breath and turned to look at Phaedra, grief shining in her dark eyes as she replied, "I am to travel with him, Phaedra, back to the States. Him and Neda's Angela." Angela. So that was the name chosen for Neda's daughter. Juliet continued, "I am afraid. I have not seen my home in three years. I do not even know if my little sister still lives. And he frightens me."

No need to elaborate which 'he' was meant. Phaedra asked softly, "Do you fear him because he is of the same occupation as your husband's murderers?" A hesitation, then a slow nod. Phaedra realized that was a very small part of Juliet's fear. The Macedonian woman asked next, "That is not all that frightens you about it? Is it that he is handsome. . .or the way you feel when you look at him?"

Phaedra realized immediately that she went too far, and allowed her hand to drop at the rage burning in Juliet's eyes. She did not question further. At least, not about that. Instead, she asked the other woman once some of the fury dulled, "When do you leave? It will take much time to reach a port, and he is barely able to stand, much less travel such a distance."

"In a month's time, maybe more. Angela is too small to travel. I need time to plan. He needs time to heal, or he'll be no good to us. The old mother wishes him to accompany us as a protector," Juliet said, a note of contempt entering her voice when she spoke the word 'protector.' Privately, Phaedra thought Sophronia was wise. Who better to protect a woman and child from highwaymen than a mercenary, someone who knew the tricks and ambushes used?

"We will be sorry to see you go," Phaedra said formally and realized she meant it. Never did she and Juliet get along, but she never wished the American harm. Juliet responded with a half-smile. Phaedra squeezed the other woman's shoulder briefly, nodded to her, then walked away. She wondered again why she found it so much easier to forgive the mercenary for Neda's death.

Because she knew what would have happened to Neda, had he not come? Because she looked into his eyes after Neda's death, and knew that he would have not fought death? Because that look into his eyes told her that Neda began the process of unchaining his heart, and it would be a terrible pity if that process was halted? Perhaps. She only hoped that Juliet saw her way to giving the mercenary a chance to win her trust.

She hoped that, not just for the mercenary, but for Angela. She feared the little girl would not survive long with two people who did not trust each other. Angela deserved better, as did Neda. Phaedra smiled suddenly, wondering if Juliet realized yet just how similar she and the mercenary were. Not likely. Even if she did, she would never admit to it.

Sophronia was a wise woman, to send them together. Their shared guilt and grief would bind them together, their grief and guilt and Angela. In all the time she was here, Juliet never found true healing. She was still outwardly cold. Despite Neda's care, the mercenary never found healing as well. The wounds they carried were caused long before they arrived here. Healing for those wounds would not be found here, either.

In the coming days, they would bury Neda. For a moment, Phaedra received an image in her brain, an image so clear, she almost thought it was a vision. And it was, but not of the future. Rather, it was a vision of what might have been. If Juliet had not taken up the rifle and shot the soldier full of holes. She saw Neda and the mercenary, lying side by side. She shuddered and continued walking.

It was time she started cleaning and preparing Neda's body for the funeral. They were robbed of this chance with the Teacher. They would pay honor to him by honoring his wife. Phaedra reached the door of her home and leaned her forehead against the door. Inside. She would weep for Neda and the Teacher once she was inside. She would weep for everyone once she was inside.

. . .

Pain in his side returned him slowly to the land of living, and Luke groaned as the throbbing intensified. A gentle hand caressed his forehead and a soft voice murmured to him. He didn't understand the words, though he recognized them. Slowly, his pain-dazed mind comprehended the words as he was able to translate them into English. Be still, young one. . .make not a movement, nor a sound.

Danger, then. Luke found that if he held his breath, his side didn't hurt quite so badly. He complied with the request, not entirely sure what was wrong. And then he heard it. His brother's voice. Elijah. Elijah found him, and would finish the job this time. The old woman said, switching to English, "You see? Your brother died a matter of hours ago. You see how peaceful his face looks? We say, an hour after death, one's true face is shown to the world."

A gentle hand rested on Luke's forehead, and he prayed silently that his brother didn't notice his pulse at his temples. Then Elijah bent down and pressed a kiss to each temple, murmuring, "Forgive me, brother. Thank you for taking care of him." Remembering his visions, his dreams while unconscious, Luke almost called out to his brother, to comfort him.

Then Elijah was slowly walking out of the house, and Luke heard the voice of the woman who kept the soldier from shooting him. She coolly informed his brother that Luke's body would be remaining here in Macedonia, so the people of the village could honor the man who aided them. Luke almost snorted at that, but the ever-present pain in his ribs prevented such foolishness.

Elijah asked if there was anything he could do for them, but the girl said 'no.' After another few moments of conversation, Elijah left and Luke opened his eyes to see the ancient healer and midwife at his side. She smiled down at him, saying, "Hello, young one, it is good to see your eyes open. Have you slept well?" Luke was still very tired, and she added, "You have been asleep for nearly a week."

A week?! Luke almost bolted up at that, but the twin pain in his side and shoulder quickly put a stop to that. He slumped back, moaning in spite of himself. The old woman chided, "You must listen to old Sophronia, child! Has he gone, Juliet?" Luke opened his eyes as the dark-haired woman from earlier entered the house once more. She nodded, her eyes cold at she stared at him.

"I do not believe he will return. Phaedra is caring for Angela," the woman named 'Juliet' replied in Greek. Huh. She was one of 'them.' Not the Macedonians, but one of the upper-class who looked down on him and Elijah, like she was somehow better than them. Luke heard it in her accent, and in the proper Greek she spoke. She spoke the language like a native, an educated native.

"Behave, children," Sophronia warned, though there was a light note in her voice. Luke looked up at the old woman, who continued, "Remember, if you wish to see your home once more, you will need each other." Need each other? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sophronia stared down at him, saying, "Juliet and Angela will accompany you back to America."

The hell they were! Didn't they understand? He came for Neda, and got her killed! What made them think he could save these two? He couldn't even save himself! The woman named 'Juliet' said in a cool voice, "I like it as well as you do, mercenary. Unfortunately, Sophronia is right. A woman and child would stand no chance traveling to the sea alone. You're a mercenary. You know how they think. . .so you're our best chance at survival."

Hellfire! Put like that, Luke couldn't argue with her. He supposed he could have denied that he cared anything about Neda's child, but he tried that once before. Didn't work. He sighed, closing his eyes. And again, he felt the old healer's fingers run through his hair. She reminded him of his ma when she did that. Ma. . .she had been a beautiful woman, made old before her time.

He inherited her hair and her eyes, though the sun turned his red hair dark gold. His mother died when he was fourteen. . .exhausted from years of running away from his step-father. Luke never knew his real father. Didn't want to know him, neither. Where his mother was concerned, Luke was still the fourteen year old boy who found himself mother, father, and older brother to nine year old Elijah.

For too many years, Luke saw the dark side of life as the man of the house, trying to provide for his mother and brother. He was named 'Luke,' because his father brought light into his mother's life. Brought light into her life, then abandoned her. Just as he abandoned Neda. Well, well. Seemed Luke was his father's son after all. He was unaware that he spoke aloud, until Sophronia said, "You are not. You came back. You have more honor than the man who abandoned the woman who would bear his child."

Honor. Now there was a term never applied to Luke before. Hell, he didn't even know the meaning of the word! Sophronia touched his face, drawing his eyes open once more, and said softly, "You do have honor, Luke. Do not take Juliet's fury to heart, though it seems she hates you. It is not you whom she hates, but what you represent. Give her time, and she will see what Neda saw."

And what was that? Sophronia again read his expression, and smiled, replying, "A decent man. . .an honorable man, who lost his way a long time ago, and is now finding it back. You are what you are, and make no excuses for it. There is honesty and honor in that path. We feared you in the beginning, for we knew you to be a mercenary, one who fights for gold. But Neda saw something in your eyes. . .something that made her decide you were worth saving. . .worth fighting for."

"Ya said that she don't hate me, but what I represent. What does that mean?" Luke asked, not wanting to think about Neda's faith in him at the moment. He came back because he owed it to Neda, not to leave her in the hands of those soldiers. He came back because. . .because she was the first person since his mother died who took care of him. Not because she wanted something from him, but because she wanted to.

"It means, child, that mercenaries cost Juliet everything dear to her. Her husband. Her unborn child. Almost her sanity," Sophronia answered heavily. She pushed him back against the pillows, and unfortunately, Luke lacked the strength to fight. He lay back, and Sophronia continued, "She was twenty-five years of age when she came to Macedonia with her husband. He was a fool. . .if he wanted to die, that was his business, but he should have never brought his pregnant wife with him."

Luke thought much the same thing, but kept his opinions to himself. Sophronia continued, "They were in country for about two weeks when they were attacked by mercenaries, who were also drawn here by the lure of gold for the Teacher's capture. Bruce Walker was a man of the city. Had no understanding of such men. It cost him his life. . .it cost him his head."

Luke thought back to the Teacher's severed head, held by the hair. Sophronia went on, "Bruce Walker was the fortunate one. He died almost instantly. Juliet, poor child, became their plaything. She was in their hands for three weeks, before the Teacher and his men freed her. But by that time, it was too late to save her unborn daughter. She was five months pregnant, and those rutting pigs caused her to miscarry her baby."

The blond American closed his eyes. The moment Sophronia said that the woman became their plaything, he knew what happened. Knew, because he wasn't so very different from those men. And it made him ill. Sophronia went on, "She was unconscious when they brought her back to the village. We buried her daughter, then set to saving the mother."

"Nearly three months passed before she would speak. Her time in captivity shattered her. For a long time, we thought it shattered her mind, as well as spirit," said a new voice. Luke looked toward the door, where a dark-haired young woman stood. He recognized her as the first woman to take up arms against the soldiers. The woman continued, "Neda never gave up on her. She washed her hair and combed it, and bathed her. She talked to her."

Luke remembered his own recovery after being shot by his brother. Yeah, he had no doubt that Neda refused to give up on the dark-haired American girl. The Macedonian woman added, "Even now, she says little. Especially around strangers. I saw the surprise in your eyes when you heard her speak. You frighten her. A living reminder of the men who tortured her."

The walls were closing in on the former mercenary. He could feel them closing in. Before Neda, he would have had no trouble walking away from this place and never coming back. But Neda changed him. He failed to save her, and that meant he had an obligation to her daughter. However, he couldn't do that alone. What did he know about taking care of a baby? Not a damn thing. Juliet Walker had to come with him. He had to protect them both. Had to make things right, for Neda.

With a sigh, Luke asked, "When do ya want us to leave?" Luke, though impulsive and given to reacting, was actually quite intelligent. He knew he didn't have long before they had to leave. And he would have to be careful about when they traveled. A blond-haired, blue-eyed American would stick out like a sore thumb in a land of primarily dark-haired, dark-eyed people.

"At least a month. You need time to heal. . .and Juliet needs time to plan. You will work well together, when you learn to trust each other. Rest now. The next time you awake, I will take you to Neda's grave, so you might say good-bye to her," Sophronia said quietly. Luke closed his eyes, not even bothering to answer, and slipped back into the comfort of sleep once more.

. . .

Edge was nervous as the plane began its descent, but Amy needed a moment to take a breath. This time, she didn't mind him holding her hand. Edge said softly, "You know, you still ain't told me how you know all this. You tell me that I only made one little mistake in putting the pieces together. . .but Luke survived the gunfight. That ain't a little mistake, you know!"

Amy smiled at him, replying, "I know. But still, you were un-nervingly close on all the details. . . from Luke's diversion, to Neda's death, Phaedra taking up a rifle, to Luke being laid alongside Neda. True, it was a what might have been, but still. And I know about this because I have the journals of many people. Journals and letters. Despite their initial apathy toward each other, Juliet wrote Phaedra when she reached the United States, to let her know that they were safely back on American soil."

"And this Phaedra told Juliet 'bout her vision, about what might have been, if Juliet didn't pick up that rifle," Edge guessed. Amy nodded. Edge gave a muffled gulp as they hit another air pocket. After a moment, he continued, "So, Juliet had good reason to hate Luke. I mean, he ain't the one who killed her old man and raped her, but still, she had good reason to hate him."

"Even by Luke's standards, she had reason. Angela was right. Luke could be a mean bastard. He admitted it outright. But being a mean bastard kept him, his brother, and their mother alive. Word got around that harming Charlotte or Elijah would result in a visit from Luke, and nobody wanted that. I often think that Neda reminded Luke of his own mother," Amy observed.

"Charlotte? She was his mother?" Edge questioned. Amy nodded, and her companion went on, "What was she like? Did the journals or letters ever mention that?" Amy smiled, remembering the many family photos that existed at her childhood home. There were pictures of Luke's mother, before an abusive husband, illness, and exhaustion took their toll on her.

"She was beautiful. I've seen many pictures of her, especially sketches Luke did from memory. Before TB and running from her ex-husband destroyed her health. She had red hair. . .Luke inherited his hair from her, his hair and his eyes. And her boys were the center of her world. Luke always swore that his mother died of a broken heart," Amy replied. Edge cocked his head and looked at her.

"You know, you almost talk about Luke as if you knew him. Like Angela done," Edge observed. Amy grinned. She wasn't ready to tell him everything. And she wasn't sure she liked the comparison to Angela. There was still bad blood remaining within her family, thanks to Angela's behavior back in the 1920's. Her own grandmother had never truly forgiven Angela, and that spilled over to the rest of the family.

"Well, that right there should have told you that Luke survived the gunfight. I mean, think about it. Did she sound like she talked about someone whom she never really knew, someone who died only moments after she was born?" Amy questioned. Edge shrugged, and Amy continued, "Of course not. You told me that she broke your nose during your first meeting. Does that sound like something Elijah would teach his daughter, the child he raised?"

Now Edge looked downright sheepish, for he never thought about that. He replied, "I guess I figured it would make a better story. Angela never finished the story, and the newpaper clippings didn't tell me what I needed to know. It was kinda cool, you know. Like Luke. Going out in a blaze of glory, givin' up his life to save Angela, even though he couldn't save Neda."

"Cool, sure. . .but Luke was very practical. Sometimes devastatingly so. Who do you think taught Angela how to throw a punch? Luke, of course. Teaching his daughter how to throw a punch, and know that she broke someone's nose, would never occur to Elijah. I suppose you reminded her of Luke. Isn't it a reality, Edge, that the more you heard, the more you wanted to be like him?" Amy asked.

Edge looked down and muttered, "Yeah, I guess I did. It was. . .you know. . .he didn't take crap off nobody." Amy smiled at that. Yeah, she knew what he meant. Luke was legendary in the family. . .but no one ever turned him into a saint. The effort was never made. Like her cousin, Rusty, said. . .Luke would have rolled over in his grave a few dozen times if someone ever tried to make him into something he wasn't.

He was loved and honored in her family for being the stubborn, contrary man he was. That included being a mean bastard. But it's like they always said, 'Luke was a mean bastard. But he's OUR mean bastard.' Once upon a time, Amy's grandmother corrected the grammar. After a while, she didn't bother. No sense in wasting her breath. Much less for a reason like this.

Then again, Amy thought with more than a trace of humor, Gramma always was her father's daughter. It was her grandmother who raised Amy after the deaths of her parents. Like her father before her, Gramma Faye never suffered fools gladly. And she would have never raised one either. As always, Amy felt a pang of grief when she thought of her grandmother.

After a moment, however, she said, "I'll tell you more about Luke and Juliet when we land. We have quite a distance to cover before we reach the village where Angela was born, and that will leave plenty of time for me to tell you about the months between Luke's awakening and their departure on the journey to the coast. Macedonia is land-locked, after all, and that was why Luke wanted to travel at night. It was less dangerous, strange as that might sound to us."

"Months? Did Luke's recovery take longer than they originally thought it would?" Edge asked and Amy nodded, remembering what she read in Juliet's diary. The widow refused to discuss Luke much in those early days, but ever so often, a reference would creep in. Amy's companion added after a moment, "I suppose that makes sense, though. I mean, the man should have died more than once. Sounds like Luke had about as many lives as a cat."

"Pretty close," Amy admitted, "he had about as many lives as a cat, and he was stubborn. Headstrong. Willful, take your pick. The man didn't know how to give up. Neither did Juliet, and you can bet things got interesting during their journey, and even before. Luke was recovering during this time, and while he slept often during the early weeks, there came a time when he could sleep no more."

"Gets boring, trying to recover," Edge said, nodding. Amy agreed. . .that was the exact same thing that troubled Luke. Twice, he was given a second chance. Each time he was resurrected, so to speak, more changes were wrought in him. Yet, one thing remained the same. He still didn't think things through. Edge asked, "What did he do to entertain himself?"

"Annoyed Juliet, more than anything else," Amy admitted wryly. Edge looked at her, and the blonde girl continued, "Remember, he slept a great deal after the gunfight. What he learned during his periods of wakefulness, he didn't always remember. Or maybe, he just didn't want to remember. That was the case with Juliet. He forgot, or wanted to forget, what he learned about her past."

"Uh-oh," Edge muttered. Amy laughed softly. Yes, she could see how he would arrive at that conclusion. Edge shook his head after a moment and said, "Man, I tell you. Luke mighta been good with a gun, but he had no idea with women!" Amy's laughter was a little louder this time. Sometimes, people took a while to learn things. And a man couldn't change the way he thought overnight.