A/N: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all. The character of 'Jeremiah ben-Kurah' is my creation.

Chapter V – The Crack of Dawn

The poor youngster assigned to escort Simon Donovan to the airport must have thought the gods were against him. Never had he seen a man look so bitter. The older agent was silent for the whole duration of the journey. At the airport, they walked without uttering a word until something caught Simon's eye.

"I'm taking personal time. Wait here."

"Sir, I was ordered to take you straight to…"

"Screw your orders, wait here." The words were spat in a low growl and the youngster did as he was sternly told.

Simon walked into the instant photo store. He was out of his kid supervisor's view. A rather friendly lady in her fifties who ran the little the store insisted upon helping him print the photos from his phone. Simon gave her a half genuine smile; she made him forget for a split second the hurt he had just caused.

Simon printed two pictures. One photo of the fountain for Anthony and the other, a token of the only thing in his life he couldn't bear to lose sight of: CJ smiled beautifully out of the glossy paper. She beamed radiantly as Simon kissed her cheek; they looked happy, a picture of love. He hated himself when he looked at it, he hated his job, he hated that he was bound by his word to another soul that wasn't hers. Resentment filled him and flipped his stomach. Soon he was vomiting in the restrooms. Wanting to hit the pale, pathetic looking man that stood before him in the mirror was something he hadn't felt in years. Staring at himself, he took the roll of surgical tape he had just purchased and stripped his shirt off. The photo was folded into four and he taped it firmly to the dip in his chest just under his heart, knowing that if Ron saw a personal photo, it would be quickly confiscated and locked in his deposit box along with everything that identified him as Simon Donovan.

On the reverse of the fountain, he wrote something for the boy he knew would hate him for leaving. He left a phone number for Ferdinand Miles.

Simon exited the restrooms pale and he returned to his minder. They went to the gate. Butterfield was waiting. Special Agent Donovan emptied his pockets of his personal possessions. He handed the folded photo for Anthony. Ron knew the duty he was obligated to. Without a word, a new passport and wallet were handed over. As the dawn cracked open a neon canister of bright blue morning sky, Eric Orson boarded the 0600 to Ephar alone.

The hot water beating down on her shoulders mingled with her tears. The stream was endless, yet there was no desire on her part to pull herself together. She scrubbed her body hard, trying to remove the scent of him from her skin, to get rid of the sensual memory of his touch. She scrubbed and she scrubbed, her body felt more worn yet less than free from Simon Donovan. At some point after resigning herself to sitting in a crumpled heap in the bath as the water splashed over her, the travel alarms telling her to get it together started to sound in the next room. The Press Secretary kicked in, and she shut the water off firmly.

Gossip spread quickly through the Senior Staff, in their morning briefing on Air Force One, everyone's eyes were on her. Toby expected to see her flying high, he thought he'd get that knowing look followed by flushed cheeks and an irrepressible smile. That's what he'd seen before, he had no reason not to expect it, and Simon Donovan was a good man, someone who he'd be contently jealous of. However, he was confronted with glassy eyes, and her blank detached game face concealing something resembling a weakness he'd never witnessed before.

In the meeting, Josh had made a not-so-subtle remark about the night's activities; CJ had shot him down with a look that silenced the room, an icy chill surpassing the sombre mood of the older men. Josh and Sam were confused at the reaction, frowning to one another in puzzlement; they had seen their friend happier than ever only a few hours before hand, and they knew that when she was as buoyant as she had been, she was near impossible to sink.

CJ was the first out of the room, the men stared after her; all worried and confused. Toby rocked back on his heels, took a deep breath and exited with only one goal in mind. He caught up with his friend and pulled her aside into a small galley. He didn't bother speaking; his unrelenting gaze was enough to break the fragile exterior she had pulled together.

"I don't know, Toby." Her voice was almost a whisper, her head fell into her hands and she took a sharp breath.

"Don't know what CJ? What happened?" She sniffed back a tear and smiled that catatonic smile and Toby knew. "CJ?"

"We made… no, we…" she wanted to say they made love and couldn't, but neither could she admit it was just sex. "But he left this morning."

"He left you?" She nodded, biting back the tears that were brimming in her eyes. "Did he say anything?"

"He said he had to go." She snorted, mocking herself and the situation.

"That's it?" Toby's anger was swelling inside of him; if he ever laid hands on that Simon Donovan… when she said nothing more, that feeling ebbed away, grief for his friend filled his chest. "CJ, I'm sorry." She smiled a tight smile as the tears escaped; she tapped her foot, her arms crossed over her chest squeezed tight. Toby collected her into his arms, and she cried hard against his shoulder. He just smoothed her hair and let her cry. He could have sworn CJ hadn't cried publicly over a man before. Even over the gradual loss of her Father, she held it together. Why a one-night stand with her ex Secret Service Agent had shaken her so badly, he didn't even want to guess. The tears lost their intensity and her grip loosened.

"CJ… are you ok?" She sniffed and released him. She nodded weakly. "I mean… CJ, are you ok, physically?" Her eyes widened, her mind quickly chewing out what Toby was asking.

"Toby, no. No, he'd never – I'm fine!"

"I've just never seen you like this, I thought…"

"I… Toby, I…" She couldn't find the words.

"I thought he'd y'know, really hurt you, CJ it's not out of the realm of possibility."

"Toby, the reason why-" she inhaled, controlling her rapidly increasing breaths, "you've never seen me like this is that I've never been like this before." It sounded stupid, but it was true. Toby nodded and they stood in silence. CJ laughed an empty, hollow laugh. "I don't know what's got into me Toby."

"Whatever it is, I'll kill him for it." His voice rose a little towards the end, CJ mused that it was nice to know that at least her best friend cared, and that not all men were utterly useless.

"Don't think you'll get there before me." The regular CJ found her voice, her strength and resolve somehow briefly returned. Toby released her, and they went about the day. The feeling of rejection and loss hung around her neck like a lead weight, it pulled her down and she dreaded the following evening when she would finally be alone in her apartment. She knew it would feel empty without an agent there. Moreover, she knew that somehow, it would be nothing short of terrifying without him there.

Ephar was over twelve hours away by plane, and Simon hated every moment of it. He was sat alone; the two seats next to him in economy had been left empty. These flights were the sorts that were only full on the way back. Food wasn't something he could face, the air hostess kindly advised that he ought to eat something, but Mr Orson politely told her his stomach wouldn't hold it. Eric Orson was a nervous flier, he worked for an oil company as an auditor, and was being sent out to check the refineries. The plastic smile warmed to the dishevelled suit sat by the window. He felt her pity and inside scolded himself. Even a stranger's false pity wasn't worthy of him now.

The view from the plane was spectacular, the colours vibrant and the world vast below. Mr Orson stared at it blankly; it was as if he were colour-blind. He didn't blink until his eyes got painfully dry. As he sat alone, the air con would send wafts of her scent washing over him and every time he felt worse and further detached from reality.

In the tiny on board bathroom, the harsh strip light highlighted his haggard unshaven face. He ought to clean up. The standard issue electric razor was heavy in his hand. Running it slowly over his cheek, he lost sight of the point to his action. No one was going to appreciate the feel of his smooth skin, no one was going to care how he looked: not now. The buzz of the little machine sharply ceased, he left himself with the shadow of a goatee. He wanted to leave it all behind, he needed to be different: he was Eric Orson.

Landing in the Ephari capital, Shuphis was something Simon remembered too vividly. His debt was still outstanding, and although he hated what had happened in New York, nothing could change him on his word. His word was final. There are very few principles one can comfort one's self with when you kill for a living. Simon lived to protect, any protection involves the very real possibility stopping a life short. Every soldier cares for a soul. Every bodyguard is fighting for someone.

It had been nearly twenty years ago. A young company of Rangers in a hostile land and as fate would have it – disaster came upon them. The fire had rained down on them as they patrolled the village they were sent to quietly protect – the genocide they were trying to secretly prevent. These people were black pagans, white colonists wanted to stamp them out. America silently stood up for the freedom of these people, in one of the most secretive wars of modern history.

The village of Duharl was becoming a refuge for the wounded. The American soldiers were kept on the fringe of the small community, according to the religious laws of that time. They were a fascination to the children, although it was strange to be welcoming white men with their rifles. The fighting had quietened down, the Rangers made friends with the kids who surrounded their feet.

Simon Donovan had made friends with a little boy whose father had died. The little boy was the head of the village. Jeremiah was ten years old. In the midst of the peace, a brutal attack threatened to take the last stronghold of the area and remove the heir to the resistance. The Rangers fought valiantly, and through bitter bloodshed and loss, the village and their kid leader remained.

The cry of pain had consumed him inside, on the battlefield, you hear death at every instant, but when they voice belongs to your best friend, there is no training that can prepare you for it. Ferdinand Miles was slumped against a tree, blood oozed through his uniform. His brown eyes were wide as he clutched his leg. Another bullet had ripped through his right biceps, lodging itself in the young soldier's jawbone. Donovan carried his friend to relative safety. He applied a battle dressing to his ailing comrade.

Only out of the corner of his eye had he caught a glimpse of the movement, the metal and his undeniable fate. It was another western bayonet. A little boy, too young to know the truth of fear, knowing in a way older than his years the reality of death, had seen it sooner. It was his blood that stained the steel. The owner of the blade lived only long enough to see the horrified look on the young soldier's face. Miles sat shaking, holding his smoking side arm. Jeremiah lived by virtue of the gods, but Simon's life would never again be the same. The honour a Ranger held in his own name, in that of his country and the custom of the people in battle bound his soul to the life of a little boy. The scar on the child's neck would be a mark of his word, his word that would be for life.

Now the full-fledged successor of his father, Jeremiah in his thirties now oversaw the capital city. He was still fighting the white men, only now it was political; the knives only came out in the shadows. A feared man, his unsightly scar made him an imposing figure, he was seen as politically just, yet personally ruthless.

Eric Orson battled his heavy duffel of belongings and equipment through the basic security, into a personnel Jeep. There had been a man waiting, dressed in the uniform of the oil company. Greeting had been nothing more than a nod and a grunt in the Ephari tongue. They were silent for the hour's journey to the outskirts of the city. The arrived at their destination; it was on a plain, backing onto one of the jungle forests that were dotted sporadically over the country. A western style fenced off ex-pat camp stood as a mark of mankind's intrusion on nature, looking menacing with it's guard towers and chain link fences upon the backdrop of a seemingly endless dust plain. The complex sat as a front over a network of tunnels that were the safe haven of the leader of the indigenous freedom fighters.

The first free elections were coming up in a year; it was a challenge, a chance for the whites to come to a true and formidable power. Jeremiah was running against them. A year from then, he and his cabinet would either require asylum in the US to take stock and try again another year, or he would be President of a free country.

The men greeted one another like brothers in a hot, grubby underground tunnel. They were brothers in blood. A feast was laid on for the American's arrival – he ate heartily, forcing the precious food down out of respect. The night came and finally Simon was allowed to retire. He fled the banquet to his own quarters. The room was a dugout attached to the leader's room. They were the only two with steel reinforcement in the ceiling; they were the only two with an escape route from the underground network. The bed was made from three wooden crates pushed together, with straw bedding and rough blankets and a sandbag as a pillow. The walls were damp with the humidity from human bodies. Simon felt it was what he deserved. He welcomed the harsh conditions. Standing silently in reflection, he failed to notice Jeremiah's towering presence in the small doorway.

"How is your peace, Simon?" The older man turned as he heard the thick words of the Ephari tongue.

"I am always happy to see you." Simon's grasp of the language was good, and it was flooding back to fluency.

"Brother, do not lie. You are not happy."

"No."

"I remember when you were young, you used to smile."

"So did you." Simon turned and faced the other man; they stood, both trying to discern the others' pain. "I haven't felt like this in so long." Simon conceded as he sharply ripped the material of his shirt. The sound of the tearing material reverberated through the semi-darkness. Jeremiah bowed his head at the ancient statement of anguish.

"Breathe slowly, brother." A figure that would potentially be the most powerful person in the country stood comforting the man sent to protect him. He whispered a prayer.

"I am not worthy of your prayer tonight."

"You are worthy to me." There was no argument, Simon's life would always be worthy; it was the carrier of his word.

The men sat in a darkened room, a crate made a small table between them and they sat on the floor, in the dirt. A bottle of native spirit stood with two shot sized glasses. They drank. Jeremiah spoke about politics and his family. Simon told him of Ferdinand, how his family had a wonderful father and how he had been adopted into their family as Uncle Simon. It was a beautiful thing, he said, after the loss of his parents, to find that love. The subject of love; Jeremiah had seven wives, all of whom he loved dearly, all of whom gave him children who he loved fiercely.

"What do you know of love, brother? You don't wear a ring any more."

"I got a divorce."

"Why?"

"I lost my Mother to cancer, I went away on tour. I came back and she was gone. It was that simple. We didn't even fight." The younger man was confused; it was beyond him how love deep enough for marriage could fail.

"We were young." Simon shrugged. He accepted it now. That was it. At the time it had been a different story, but now it was done and she had been gone for so long, her face no longer haunted him in his dreams.

"And now, that you are old?"

"Something real found me."

"You love her?"

"Yes."

"She is waiting for you to return."

"No."

"Why?"

"I left her before dawn yesterday. I said goodbye." Jeremiah said nothing more, saying goodbye in Ephari meant forever. Jeremiah knew as well as anyone that a man in the face of death does things that any other man would never consider; forsaking love was one such act. It was a comfort to him to know that his bodyguard knew the reality of the situation, but all the same, he wanted to share the burden of the pain. He poured another glass of the black, foul smelling liquid. They drank to love. The alcohol burning all the way down into his chest filled his heart with burning remorse and flaming frustration at fate, and at God.

Hours passed, the bottle of vicious spirit grew empty. Simon Donovan had not been this horribly drunk in a long time. As he collapsed onto his hard bed, he remembered the last time had been when Aimee has so cruelly left him. Ripping the folded paper from his chest, he starred at CJ, praying with silent words that the Ephari gods would spare him from the judgement from the hurt he tossed her into; that he might return to her and see that smile once more.

TBC-