DISCLAIMER: X-Men:Evo belongs to Warner Bros. And Marvel Comics. I have never, and shall never own them, no matter how much I may want to. I've simply warped them to fit my own twisted mind. However, this fic and any original work herein is officially mine, and anyone trying to steal it will find out how painful a weapon a computer mouse can when used by someone with imagination.

WARNINGS: This is an AU (Alternative Universe) fic. Everything has been transplanted into a fantasy universe of my creation. Inspirations, despite what you might initially think, aren't actually from a certain Peter-Jackson-esque film, since I started work on this before I ever *saw* that movie. Influences rather include InterNutter's spiffy fic 'Mein Teuful' (if you haven't yet read this then go do it *now*!) and various other sources I'll explain later.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Not much to say this time, except to apologise for the lateness of this chapter. I've just started at University, and the workload is intense (as members of InterNutter's NutBoard well know.) Still, I've uploaded this instalment as best I can, and I hope people enjoy it. Also, a great big thank you to Radical Nike, who is hosting this fic on her spiffy webpage 'Out Of Body'. If anybody fancies a look-see, then go to http://www.eccentrix.com/members/RadicalNike/home.htm . Also, I'm making a web-wide appeal for artwork for 'Of Beast And Blade'. *Please*, donate your art to Radical Nike and she'll put it up on her page. Even if it's just a random little doodle you did when you were bored in class, I'd really appreciate it, (I have no shame when it comes to this kinda thing!)

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'Of Beast And Blade' By Scribbler
Chapter Five ~ 'Conversations By Moonlight'

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'Every life has a measure of sorrow, and sometimes this is what awakens us.' ~ Steven Tyler

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They travelled all day, sometimes walking, sometimes falling into something between an amble and a stride, but always moving, and most of the time in silence. Kitty was by far the most outspoken of the three, but after a while even she was forced to give up and resign herself to taciturnity. Rogue stalked along with her usual veiled poise, and Kurt spent much of his time on all fours, worryingly silent and morose and totally unlike himself.

By nightfall, it was a footsore and weary trio that found themselves deep in the heart of the forest that straddled the border between Germania and Österrik.

It was dark when Kitty finally decided she'd had enough. Leaning against an ancient, knarled tree, she folded her arms and said loudly: "That's it. I'm, like, totally stopping right here."

Kurt paused, one hand hanging in the air in the manner of a dog halted mid-step. Rogue carried on for a few paces before also stopping and turning round.

"What did y'all say?" she asked softly, a strained edge to her already dangerous voice.

"You said we had to travel all day. You never said, like, anything about at night too." Kitty closed her eyes. "I'm staying right here until sunrise. I couldn't take another step even if I tried."

Kurt glanced at Rogue, gauging her expression, but the darkness of the thick woodland was almost all consuming even to his acute vision, and she was standing in shadow. He could make out neither her face beneath her hood nor what stance she was taking. He guessed it was a combat position.

He guessed right. With a 'snikt' of metal, Rogue rushed like silent death incarnate from the gloom, pushing Kitty up against the tree and holding a dagger to her throat.

"Listen, *Changeling*!" The antipathy in her tone was unmistakable. "We'll rest when I say we rest. And even if we were to stop now, no way would we just lie down on the ground here and go to sleep. Ain't you got a single grain of sense in you? Perfect way to get yourself ambushed and killed!"

"Rogue, please. Not again," Kurt sat on his haunches a few feet away, absently washing his face cat-style with his tongue and left hand. Despite this seemingly nonchalant movement, his golden eyes were fixed on the two females with a tired, hunted look to them. "She's right, you know. To tell the truth, I don't know if I can go on much longer without collapsing myself."

Rogue twisted to look at him over her shoulder. With a derisive snort at their twin weakness, she dropped Kitty, stabbing the blade back into its scabbard in her belt.

Kitty, with her characteristic indiscretion, took this as some sort of victory over the ex-assassin, and treated it as such.

"So, since you seem to know all there is to know, where are we gonna sleep then?"

Rogue tightened her jaw, biting back to war cry she so desperately wanted to unleash as she dived to cut the infuriating girl's heart from her chest. She could almost feel it, pulsing in her hands, ribbons of crimson juice dribbling deliciously through her fingers as she watched the shrimp's mouth open and close in her final, dying gasp. So real. So tantalizingly close....

"Rogue," Kurt warned her, anticipating the line her musings were taking.

Rogue growled. A real, animal, feral growl that bubbled deep in her throat and rippled her top lip. The blue furry boy stared, and something in his sorrowful gaze quelled the burning anger boiling in her gut, turning it into a mild rumbling, and then dousing it completely.

She sighed. How could he do that? It wasn't the first time on this journey he'd brought her violent tendencies to cessation. But what intrigued her was how he never used force to do it. Never raised his voice or his hand. Damnit, he only ever had to say her name and look at her the right way for her to cave in and let her choler go. What in all the Seven Hells was happening to her that he was able to do this with just those damn mournful eyes of his?

~I must be losing mah edge,~ she mused, not at all pleased with the thought. ~I ain't gonna last long against Them if this keeps up.~

"Hello, am I like, invisible or something?" Kitty reminded them of her presence. "Where are we like, gonna sleep, already?"

Rogue looked up, and both Kitty and Kurt followed her gaze into the leafy branches of the overhanging foliage. Kitty's mouth dropped open. "Oh no!" she squealed. "No way are you like, getting me up *there*!"

"And why not?" Rogue snarled, traces of her anger returning.

"It's a tree."

"And? Your point is?"

"It's.... like.... it's a *tree*!"

"I fail to see what your problem is."

"I can't climb in a skirt. Plus, who knows what's up there. This might be home to a bear, or wildcat, or worse." She shuddered. With her specialist knowledge of fabled creatures she knew better than anyone what 'worse' entailed.

Kurt paused in his washing and scampered over to the tree trunk. Resting his hands upon it, he took in a deep breath of the cool night air. "Kätzchen, your fears are valid, but I can assure you, there's nothing up there but a few squirrels. I'd know if there was something dangerous, believe me." He tapped at the side of his sensitive nose.

"Your nose knows, does it?" Kitty attempted a joke. It fell flat. "But, like, how am I gonna get up there?"

"Oh for the love of the gods, you climb it!" Rogue groaned. "What else? Unless you can fly as well as phase?"

"In a skirt? I don't think so!"

"Look, Kätzchen, I'll go up first if that's what's bothering you." Kurt scurried up the rough bark with practised skill. Soon he was looking down on them from a thick branch more than twenty feet above.

Kitty was still unsure. "Well, I don't know. It's.... it's real high. Perhaps I'll just stay on the ground."

"Like hell you will!" Rogue bristled. "Listen, shrimp. I don't understand why, but the elf likes you, so I'll tell you this now instead of killing you outright. If ya'll stay on the ground, you'll most likely die. Now get your ass up that tree afore I get to spikin' it with mah sword to make it move faster. Is that clear enough for you?"

Kitty shrank back, trepidation evident in her stammerings. "But I...."

"Kätzchen?"

She yelped as Kurt's voice sounded close by her ear. Spinning round, she saw him clinging, head pointing downwards, to the uneven brown skin of the tree. He looked at her, expression probing.

"Are you scared of heights?"

Kitty blushed and averted her eyes. "Uh-huh."

"Oh for the sake of Plechtoh and his brother Kirkus!" cursed Rogue.

"Would you like me to help you up?" Kurt extended one three-fingered hand. Kitty stared charily at it.

"I'll fall," she whispered; all loud bravado vanished in the face of his perceptive discovery.

"No you won't. I'll be there for you. I won't let you fall," Kurt coaxed, voice soft and face softer.

"You sure?"

"Ja."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Well...." For a moment more she hesitated, and then tentatively took his hand. He closed his oddly shaped fingers around her pathetically small and fragile ones, blue fur stark against her flesh.

Kurt smiled winsomely. "Don't worry. I've got you. A promise is a promise, remember?" he cajoled as she hesitantly began the vertical ascent. "Just don't look down and you'll be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, kleine Sache."

Slowly - so painstakingly slowly that it almost hurt - but surely, they climbed together, Kurt staying near the trembling girl for moral support, and Rogue - at a meaningful glance from him - scaling delicately behind her to reduce her fear of falling.

At last they reached their destination. When they were about forty feet up, Rogue looked about her and muttered, "That's enough. Ya'll can stop now."

Kurt adeptly chose a branch sturdy enough to take their weight and guided Kitty to it, wedging her in its crook for extra comfort. She gazed up at him, blue eyes shining.

"I did it. I really did it," came her delighted murmur.

"Well done, Kätzchen," he returned, "Well done."

Rogue watched them from a few branches away. Because of her armour she was heavier than they were, and so was forced to assume another, 'private' bough for herself rather than sharing. It suited her fine. She didn't like company at the best of times, let alone when it was those two.

Yet something kept pulling her gaze towards them, drinking in their small, insignificant triumph with thirsty eyes. As if somewhere deep inside her she wished she could share in it....

She shook her head. What an absurd concept. Sharing in such a petty victory. She had better things to do with her time.

Rogue tilted her head back, letting her hood collapse to her shoulders. The night air was cool and soothing on her face after the stuffiness of her cowl. She wished she didn't have to wear the thing so much, but she had to if she wanted to stay unrecognisable and alive. Anonymity was the key to survival when you were being tracked by the best of the best, and she hadn't exactly been keeping a low profile lately.

She stared up into the foliage above her. The trees they were nestled in were Elevada trees, and extended at least another fifty feet into the sky, trunks thick and sturdy right the way up, and tapering off to a curious curl at the top, unique in the fauna world.

It was too dark to see right now, but she would stake her life that this particular tree was over a hundred years old, although it was difficult to tell without being able to see the age spirals on the bark.

It was common knowledge that the older an Elevada tree got, the closer together these intricate spirals etched into its hide became.

Idly, she ran her fingers across its rough surface, brushing the ivy that encircled it in an ever-tightening clasp.

A sudden thought struck her. "Hey, you two! Ya'll can't sleep yet!"

"Why not?" mumbled Kitty, already snuggled into her crook with her arms wrapped round her and showing no intentions of moving.

"We have to set up a watch. Basic survival procedure."

"Too.... Tired," the younger girl yawned, covering her gaping maw with one hand, "Can't keep my.... ||yawn||.... eyes open."

"I'll take the first shift," Kurt offered.

"Fine. Then shrimp can have the next, and I'll take last watch." Rogue replied. ~The elf's eyes are probably better in the darkness anyway.~

Kurt knuckled away from Kitty's drowsy form to a spot where he could see the forest floor better. There he sat, tail curled around the thick branch as best it could, still as a statue, fading into the background despite his dissimilar colouring.

Rogue settled down for some well-earned rest. Not that she'd ever have admitted it to the others, but she was virtually dead on her feet too, and it was only through sheer force of will that she'd managed to keep going this long.

Her eyelids drooped by themselves, enveloping her world in comforting blackness. Gratefully she sank back into its numbing embrace, losing herself in the blanket of sleep.

Silence once again reigned supreme in the forest, watched over by mournful golden eyes.

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In the Copper Cow silence also governed, but it was silence of a different kind.

It was the silence that follows death.

A figure sat at one of the tables, absently swigging at a mug of ale. He swilled the liquid around his mouth, before callously spitting it onto the floor. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he threw the beaker after it, watching it shatter against the wall with such force that it left a spider-web of cracks in the plaster.

The figure leaned back in his chair. He was so big that he spilled out of it in several places. Yet he wasn't fat. Rather, his general frame was broader than the average man's, and endowed with muscles far greater than one could have thought possible for such a decidedly sleek form. His entire demeanour spoke of veiled, savage strength, the likes of which is rarely, if ever, seen in a mortal body.

From his posture, it was plain that he was aware of this fact, and revelled in it.

He clasped his hands to the back of his head, rocking backwards on two legs of the seat in a blasé fashion. He knew he should be going, but he liked this little place with its quaint atmosphere and homely ambience. Even if the staff were a little.... 'uncooperative.'

He chuckled - not a nice sound. He'd soon dealt with that little problem though.

A slight figure slid from the gloom, moving as shadow does. Silent and virtually unnoticed. He crept closer to the huge man, stepping carefully over the mounds sprawled on the floor and avoiding the crystallized patches of moisture dotted about them.

"Cap'n?" he whispered. "Cap'n, sir."

The giant of a man swivelled his head and fixed a steely gaze on the slender individual. "Yes?" he drawled.

The little figure swallowed. "Excuse me for askin', Cap'n, but shouldn't we be movin' on?"

The 'Cap'n' looked away again, as if the scrawny male was hardly worth his time. "We will. Just not yet. What's the matter? Don't you like it around here?"

The smaller one swallowed nervously again, unsure how to answer. His superior was famous for having a temper that flared up for no apparent reason, and when it did, the results were always devastating. He didn't particularly want to become the next casualty of 'war'.

"No, no, Cap'n, sir. Not at all. I just thought...." he trailed off.

The brawny man closed his eyes. Really, these idiots they'd given him to work with. Some of them were barely even kids, not at all suitable for a mission like this. He could scarcely remember their names sometimes. The one talking at the moment was called Hariq, or some other such dense name. He wondered what his Title was. Hariq the Stutterer seemed apt right now.

"You're not here to think, you're here to follow my orders. Now get back to the others and drink and eat your fill whilst you can. If she's going where I think she's going then there's no need to hurry. She's making our job easier. We can take our time. Enjoy the scenery a little. Experience the culture of the city," he chuckled. Then his expression became menacing. "Now get going, if you know what's good for you."

The one known as Hariq scurried away, anxious to leave the older man as quickly as possible. He hadn't even *wanted* to be a part of this mission. He'd have been quite happy training back at the Guild, but his mentor had put him forwards for this assignment without his prior knowledge.

Once it was announced that he had been chosen to go there was nothing he could do about it. It was total taboo to argue with either a mentor or the council when they'd made a decision about something. *Especially* now that a bad wind was blowing amongst the councillors themselves. They hadn't the time to deal with petty squabbles and disputes, what with the Silver Sword's forces moving more men in every day.

Headquarters was in chaos most of the time these days. Still, even that would have been preferable to this walking on eggshells in the field all the time. Hariq glanced back over his shoulder. His superior wasn't called Emilios the Savage for nothing.

Emilios heard the boy patter away and yawned. A wide yawn that revealed two rows of razor sharp teeth and stretched his jaw to near-inhuman proportions. Then again, he wasn't exactly human any more.

Opening copper-coloured eyes, he stared at his hand. It was large, yet sleek, belying the crushing grip it could deliver at a moment's notice beneath waves of shaggy taupe fur. He flexed his fingers, studying the lethal claws tipping each one. Several were stained deep red from his earlier activities.

His distinctly feral-like mouth twitched into a wry smile at the memory. Oh how that fat little Pebehock and his scraggy offspring had squealed. Like a little piglets running about in terror when the farmer approaches.

He remembered what it had felt like to split them open and watch the delicious scarlet fluid run through his fur. The rich smell still hung in the air, mixing with the smoke fumes already present to form a kind of hazy drug. Luscious and deadly.

Yet mixed with it was another scent. That of the one Emilios hated most in the world.

Him.

Logan.

His lips inadvertently creased into a silent snarl. Logan. He didn't even have to say the name aloud to feel the filth inside his mouth. It tasted bitter on his tongue, and he spat a gob of saliva onto the floor in disgust.

Logan.

He'd been here. In this very building. Emilios had told the council that Kaju was still alive, but they wouldn't believe him. A few spots of blood and an eyewitness saying they'd skewered him on the end of a spear was enough for them. They'd neglected to remember that Logan was a Wolverinnen. They'd forgotten that Wolverinnens have such awesome healing abilities that in olden times people believed that they'd arisen from the dead after a fight in which they had been 'killed' by their opponent.

Emilios hadn't forgotten.

And Emilios would never forget Logan. Never. Not until the day the Wolverinnen truly died.

Or he did.

That was really the only reason he'd taken this mission. When they wouldn't let him chase after the 'dead' Logan, he'd had to settle for the next best thing. His pupil.

She was a wanted fugitive now, and there had been no shortage of volunteers to track her and put her to ritual death. However, the decision had been made the very moment Emilios walked into the council chamber and proclaimed that *he* would like the honour of removing the one so audacious as to defy the ancient rules of the Guild of Assassins.

At the time, he'd only just returned from being 'altered' and his startling new appearance had cowed the councillors into accepting his request, no questions asked.

Emilios perused his hand again. He certainly had changed from the weedy little Pebehock of old. Gone were the weak human limbs and paltry muscles. Replaced instead by the strong, hardy limbs of a....

Of a what?

He blinked. That was a very good question. He wasn't human anymore; that was for sure. Yet there was no official name for what he was. He supposed lycanthrope might have come close, if it weren't for his shrewdness and sentience and distinctly un-wolf-like body. The only thing he and wolves had in common were fangs and claws, and he'd wager anybody his were much, *much* sharper.

A frighteningly astute mind lay behind those savage, copper eyes. Calculating and cold, it was incongruous to the bestial body that enclosed it. A last remnant of the man he used to be.

Emilios frowned. He wasn't that man anymore. This mission, and all it involved, signified the death of that persona, and the beginning of a fresh one in his new and improved body.

Absently he ran his tongue over his fangs, a habit he'd adopted when deep in thought. Those 'scientists' had done a good job of improving him. He couldn't have designed this form better if he'd tried, although blades like Logan's would have been a welcome addition to his already deadly claws.

The price to pay for all this raw power and strength had been so simple and easy to arrange that it was almost laughable.

And laugh he did. A short sharp laugh that echoed inside the empty public house and caused the clutch of three smaller assassins to startle at their table in the corner.

One of them glanced at his neighbour and quiescently mouthed the word "Mad". His neighbour nodded vigorously in agreement. Emilios the Savage hadn't been quite the same since he returned from Belvedere. Before, he'd been famed for his quick mind and even quicker temper, especially concerning his rivalry with Logan the Swift. Now he was renowned for his translated form, and mindless, unbridled savagery at the mere mention of the Wolverinnen's name. It was a foolish assassin who talked openly of the dead traitor when Emilios was around.

One of them sipped at his mug of ale. It was sweet, and tingled as it ran down his throat. He shivered. It wasn't often such luxury was allowed at Headquarters. The life of an assassin was a hard one, filled with dispossession and more near-death experiences than any other profession on the planet.

It was said that hardship quickened the mind and sharpened skills, so trainees were often deprived of even the most basic of comforts to improve them faster. Since Emilios' coerced band were all youths just out of training, they had little experience of the luxuries to be savoured in the outside world - alcohol among them.

Hariq leaned in closer to his two comrades. Working under such a volatile leader had forged a bond of mutual camaraderie between these three that was unusual in Guild circles, as assassins primarily work alone and don't have the opportunity to form such attachments.

"He said we'll go when he's ready and not before," Hariq whispered.

"I don't understand him," commented the tallest of the three, a lanky boy named Salfos, "He makes us travel for weeks without so much as a break, and then, just when we're close, he decides to bide his time? There's something up with that."

"Perhaps her really *has* gone mad," offered the third, a messy youth with tousled black hair, "I mean, you heard him when we walked in. Remember, when he started *sniffing* all of a sudden, like a dog. And when he had that fat guy with the red hair cornered. He asked him where Logan was. Logan the Swift's been *dead* for months. He was asking after a *dead* guy."

"I know," Salfos shook his head, "But I wouldn't advise saying that too loud, Pablo. We're here to follow his orders, not question his actions. You *know* what happens when you don't follow orders."

"Banishment," inserted Hariq softly, "Just like The Rogue. I couldn't do what she's done though. To defy the law, it's.... it's unthinkable."

"It's foolish," Salfos corrected him, "Especially when they've got guys like him to track you down." Surreptitiously, he jerked a thumb at Emilios. "I'd rather face a hundred hell-hounds than Emilios the Savage when he's angry. He could do more damage then all Seven Hells put together."

"Considering what he did to the innkeeper's son, that's putting it mildly," Pablo retorted, "Poor guy. He only came back for some money for the gate, you heard him say so yourselves."

"Such as life," Salfos said harshly.

"No, such as death."

"He should have cooperated, instead of begging. Everyone knows begging gets you nowhere."

"I suppose," Pablo was forced to concede.

Emilios deftly caught an annoying fly in one hand, crushing it to dust before it even had time to register that it had been caught. Several others buzzed around the pitiful heaps on the floor. He snagged another one that strayed too close, then abruptly became bored and closed his eyes once more. He was erratic that way.

He could hear the trio of youths' conversation clearly, though they thought they were quiet enough to escape his notice. He almost laughed again. Escape his notice? Not with the sensitive new hearing the 'scientists' had given him.

He was glad they feared him. He preferred it that way. He'd had several pupils, and he'd always made sure before anything else that they feared him. Fear was power. Fear led to victory.

And blood.

Absently he patted the sizable drawstring bag attached to his waist. It was a curious sack - bulky and oddly shaped. It bumped against him as he touched it, leaving a red stain on his fur. The bottom of it was soaked a deep, dark crimson. It had hung from his belt for hours now, but this wetness was still moist, and showed no signs of drying any time soon.

The last remnant of an earlier 'disobliging' person.

Emilios smiled, and then frowned again as his mind returned to the problem of his identity. He couldn't believe he'd missed it before. Identity was so important to all assassins! Perhaps it was because he'd been so busy tracking the outlaw. The chase had all but consumed him of late. Yes, that was it. There wasn't anything wrong with him. He'd just been preoccupied, that was all. Just preoccupied.

Somehow the niggling worry that had started up in the back of his brain wasn't abated by this explanation.

Emilios' nose twitched. Logan's scent was very distracting. It was almost like he was here, watching him. Laughing at him. His lip rippled as a wild growl rumbling in his throat. The three assassins looked up uneasily at him, but he didn't appear to have noticed the noise he was making.

His tongue returned to caressing his fangs. It slid over them lovingly. Each one was brilliantly sharp. Capable of cleaving flesh in two better than any blade. They were naturally honed to a wickedly sharp point, like the sabre he'd favoured as his chosen weapon in the days before he discarded it for the more dexterous claw.

He'd always preferred the sabre. It was light and agile; much better suited to his then-scrawny body than the heavy broadsword used by many warriors. Victims had laughed in his face when he threatened them with a sabre. That is, until he'd cut their tongues out with it. They hadn't been able to laugh after that.

All at once a thought struck him. The answer to his question of identity. It was so startlingly simple, yet descriptively ingenious that the growl died in his gullet, to be replaced by a bone-chilling chuckle.

He was no longer Emilios the Savage. That man was dead, and all that remained of him was his hate and his violence.

The figure in the chair smiled.

Emilios was gone.

Long live the Sabretooth.

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It was dark.

That was all she could see. Darkness.

She shivered, tucking her knees under her chin. Why was it so dark? So terribly, terribly black. Had something happened? Was there something wrong with the world that it had consumed itself in this horrible, numbing oblivion? She could barely feel her own limbs. The darkness had seeped into her skin, into her flesh, rendering it without sensation. Dead.

She was frightened.

Absurd really, but it was there all the same.

Fear.

Eating away at her soul. Poisoning her mind with its clasp. She whimpered. It was stupid. She had nothing to fear here but the darkness.

And the fear itself. That terrible, overwhelming and alien feeling, which pierced her soul and engulfed all rational thought until all she wanted to do was open her mouth and scream and scream to make it go away.

A chink of light appeared in her peripheral vision, and with great effort she twisted her deadened body to look at it. This speck of luminosity grew and swelled at an exorbitant rate, until it completely filled her sight.

Her eyeballs ached as sudden searing brightness beat down upon them, but she couldn't look away. Some inexorable force kept her turned towards the light, locking her muscles in one position, refusing her the right to stop looking at it - this salvation that had transmuted into such intense, senseless pain.

She wanted to scream, but her mouth wouldn't work. She wanted to run away, back into the darkness if it meant an end to this agony, but her legs weren't her own any more. She could only watch. A spectator as the rush of almost tangible white light devoured her.

The next thing she knew, someone *was* screaming, but it wasn't her.

She opened her eyes. She hadn't even realised they were closed until that moment. Staring about her, a gasp caught in her throat at the scene of devastation she found herself surrounded by.

It was a wasteland. Chunks of rock and random buildings told her this had once been a town or city of some description, but not any more. Now it was just a wilderness.

Constructions burned freely, and people wandered around them without direction. They were covered in black ash, and some were wounded; blood flowing liberally from various cuts and jagged gashes. They all seemed disorientated, milling about, not seeming to care about how dangerously close they got to the collapsing buildings.

She blinked. What was this? Where was she? What had happened to the darkness and the blinding light? She sat on the floor, knees still drawn up to her chest; but the ground was hot against her body. Hastily she scrambled to her feet, marvelling at how she could now move again. She swayed, light-headedness plunging her off-balance at the sudden change in altitude.

A smell of charred flesh permeated the air, sliding into her nostrils with carnal glee. She snorted, but it retreated further inside her, making her gag as it filled her throat. She coughed, but this involved opening her mouth, and the foul stench invaded her maw, spreading across her tongue until she felt like vomiting it away.

Suddenly a hand reached out and grasped her shoulder. She whirled round, only to be confronted with such a pathetic soul that it made her usually cold heart wrench within her chest.

A boy, just a little younger than herself, with dishevelled black hair and wide brown eyes. There was a large cut on his temple that was bleeding profusely, red fluid leaking down his face and dripping off his trembling jawbone. His clothes were burnt beyond recognition, and here and there scorched flesh could be seen peeking through, blistered and angry.

Yet it was his eyes that held her. She stared into them, reading the sorrow and pain written there. Such sorrow as should never be experienced by a person, especially someone as young as this boy. She could see shattered innocence in those soft brown orbs, buried beneath sadness so intense it was a wonder he hadn't broken beneath the weight, soul crushed into a thousand infinitesimal pieces.

It pained her, and, at the same time, also frightened her. Mentally, she berated herself. She shouldn't be frightened by something like this. She'd seen things much worse than this in her lifetime. Much worse. She shouldn't.... *couldn't* be scared.

But she was.

Dear gods, but she was.

He reached out towards her, and she saw that his hand was little more than a bloody stump. Fingers blown off in some kind of explosion, the remainder of his skin had been blemished by fire.

She skipped backwards, away from him, unwilling to be touched by such personified wretchedness and hurt.

He took a staggering step forwards, lurching on feet that seemed unsuited to him. His mouth opened, and an ephemeral whisper passed over his cracked lips; "Why didn't you do something?"

"What?" She was confused. Do something? Her? What was she supposed to have done?

"This is all your fault. You had the power to stop this from happening. Now all is lost," the boy intoned.

She shook her head, hair brushing her cheeks and shoulders as it swung back and forth. "No, no! How can you mean that? I didn't have nothing to do with this."

"You lie. This is your doing. Your fault. Your fault!" He took another step towards her, scowling. Then a brief expression of pain crossed his marred face, and he collapsed soundlessly at her feet.

She stared at him, at the widening pool of red around his skull. She didn't have to bend down to know that he was dead. A hand flew to her mouth. She'd seen death before, but never like this. Never so pathetically tragic as this single, insignificant youth lying forgotten in the dust.

Even as she watched, the corpse began to decompose. Flesh rotted away to reveal stark white bones, which in turn crumbled to dust that was blown away by the tugging wind until nothing remained of him. It was sickening, yet simultaneously fascinating in its alacrity.

An anguished squeal rent the air, "My son!"

Her eyes jerked up to see a peasant woman clad in a tattered shawl running towards her. This woman, too, was burned and covered in black ash, the light of despair glinting in her eyes.

She took yet another step backwards as the woman reached the spot and paused for a moment, looking about her in a bewildered manner. Then her haggard gaze fell upon the mound of rapidly vanishing powder that had once been the tragic boy, and the woman fell to her knees.

"My son! Oh, my son! What's become of you?" she wailed mournfully, picking up handfuls of the dust only to have it whipped away from her the moment she touched it. Her desperate cry rang out again as she tried to hold onto a small scrap, but all in vain. Soon there was nothing left of him but her mournful shouts and pathetic tears.

The girl dropped her gaze and turned to leave the peasant-woman alone with her grief, but a condemning voice abruptly sliced through the atmosphere, causing her to stop.

"You!" it screeched. She turned back to see the bedraggled woman pointing at her with one long, bony finger. "You did this. You killed my son!"

"No, I didn't," the girl protested. "I never did nothing."

"You did, you did!" the woman fairly screamed, "You killed him! You condemned us all to death, you monster!"

"I didn't do nothing!" the girl shouted back, her own voice cracking. She hadn't done anything. Why did people keep blaming her for all this destruction? It wasn't her fault. It wasn't!

"From sundown to sunup all will be blood, and the sky shall burn red with the flames of despair!" the older woman pronounced mournfully. "Remember that? You knew! And yet you did nothing to prevent it! Too caught up in your own affairs to see the bigger picture. Look at what your selfishness has done, you beast!"

The girl stared at where the woman indicated, up into the sky above them. It was an enraged, blazing red. Crimson clouds scudded along across a vermilion sky, and the very air itself seemed to breathe death and shining devastation. Her eyes took on the shape of new moons.

"But.... but I...." she stammered.

"Don't deny it. You knew, didn't you? *Didn't you*?"

She dropped her eyes, hiding behind a thick curtain of hair. "Yes, I knew about those words. But not all of it. Not all.... this." She gestured around at the patent calamity that had plagued the once-city. "I only ever saw part of the prophecy. I never knew.... I never knew...."

"Monster!" the peasant woman yelled at the top of her damaged lungs. The exertion sent her off into a coughing fit, and she fell forward onto her hands and knees, red liquid sputtering from her mouth with every spasm of her injured chest. "You.... foul monster!" She still gasped. "You admit it! You knew, and you did nothing! Nothing!"

"I didn't mean to! What was I supposed to do? I'm just one person. How much can one person do to make a difference in something as big as this?"

"Mon.... ster...." The woman's arms crumpled beneath her, and she plunged nose-first into the dirt, still accusing and cursing the individual stood before her. The girl knelt beside her, anxious to do something to help - to alleviate this feeling of inexplicable guilt pulsing inside her. She'd never felt anything like it before. Guilt was just not something she *did*. It wasn't her style.

The wounded peasant pushed her away, smearing blood on her pale face. The girl stared at her, reaching up to touch the sticky liquid so callously daubed on her. The woman glared with such hate and malice that it cut deeply, down to her very soul, laying her spirit open to the universe and all who chose to trample it.

She'd never felt so guilty or vulnerable before. Wordlessly, she rose to her feet and ran.

The woman's hoarse cries tolled in her ears. They followed her as she sped away, echoing inside her mind and gripping her psyche in an embrace so tight she felt sure she must burst or be squeezed to a bloody pulp from the inside out.

"Murderer! Murderer! Look what you did to us. You murdered before the coming of the glittering darkness, and you caused all the death that resulted from it, because you knew, and yet you did nothing! *Nothing*!"

She ran. Ran until she felt she could run no more, and had to force herself onwards through sheer force of will. Her feet thudded on the baked ground, and her bones jarred with each and every step.

She had to get away. Had to. This wasn't her fault. It couldn't be her fault. How could one person be to blame for all this? It just wasn't possible. She shook her head. They couldn't be right. They just couldn't.

Could they?

She almost cried out when she fell over the embankment. Such was her fervour to escape the peasant woman's mournful and accusing remonstrations that she didn't see the ridge, and pitched over the edge at full speed.

She tumbled head over heels, a flailing mass of limbs and entangled cloak rolling down the slope on the other side. By the time she reached the bottom she was completely entwined in her raiment, and spent a good few minutes extricating herself. When she did eventually look up, it took all her strength to keep from fleeing back up the bank again.

A small figure was knelt in the dust with her back to the slope. By the slender droop to the shoulders and tiny waist it was clear she was female. The red light of the sky encompassed her frail form, bathing her in an eerie, macabre light. Her hands were clasped to her face, and she was shaking as wrathful sobs ripped through her body. Strange dancing shadows flitted about her, making it hard to see more than a vague outline of her body against the stark backdrop of the barren wasteland.

The fallen girl stared, and had the most bizarre feeling that somehow she knew this person - though how was a mystery. She gaped for a few moments, trying to discern what this strange feeling of recognition meant. Yet nothing came to her. No illumination of sudden understanding dawned. It was still just her, wondering; like a small child at the immensity of the world when wandering outdoors for the first time.

Without really thinking what she was doing, the green-eyed girl rose to her feet and walked sedately over to the crying bundle. Upon reaching her side, she stared down at her and asked; "Why are you crying?"

The figure didn't even look up. "Because everything I held dear is gone."

"Gone? Everything?"

She nodded. "Uh-huh."

Her voice. It seemed so familiar, yet she couldn't put her finger on what it was. The cloaked girl knuckled down to sit beside the other individual, whose hands were still pressed against her face, tears leaking copiously between her fingers.

Silence stretched between them for many moments, punctuated only by the rasping breaths of the crying girl and the muted screams of people too near the burning buildings beyond the top of the ridge. Yet even these tortured yells seemed distant and far away, and the two females sat in taciturnity, neither one really looking at anything in particular, least of all each other.

Finally the weeping girl gave a long, juddering sigh. "Is it true, what they say?"

"Is what true?" the cloaked girl asked, although she already knew what the answer would be.

"That you knew this was going to happen. That you knew the danger was coming, but that you didn't tell anyone."

Silence. Then: "Kinda. I knew.... bits. Nothing like this though. What I knew was scratchy. Unclear. Nobody would tell me what it meant."

"Oh."

Again, that brooding silence. The cloaked girl shuffled slightly. She didn't like sitting still. It had always been part of her job, but she'd never felt comfortable doing it.

"I'm glad you say that."

"Why?"

"Because otherwise you'd feel guilty about him."

The green-eyed girl blinked, perplexed. "Feel guilty about who?"

"Him?"

"I still don't understand," she repeated, "According to all the others, I got plenty to feel guilty about. But according to you, I'll only feel guilty about 'him'. Who's 'him'?"

In answer, the girl extended one slender hand and pointed over another ridge a few feet away.

Puzzled, the cloaked girl rose and walked to the edge of it. It was a lot steeper that the previous one she'd tumbled down: nearly a cliff face, in fact. The valley below was swathed in shadows so thick they seemed impenetrable to the naked eye. She peered into them, trying to see what they concealed, what the girl meant for her to view. But she saw nothing. Nothing but darkness.

"I don't see anything," she called over her shoulder.

"Look harder," came the woeful reply.

She squinted into the gloom, narrowing her eyes until they were no more than slits. Was that....? Yes, she *could* see something. An outline. Faint in the murk. As she stared at it, it seemed to become clearer, as if lit by an inner light.

"I see something."

"No, not something," she almost jumped at the sudden presence of the crying female at her side. Her voice was infuriatingly familiar, but there was something altered about it. It lacked something in its flat, dejected tone, but she couldn't think what.

"Excuse me?"

"Not something," the weeping girl recurred tonelessly, "Someone."

The green-eyed girl swivelled to look at her, and at once her jaw dropped open as, in the light, she recognised who it was stood there. Her face was sallow and dull, her eyes hollow and lacking their usual vim and verve. There was no trace of audacity in her voice, but it was her all the same.

"Shrimp?"

She could hardly believe it. The shrimp? Here, in this dreadful, bleak place? How was that possible? How could that be?

Kitty only stared into the valley, her face impassive. Unreadable. "Someone." She whimpered softly.

An immense feeling of dread manifested in the cloaked girl's stomach, and suddenly she was afraid to look. Afraid to turn her head and see what lay in that roughly hewn basin.

Then her eyes began to move all by themselves. Some relentless force dragged at her eyeballs, compelling them to peer into the valley and see what it embraced in its receding shadows. She struggled, but the strange force was like fate - unchangeable and useless to fight.

A large pole stood there, jagged at its tip, like someone jumping upon it had broken it off. One end was embedded deep into the ground, and what jutted above the surface was at least twenty feet high. The wood was calloused and old, with large splinters breaking off in several places. It looked like it could collapse at any given moment.

Yet it wasn't the pole itself that claimed one's attention. Rather, it was what was attached to it.

Near the top, in a position that usually signified high status, but which now only communicated that this was the lowest of the low. At first it could be mistaken for a bundle of rags, blowing gently in the harsh breeze. Then, upon closer inspection, a body became discernable. Shattered and drooping, it hung there, tragically forgotten by the world that had driven the life from it. Its hands were tied, as were its bare feet. Thick twine cut into the yielding flesh, sending rivulets of blood coursing through the air, to fall and hit the ground so far below with little more than a small splash.

More blood spurted sporadically from its chest where it had been viciously impaled on the pole. Red fluid tarnished the thick timber above, showing where the corpse had slithered down until finally coming to rest where it now was.

Its head was flung back, and its tongue lolled lifelessly from its mouth, sharp teeth stained by the crimson that had bubbled up from its insides during its last breaths.

Its eyes were open, and seemed to stare at the top of the ridge where the two girls stood. Sad and accusing, these golden orbs mourned silently, watched over only by the burning red sky. The grief in them was soul crushing even in death. A sight that would never.... *could* never be forgotten by any who saw it. Such sad eyes that told their own tragic story; ironically set in their broken canvas of bloodstained blue fur....

"Not something. Someone." Kitty murmured again.

The cloaked girl opened her mouth and screamed.

*******************

Rogue awoke with a jolt. Her eyelids snapped open like coiled springs, and her breath came in short gasps as she sat paralysed in the crook of her branch.

Wide-eyed, she stared about her, thudding heart relenting a little as she realised where she was. Gone were the evil red sky and all the destruction it entailed. In their place was the familiar dimness of a forest at night. Comforting in its quiet and natural calm.

She sighed, releasing the pent up emotion that had collected in her chest and letting it dance away on the cool air.

She'd been dreaming. The same dream - no, the same nightmare - that had plagued her since she'd read that small fragment of ancient parchment so many months ago.

It had all seemed so innocent at the time. She'd not long been an outcast of the Guild, and had taken shelter in an abandoned house deep in the south. Shaking Sickness had long since rid the place of its inhabitants, leaving it open for any traveller such as herself to just waltz in and take advantage of its comforts and unintentional hospitality.

It had been foolish to trap herself thus, but she'd been so weak from hunger and exhaustion. Pickings were especially bad in rural areas, and she'd pushed herself too hard in an effort to escape from the pursuers she'd known the council were going to send after her.

Still, the stately house, with its spacious if ill-kept gardens and luxurious rooms had been a dangerous boon. A risk.

There had been signs all around of previous raiders. Such bounty did not go unnoticed for long. They'd all just taken what they could from the kitchens and pantries and gone, not bothering to investigate any further into the house.

Rogue, however, had, and as a result she'd come across a strange room, reserved for intellectual studies by the look of it.

It had intrigued her. Many were the times she'd been sent on missions against scholars and dangerous revolutionaries when she was still an assassin. Their research and varied texts had always absorbed her, and she was hence interested by what she found in that room.

So many scrolls, each one different and many written in curious languages she neither knew nor recognized from her travels. There had been one on the table that was particularly fascinating. It was scribed in some ancient, unknown language, and beside it was a scrap of parchment on which a rough translation had been begun. The contemporary version, which was entitled only 'Texts of Calorsiel', was incomplete, and she'd attributed that to the Shaking Sickness having claimed the translator before he or she could finish.

Intrigued, she'd read it, but hadn't understood it. The words were gibberish to her. Disturbing, disconcerting gibberish.

Then the raiders had come. A horde of unknown men who she'd assumed was the hunting party sent to execute her. The sight through the window of their many shields sliding through the open doorway below had startled her, as had the odd design upon the metal. It wasn't like the Guild to advertise their presence so blatantly with such a delicate and horrendously beautiful depiction. Blades were for using, not painting on shields.

Unwilling to fall so easily, but still too weak to fight them, she'd fled. Curiously enough, none of them followed her as far as she could tell, and it wasn't until weeks later that she became aware of a much smaller group of individuals tracking her movements.

It was not long after this narrow escape that the nightmares had started. Images in her subconscious that hearkened back to that fragment of translation, and turned her sleep into simply a sequence of dismal images, and which had eventually driven her to cross her own personal boundaries of taste and seek the aid of a seer, in the vague hope that doing so would help in her understanding of her dreams and banish them from her resting psyche.

Rogue sucked in a lungful of air to steady her thundering heartbeat. This proved that her visit and conversation with the Powers That Be had been worthless. The nightmare remained. It was still there, still the same.

But wait.... it wasn't the same. Well, it was the same, and yet it was different. Something new had been added to it.

She searched her memory, mind disorientated from her abrupt yank back into reality. Piece by piece the dream returned, causing her emerald eyes to widen as she recalled the horrific imagoes that had played out in her brain mere moments ago.

The shrimp, crying in the dust. Talking about feeling guilty about 'him'. Then the elf, trussed up and skewered on a pole, blank eyes gazing mournfully at her from where they'd sunk into their dead sockets.

Rogue swallowed, her throat dry. It had seemed so real. She could almost smell the stench of torched flesh, and hear the screams of those tortured souls trapped forever in that hellish place. She had to remind herself that it was just a dream. A figment of her imagination. Not true. She was here, safe in her lofty roost. Still on her journey, still with her two travelling companions alive and well. She was The Rogue. Fearless. The one who could withstand anything and come out of it unaffected. She'd seen people butchered since she was a small child, and committed murder herself dozens of times. One recurring nightmare shouldn't be enough to shake her up.

Should it?

Despite these rationalizations, her eyes slid sideways to where she knew Kitty and Kurt were perched a few branches away.

Moonlight filtered through the sparse foliage of the Elevada trees, illuminating the sleeping form of Kitty, still huddled in the same spot she'd fallen asleep in.

Rogue frowned. She was supposed to be on watch. Hours had passed, and the elf should have woken her by now to take over from him. The ex-assassin cast about for the furry boy. He was harder to spot, his dark coat fading into the darkness almost completely.

Ah, there he was. Still crouched where he'd been before, tailed wrapped round the thick bough beneath him.

A tiny molecule of relief manifested inside Rogue at the sight of him, whole and lacking any wood through his thin chest. It was silly, but remained there no matter what she thought of its presence.

Another frown creased her forehead. Not only had he not woken the shrimp, but also, he appeared not to have moved himself either. Momentarily she wondered if she was the one whose timing was off, but then disregarded this thought. As an assassin schooling under Logan's tutelage, accurate timing was a must if you even wanted to survive past basic training.

Why hadn't he moved? Curious, and perhaps a little worried - though she never would have admitted to it - Rogue moved along her chosen branch to get a better look at him.

Kurt crouched, frozen, for all the world a piece of intricately carved wood. He didn't even appear to be breathing. Rogue edged closer, her training showing itself in the silence with which she moved despite her armour.

Soon she was above him, and could stare down at his inert form easily. He wasn't asleep. Golden eyes stared impassively at the taciturn nightlife, their owner deep in his own contemplations. The only movement he made was an occasional blink of his eyelids.

Rogue looked at him. She didn't understand the elf. She'd tried and tried, but still he kept on surprising her. Everything he did intrigued and simultaneously annoyed the hell out of her. How he could quell her violence with a well-chosen tone of voice, yet the next moment be gently coaxing an obnoxious brat with a fear of heights up a tree. The fact that he could even stand the shrimp was a mystery to her, and he actually seemed to genuinely like her as well. Strange. Then again, he seemed to like herself too. At least, he accepted her enough to still want to travel with her even when she'd threatened to kill him several dozen times.

Either he was very trusting, or else incredibly stupid. She still wasn't sure which. Rogue gave a small sigh. She doubted she'd ever truly understand the inner-workings of his fuzzy mind, no matter how hard she tried.

At the tiny sound Kurt's hypersensitive ears immediately pricked up. They twitched, as if pinpointing the sound. Then he tilted his head backwards to look up at her. Their gazes locked, and for a few painstaking moments they stared, each sizing the other up.

Eventually, it was Kurt who broke the unspoken stalemate. His mouth twitched into a wan smile. "You can come down you know, Fraulein," he whispered, "This branch is thicker than the others. It'll take our combined weight."

Obligingly, Rogue swung down off her perch, landing beside him with a faint thump that caused the diamond shaped leaves to quiver slightly. However, as Kurt had said, the bough was strong and sturdy, and it took both their weights easily.

On the next branch along Kitty stirred, but remained slumbering.

"Was ist los?" the elf asked in a hushed whisper. His voice was all cheerfulness and bounce, but it was forced. Painfully so.

Rogue avoided his gaze. She didn't like talking much, and on those rare occasions when she did indulge in it she found it easier not to look at people. If you couldn't see them, then you couldn't see their reaction to what you'd said.

"How're y'all holding up?" she muttered.

He seemed surprised at the question. "Fine. What makes you ask?"

Rogue shifted uncomfortably. What was she doing? This wasn't like her. "I just thought.... you know...." What *did* she think? What on earth had possessed her to interrupt his grief like this?

If Rogue was perplexed, then Kurt was even more so. Was The Rogue actually asking him if he was *alright*? Cold, harsh Rogue? He shook his head, trying to rid himself of his confusion that he might better concentrate on what she was saying.

"You seemed.... I dunno.... kinda lonely. Sitting here by yourself, I mean."

He blinked, unsure of how to react. "I was just.... thinking."

"What about?"

"Just.... stuff."

Silence. Neither of them knew quite what to say. Rogue stole a glance at him. He sat, dejected and quiet. Unexpectedly she was struck by a memory. She recalled another person who'd sat, pondering a parent in the moonlight. She'd gone and sat by him too, and never regretted doing so. But that was before she became outcast. That was before he....

Finally, Rogue sighed, and did something she never thought she'd ever do again after the hurt which had ensued the last time she comforted someone in this way. All the walls she'd carefully constructed around her emotions seemed frail and fragile when confronted with this one furry boy, grieving for his lost mother.

"You wanna talk about it?"

He turned to look at her, but still she avoided his eyes. Not all the walls had been broken down yet. He stared, unblinking. Her hood was down, but her face was turned away, masking the effort it had taken for her to ask such a simple question. She spoke again.

"It's not your fault, you know."

"I know," he replied, "But still, I can't help feeling guilty. All my life I was her protector. True, I could never really beat anybody in a fight, but I protected her in a different way. I kept her safe. I *prevented* danger from reaching her."

"And I'll bet she was real grateful too," Rogue commented. "That was why she sent you away when she knew something was coming that you couldn't prevent."

"Could I have though?" A small exhalation of breath escaped Kurt's lips. "I guess I'll never know."

Awkward silence again. Then: "I never knew mah parents."

He looked up. "Entschuldigung? How do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Never knew nothing about them. Who they were, what happened to them. Nothing. I was raised by the Guild. They were mah family, of a sort. Then I was given to Logan when I was old enough to hold a sword. He was the closest I ever got to a father."

"I never knew my father either," Kurt replied. "Mother never talked about him. I asked her a couple of times when I was little - when father's and their children used to come to see her. When I saw them, so happy and content with each other, I'd wonder if I had one, and I'd ask her about it. But she'd go all tight-lipped and say it wasn't important and weren't we fine on our own? I stopped asking after a while, but I never stopped wondering."

"Harsh." Rogue groaned inwardly at her inarticulacy. Someone was actually opening up to her, and all she could think of to say was 'harsh'? Then again, words had never really been her strong suit.

"I didn't really know much about *her*, either," Kurt continued, "Only what she told me, or wanted me to know. She was my mother, and I loved her, but I always felt like she was keeping something from me. I suppose I thought that if I was a good son then one day she'd tell me what it was, but now she never will."

"You *were* a good son, elf," Rogue said sharply, "Don't ever doubt that. Hey, you even tried to take *me* on, and that's saying something about how much y'all cared about your Mom. You can't help it if the situation was taken out of your control. I'll bet that if she were still here, all you'd have to do is ask and she'd tell you anything you wanna know because she loves you too."

Kurt stared at Rogue. Did she just.... was she actually being *nice* to him? This went beyond strange into the realms of the bizarre, and for a second he mused that he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming. It was so unusual that he simply gaped at her, mouth slightly ajar. Rogue felt her pale cheeks colour under his intense scrutiny.

"You trying to catch flies or something?" she quipped, self-conscious. His jaw abruptly snapped shut, and he looked away, also embarrassed.

Yet another tense silence engulfed the space between them. Rogue studied a nearby leaf, tracing the intricate vein-structure with her eyes like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

~I'd rather battle a hundred bloodthirsty mobs than try my hand at conversation,~ she thought bitterly. ~I just don't *do* words very well. Oh well, here goes.~

The girl licked her lips. "What makes y'all think your Mom was keeping something from you?"

"Ach, lots of different things," Kurt answered, staring off into space, "Mostly small stuff. Oddities I noticed. Like how she didn't have a Germanic accent when she spoke Common. It was almost like Common was her first language or something."

"Lots of people don't have an accent when speaking Common Tongue. It just means they're very fluent."

"Yeah, I suppose. But there were other things too. Little stuff I found out by accident." He drew a deep sigh.

"Like?"

"Well, like once when I was rolling up her sleeping mat for her I found some old letters stuffed inside the lining. I didn't think much of them, and I was going to put them back - honest I was - but then some of the words caught my eye. So I started reading them. I didn't mean to invade her privacy, but once I started I just couldn't help myself but keep on going."

~By Plechtoh, this kid has a serious do-gooder streak in him.~ Rogue thought wryly.

Kurt went on; "You can imagine my surprise when, I saw.... well.... They were *love* letters to my mother from someone. They didn't say her name, but I could tell they were for her because of some of their content. I couldn't believe it. My mother's old suitor. They seemed very close too. He talked about running away with her. Taking her away from.... now what was it the letter said? Her 'prison with the gaoler of ageless white.' That was when I first started wondering. She'd never mentioned anything about a prison to me, let alone a suitor she'd had there. I never broached the subject with her because I didn't want her to know that I'd been prying into her secrets, but the curiosity burned inside me everyday.

"It increased even more when I saw her pendant. It was a simple thing she kept hidden away with her seer equipment. I never would have known about it at all if she hadn't dropped her bag one time. I bent to help her pick everything up, but she pushed me away when I touched an old gold bauble on a broken chain. It was strange. She clutched the thing to her chest like it was the most precious item in the world to her, and sent me out of the room because I'd seen it. I knew it was a love token, even though I'd only glimpsed it for a moment, because of what was inscribed on the side. 'Purity and Absolution'. The same thing as was always written at the bottom of each of the letters.

"From then on the curiosity inside me changed from an ember into a real fire, and I wanted to know with all my heart what had happened to the man who'd given her that memento. What had made them part? Where was he now? All questions I could never bring myself to ask her, but which I wanted the answers to so badly that sometimes it hurt."

Rogue listened to his story, surprise creeping into her gaze. Who'd have thought the elf could keep a secret like that? What was even more puzzling was that he'd chosen to share it with *her*. It was so.... so private. She could well imagine him telling the shrimp, but her? She'd given him little reason to trust her with something so personal.

Unbidden, a miniscule, inexplicable hint of pride ignited within her.

Kurt dropped his chin onto his chest. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this, Fraulein," he said huskily, "You hardly need my problems added onto your own."

Rogue drew one knee up to her chest, and balanced for a moment in quiet contemplation before speaking again. "No, elf, it ain't healthy to keep problems and secrets inside. Sometimes.... sometimes you just need to get things out in the open. Talk about them a bit. If you say things aloud them they seem smaller. More manageable."

You hypocrite, admonished her almost-conscience. Why don't you take your own advice sometime?

Kurt said nothing as he digested these atypically given words of wisdom.

Through the trees, the first flickers of morning light were becoming apparent. At this height, the sun's earliest weak rays crept easily over the horizon and wound their way into the foliage above. Dew hung heavy on the air, and whenever either of the awkward duo exhaled, a whirling mass of tiny droplets spun away from their mouths, dancing wild steps to an unchained rhythm.

A miniature storm of beads fanned out into the atmosphere as Kurt finally replied to Rogue's comments.

"Danke, Frauline. For listening to me."

She grunted in acknowledgement, and then tilted her head to look up into the upper branches. Feeble sunlight played across her face, giving her pale skin an almost unnatural quality.

"It's nearly morning," she surmised gruffly. "Time to be moving on soon." Her eyes strayed to where Kitty lay, still sleeping. "You'll have to wake her, 'cause I sure as hell ain't doing it."

Kurt followed her gaze. "Why don't we let her sleep for a little while longer? She was really tired last night."

"Not mah problem," Rogue stated, some of her usual brusqueness returning. "We gotta go as soon as possible."

"Not before breakfast, surely?" Kurt asked innocently. "You know what'll happen to me if I don't eat, Fraulein."

Rogue spread her arms wide; "And just where did you expect to get breakfast? Elevada trees don't bear no fruit, you know, elf."

A diminutive, yet mischievous smile suddenly graced his furry face - the first in many hours. "You'd be surprised," was all he said. Then, before she could so much as open her mouth to respond, he'd launched himself from their bough into the leafy embrace of an adjacent tree, and shinned up its ample trunk.

Rogue was left alone, staring after him, with only the numerous buzzing insects and an unconscious Changeling for company. Seeds of resentment sprouted in her gut, rumbling around inside her at his impulsive departure. Yet, mixed with them was a sense of relief at that tiny grin.

~Fancy that. Perhaps there *is* something to this whole talking thing after all.~

It wasn't long before Kurt returned, the shaking braches signalling his arrival. To Rogue's surprise he didn't leap from the neighbouring tree back into theirs like she'd assumed he would. Instead, a blue mass of fuzz dropped from directly above to land - somewhat shakily - beside her.

He tottered slightly, losing some of his customary sure-footedness to the clutch of oddly shaped objects claiming his arms. However, he quickly regained his balance by wrapping his dexterous tail around a thick twig and levering himself back into position.

"Breakfast is served," he tossed her one of the objects. She caught it deftly in one hand.

It was a large, gourd-like fruit, and looked like a cross between a pear and something called a coconut, which she'd tried once on a mission to the coast. It was hefty - about the size of a horse's head - and had a sickly greenish pallor to its rough skin. She tapped it with one knuckle, receiving a hollow 'clunk' for her troubles.

"Balsha Fruit," Kurt supplied at her bemused expression. "They grow right at the very top of Elevada trees. Most people don't even know they exist, since they only grow at certain times of the year, and are incredibly tricky to pick." He hunkered down, two more under each arm. Rogue opened her mouth, but he pre-empted her question. "Hey, you don't live in a forest as long as me without learning a few things."

The ex-assassin turned the peculiar item over, running her fingers over its leathery hide and tapping it. The skin was thick. Thicker than anything she'd ever come across before, and tough. She drew her dagger and made to hack it open, but Kurt gave a short laugh at her action.

"Nein, you do not need a blade, Frauline. Here, just do this."

Curious, Rogue watched as the elf adroitly took the fruit and, choosing a spot where the colour was more yellow than green, bounced it on the branch. Effortlessly, a crack split apart the discoloured surface, releasing a gush of clear, sticky liquid that hit the bark with a wet splat.

"It tastes better when the juice is drained off," he explained.

She nodded, copying him and opening her own fruit. Some of the fluid splashed her cloak, but she hardly noticed. Curling her fingers inside the split as Kurt did, she scooped out a portion of the soft pink flesh within. More juice ran down her hand, dripping off her arm. Then she ate it.

The taste was unlike anything she'd ever consumed before in her life. Sweet, but with a sour edge. It powered through her taste buds, slicing a path across her tongue and drowning her in its intense, unexpected flavour. Her green eyes enlarged.

"Good, huh?" Kurt asked, licking the juice from where it had caught in his fur of his tridactyl hand.

Rogue's head bobbed up and down in agreement, as she delved in again for a second glorious helping.

~And to think, I never even knew these things existed. You learn something new every day."

"Thanks, elf."

*******************

A few feet away, eyes squeezed tightly shut; Kitty lay, to all intents and purposes asleep. In reality, however, she'd been conscious for a while. Long enough to hear what passed between her two travelling companions.

Originally she'd intended to sit up and join Kurt herself as he sat alone, apologising profusely for missing her watch; but when Rogue joined him, she had to admit, the intimidating figure of the older girl had kept her firmly in place, feigning slumber.

It wasn't that she was scared - well, not much anyway - it was just that, well, Rogue had this way of looking at you. Harsh and cold, like she was weighing you up as a person and then tossing you aside as worthless without even having to say a word to your face. Despite how much Kitty told herself she didn't care, that the opinion of an outcast murderer meant nothing anyway, it still hurt.

Since she was a small child, Kitty had craved acceptance. Living away from the city, she'd always been an outsider to the kids there. Visiting. Never staying. Someone alien, to be mocked for her old, threadbare clothes and funny manner of speech when she appeared. An object of sport and game, only to be cast aside when taunting her became boring and fresh entertainment presented itself.

Her childhood had been a lonely one. Eventually she'd found solace by throwing herself into her work. She was as good as any boy, her father had often said proudly, usually ruffling her hair in the way that he did when he was pleased with her. Though, as good as her work was, he'd never let her wear breeches or let her cut her hair short like a boy, however much she'd begged him to.

She supposed that, in her mind, she'd wanted to rid herself of her feminine façade because she held onto the belief that boys didn't get lonely, that boys didn't hurt inside when insults were callously thrown at them as a joke by cruel city youths.

However, no matter how hard she toiled, or however much satisfaction she gained from her labour at home and out in the forest, she'd always hurt. Always desired a kind word or a friendly gesture from youngsters who passed their cart when she and her father went to market.

Once she'd tried to prove she was just as good as them by teaching herself how to ride their ancient, weather-beaten mare, Alsin. But they'd gathered around her as she sat upon the horse's back, pointing and laughing at her seat, how she held the reins, how she could never ride as well as a city kid.

Kitty hated rejection. She covered her desire for companionship in bravado and audacity, never letting the world see how much it pained her to be unwanted. Even by Rogue. Stupid, insignificant Rogue, with her savagery, her violence and her strange aspiration to walk straight into the heart of the Silver Sword's evil empire. Her cold-hearted words still wounded Kitty, and she was loath to voluntarily inflict them upon herself again by seeking out the girl's company.

So it came as a complete shock to the Changeling when Rogue's voice, usually so abrasive and brusque, filtered softly into her ears - or as soft as was possible for someone like her. Kitty did a double take - was that actually *Rogue* talking? But she was being *pleasant*. And to *Kurt* too, whom she could often be heard either complaining about or threatening with one of her three blades.

Kitty had listened to them intently, drinking in their strained, gauche camaraderie with a thirst. She didn't care that it wasn't directed at her. Kindliness was something she'd known little of until Kurt came along. He was the first person beyond her parents who'd treated her decently. Like a comrade. A friend. When he'd broken down, it had been like a stab in her own heart. She couldn't bear to see him in pain, but found herself unable to do anything for him other than stick close by and follow him on his journey.

It felt good to hear him confront his problems, even if it was to Rogue and not to her. She smiled, glad that he was able to get them off his chest, and strangely grateful to Rogue for doing what she herself could not. Helping him. Making him feel better.

As they cracked open their Balsha fruit, Kitty couldn't help a wry thought crossing her mind concerning Rogue's unanticipated, but welcome compassion.

~It would seem that miracles, like, *do* happen after all.~

*******************

To Be Continued....

*******************
*TRANSLATIONS*

GERMANIC:
Kleine Sache ~ Little One/Thing
Was ist los? ~ What's the matter?
Entschuldigung ~ I'm sorry/excuse me?


EARTH-REALM TRIVIA:

*There are few translations in this chapter, so I thought I'd include a few odds and ends of trivia people might want explaining - allusions made and culture references mostly. If anybody thinks I've missed anything, or you don't understand something mentioned here, then let me know and I'll include it in the next instalment.*

'Plechtoh and Kirkus' ~ The two suns in Earth-Realm's sky

Several times now, Rogue has sworn by something called 'The Seven Hells'. I don't really suppose it needs explaining, but this section was looking a little sparse, so I'll let you know what exactly she means when she says this. The common belief in Earth-Realm is that demons, imps and the like all reside in a plain of existence known only as 'The Seven Hells.' The First Hell is inhabited by mischief demons, and each ascending Hell has worse occupants than the last, until finally, you reach The Seventh (and worst) Hell. The ancient scriptures can probably explain what you find there better than I can, so here you go;

"...beneath the curve of the bone-arch, and past the river of blood,
down the corridor made from screams that last forever and a day;
there sits He, Lord of All, resplendent in his mantle of flesh... upon
His throne of taut hide...where no mortal eye may look upon...until
that day when they cross the river and pay the boatman with a pound
of their own flesh...."

Nice, huh? Now guess who *that* could be.