Authoress' Note-Hello, again! It's so great to be writing this again. I love these characters!! Eamon is my favorite, even though you guys don't know very much about him. You'll find out soon! La de da… enjoy!!

"Here," Christopher held her hand out to Eamon, the trace of a smile gracing her soft crimson lips.

"Thanks" he groaned as he grasped her hand and pulled himself up. Her hand was rough to his touch, her fingers covered in calluses. She made to pull her hand away, but he held onto it, turning it upward so he could look at her palm. Scars ran along her palm along with the small wrinkles it the skin; they stood a bright white on her tan hands. Christopher quickly pulled her hand back, burying them in the long sleeves of her dress.

"Why does such a lady have such worn hands?" he asked, smiling at her slightly, trying to make light of the situation.

"I just did a lot of hard labor at the monastery," she replied, looking away from his beautiful eyes, a blush rising on her cheeks.

"They really shouldn't be having a girl do all the work," he replied indignantly.

"It's nothing," she replied, sitting back down in front of the chipped bowl filled with the gray colored mess of porridge. Eamon followed suit, blowing on each spoonful before gently licking the sticky mess off the spoon.

Christopher sighed as she took a small spoonful, and gingerly took a small bite. It was rich, full of brown sugar, honey, and raisins, it's sweet, oat-y flavor dancing on her tongue slowly followed by a milky taste. She quickly took another large spoonful, and sighed contentedly.

"What? I mean, it's good, but not that good," Eamon stared inquisitively at her. Her face wore a smile, and her cheeks were rosy from the heat of the porridge. She looked like she was heaven and it confused him, as to why this porridge seemed to have this affect on her.

"At the monastery, the food was very bland, mainly oats soaked in warm water. I just love the… flavor this porridge has, silly isn't?" she asked, smiling at him apologetically.

"No… no, that's fine, just curious," he replied quickly, so quick that when he closed his mouth, the tip of his tongue got caught between his teeth, and it quickly drew blood, the coppery liquid filling his mouth.

"Well, just be careful, curiosity kill the cat," she replied smartly, quickly indulging in yet another spoonful of porridge.

"Heh, but satisfaction brought him back," he replied back, wiping the blood off his tongue.

"You, Eamon, are too smart for your own good," she chided, shaking a finger at him like a mother to her son who just stole a cookie.

"Better to smart then too dumb, eh?" he replied, grinning at her lopsidedly.

"Funny, very funny," she replied sarcastically. She had taken an almighty bite of porridge, finished her bowl and walked it to the cook, who took it with ham hock sized hands. He just grinned at her with what teeth he still had and she quickly walked out of the small mess hall, and made her way up to the deck.

She hated the feeling of being contained, and being stuck in a matchbox sized room was not helping. The moment she stepped onto the large deck, the wind hit her, blowing her skirt around her ankles, and sending her hair into a frenzy, as it danced crazily around her body. She shuddered, as the frigid wind seemed to go straight through her, chilling her to the bone. Her dress did little to keep the elements out, and she pulled her black cloth shawl closer around her shoulders as she made her way to the bow of the boat, her boots clanking awkwardly on the steel deck.

"Hey!" A voice called out to her. She spun around, to face Eamon. His short hair was blowing about as the strong eddies of wind whipped at him. His leather jacket snapped in the air as it too was thrown about from the breeze. His face was flushed from the cold, and also probably because it looked like he had ran to the deck on the steep steel stairs.

"Hay is for horses," she replied, and instantly regretted it. That was what Sister Evelyn would always say to her when she was younger, and she had long since promised to herself that she would never do so herself. Well, she just broke that promise.

"Damn," she muttered to herself as she pushed her hair out of her face so she could see the young man. He was very skinny, with large hands and feet, very lanky, but lean. He was strong, but he didn't look it. But then again, neither did she.

"And you say I'm too smart for my own good?" he asked, smiling at her.

"Hmpf," she muttered as she sat down on one of the crates and she just stared at her boots, no emotion evident on her face.

"What, don't tell me you're out of steam now," Eamon replied sarcastically, but Christopher just looked up at him with a sad sort of smile and just sighed.

"I guess you're right, Sister Evelyn was right," she muttered as she then turned her gaze to her palms, she stared at the scars and the winkles and just sighed deeply, her breath making her bangs flutter out from her face, and the wind slowed down, to nothing but a pleasant breeze.

"About what?" he asked as he tied his shoe, as his laces had untied themselves in ways he did not know.

"About everything, I guess," she muttered, and she just looked up to face Eamon, who had collapsed comically to sit on the crate in front of her. Their eyes met and Eamon just got this terrible sense of sadness from her. Her lips were almost always slightly frowning; the corners tugged down from the weight painful memories.

He had never guessed that she would have been like this. He remembered writing to his old friend, Father Johnson, and asking if he knew where he could find a good partner. The reply was simple, saying that he knew the perfect assistant for him, and that all he needed to do was come to the monastery. He had to admit, he was skeptical, as his good friend had done something like this to him before, promising information on a demon, when all he really wanted was to see him.

But this girl in front of him was real, just as promised, and now was in his care and he began to doubt his decision. She was powerful, for sure. But she was very alive, with emotions and feelings that he could never understand. The clouds parted for an instant, filling the scene with sudden warmth, as golden light replaced the cold silver that was filling the air.

The scene was of a young girl, unsure of herself and what she could do, and a boy, contemplating if he was really ready for this. The breeze was gentle, and all it did was gently tease their hair and clothing, causing nothing more then a slight chill to ebb into them.

"Why, why did you want me as an assistant?" Christopher asked suddenly, surprising her companion.

"Because," he replied, not wanting her to press for the answer, afraid of what its affects might be.

"Because why?" she inquired as she did her best to try to decipher what he was thinking.

"I heard you were skilled in ways that I might never be," he replied truthfully, and soon after, he bit his tongue to keep it still. He felt this urge to tell her everything, as it seemed to will his tongue to talk all on its own.

"So, you're no different," she muttered silently, as she stared glumly at her palms again.

The wind picked up again, and Eamon shuddered, pulling his jacket closer around him. He just hunched over his knees, willing the cold to leave his body, but knowing it wouldn't.

"You're cold?" she asked, and he just laughed slightly to himself. Of course he was cold, and he knew she must be too, as he heard her shawl rustle again.

"Just a bit."

Christopher sighed, knowing just what to do. She closed her eyes, placing her palms to the sky, and she took in a steadying breath. Eamon looked up to see her focusing on what, well, he didn't know, but he was curious. An unseen wind swirled around her, sending her hair flying straight up, reaching to the heavens. Her brow furrowed from concentration, and Eamon watched as a small orange ball, the size of a pea, hovered over her palms.

"What are you…?" He trailed off as the small orange ball grew, and he felt warmth radiate off of it, twisting around his body like some sort of snake. He sighed in relief, and as he stared at the ball, he realized just what she was doing; hovering above her palms was a ball of fire, now about the size of a grapefruit, and she opened her eyes, smiling slightly at him.

He sat there, the warmth washing across him, and he realized this was the power that the Father had told him about, and he felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth, but it was stopped as he heard behind him, someone speak.

"Well, well, well, an exorcist and a conjurer? You're all headin' to 'merica, right? Too bad you'll be arrivin' in cedar boxes!" a young voice spoke out behind him in a slow drawl.

Eamon spun around and Christopher stood up fast, and they felt themselves staring at a large gang of sailors, led by a young man in fine clothing, holding a sword in his left hand.

Eamon herd Christopher groan, and he knew just what she was thinking.

"Damn."

-There we go, well tell me what cha' think!! Wuv ya! Bye!