Of Beast And Blade

by Scribbler

[AU] In a distant realm where sword and sorcery rule, unlikely heroes have been chosen to save their world. [Ch20: Ororo finally shows her true colours. Meanwhile, Tabby's dramatic appearance in the fight against Sabertooth may be a double edged sword]

16. Intrigues of a Reflected Dream

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 project, since I started work on this before I ever *saw* those movies. 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.

CODES:

Hello = Narration

_Hello_ = Thought

"Hello" = Character Speaking

*Hello* = Bold

//Hello// = Psychic communication

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many thanks to all who reviewed last time - ezrajade, Yumiko, Quill of Molliemon, Harry Wriggle, Klutz, Emerald Lightning Goddess, UnknownSource, Malk, Ashika, Yma, Alliriyan and Yeb. You have all earned warm and fuzzy places in my heart. ^_^

You know, it's weird when I go back and re-read this thing. I never really realised how much some scenes resemble those from other books. The Redwall series, especially. I can assure people, it's my subconscious at work and nothing more. I'm not trying to steal anything from anyone. *Looks sheepish* Sarah Zettel? She and I share teabag tastes.

Did I know what was going on at Marvel when I wrote about Kurt's father being a demon? Uh, no. Actually, I didn't. What lottery numbers do I like? 123456789.

Harry... your review scared me a little. But then, it made me laugh, too. Stream-of-consciousness babble is what makes the world turn, in my opinion. No doubt you'll be the first to pick up on the big glaring clues to the Silver Sword's identity in this chapter. ^_^

Ashika; why is the sky blue? Because it reflects the sea. Why is the ocean blue? Because it reflects the sky. Badum-bum. Seriously, though; I know bits and bobs of German because my grandmother *is* German, and I studied it for six years at school. However, fluent, I am not, so much of what you read here is courtesy of Babelfish.com. Gehín came about from me being made to study more languages than my brain could take and keeping the various dictionaries around the house afterwards. But otherwise, yes, it's made-up. As for the Guild traditions, I didn't really *decide* on them, per se. They just kind of happened. Truth be told, I don't remember thinking them up at all, they were just *there* in my head when I came to type. Likewise the hefty chunk of new traditions you'll find in this new instalment. Enjoy.

Chapter Fourteen owes its title to the tagline of Robin Jarvis' book 'Deathscent'. Read it if you get the chance.

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'Of Beast And Blade' By Scribbler

Chapter Fourteen ~ 'Intrigues of A Reflected Dream'

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'There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery' -- Dante

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"Up. Cut. Thrust. Parry. *Parry*!"

The sword blade flashed once, missing her eye by mere millimetres. Deftly she ducked and rolled, coming to rest inches from her opponent's midriff. She brought her own weapon - a small dagger - up as if to plunge it into his stomach, but was sent sprawling in an instant when he raised his boot and kicked her backwards. Before she even had time to right herself, the tip of his blade was pressed against the soft part of her throat, effectively pinning her to the dusty ground.

"I said parry. So what did you do? You veered off. When I say parry, I say it for a *reason*, kid! Don't ignore my orders, or next time I might not stop my blade before it gets to your windpipe. Now get up."

The blade was removed, and the little girl sat up, wincing slightly as several new bruises made themselves known. She rubbed ruefully at the base of her spine where she'd landed painfully, keeping her eyes dutifully glued to the ground in shame.

"Sorry, Logan."

The burly man towering over her folded his arms. "Sorry don't cut it, kid. I don't say these things for the good of my health. I say 'em because they might save your life one day."

She said nothing. There was nothing *to* say. She'd heard him rap out the order, but had deliberately disobeyed him. She'd thought her own way was best, and was now paying the price for her arrogance. Falling to another in training was all very well, but in the real world...

Logan surveyed his young pupil through harsh eyes. "I thought I told you to get up? Sittin' idle on your little butt ain't gonna help your technique none. Now move it, before I spike you to get y'movin'."

Swiftly, she scrambled to her feet, readying herself in a combat stance the instant she was upright. Her small face was grim, as she waited for her tutor to land the first blow and begin their mock-battle anew.

Yet Logan didn't begin. Instead, he casually threw his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud and flurry of dust motes nearby. The little girl watched him curiously, though her face remained impassive, as she'd been taught to keep it.

"No more weapons today, kid. We'll practise some hand-to-hand, since that was your weakest area last time."

She nodded, throwing her dagger to join his blade on the ground. Shifting her weight slightly, she sank back into a ready crouch; quite different to the stance she'd taken for swordplay. A wisp of snowy hair blew into her eyes as a faint breeze caught at it, making her blink, and in that instant the Wolverinnen struck.

Logan launched himself at his pupil, snarling like a wild beast. The noise was designed to intimidate her into making a mistake, so that his fists could find an opening. However, beyond an initial surprise at his suddenness, she showed no signs of agitation from his tactics. She'd seen them too many times before.

Leaping adroitly aside, she landed delicately and immediately pushed herself off the ground to fly back at him. Her fist swung forward, but he was too quick for that.

Before she even knew what was happening he'd ducked, caught her foot in one hand, and was swinging her tiny body around his head like a rag doll. She whirled in a circle until, finally, he let her go, and she went sailing through the air like a disorientated and groggy arrow.

Hitting the ground was no problem. Instinctively, she went into a roll, thus removing the brunt of impact. Getting up afterwards, however, was more difficult. It wasn't so much she couldn't get her balance, as the world seemed suddenly to have multiplied, and all its clones were swaying about in the most dizzying manner. She stumbled, and vaguely saw three Logans coming towards her, each snarling.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valour for the moment - at least until the world stopped spinning - she hightailed it the other way, coming to a stop when she reached the edge of the training circle. To step outside it was to lose or voluntarily forfeit the fight, and she wasn't ready to relinquish her chances just yet.

Turning, she faced down her tutor as the trio of images gratefully merged into one, deadly man.

Logan knew what she was up to. _Draw me out, make me forget myself, and then force me to step over the line. Old trick, kid. I was there when the first fighters invented it._

So instead of continuing his headlong onslaught, the brawny man altered his path suddenly, and kept doing it; zigzagging this way and that, trying to confuse her.

However, he wasn't the only one perceptive enough to predict his opponent's next move.

_Trying to bamboozle me into making a mistake, eh Logan? Well I ain't falling for it. Not today._

And with that, she barrelled forward, crossing Logan's path as he completed yet another zigzag. She saw her opportunity, punched, and dashed away. Such were the tactics employed in the natural world by the wolf. Strike and then escape before the prey can retaliate, for the Law of The Wild decrees that there is nothing worse nor more pitiful than a hunter who has become the hunted.

Logan stumbled as her small fist connected squarely with his jaw. It wasn't enough to knock him off his feet, but it was enough to make him curse loudly for allowing her the opportunity to strike. He'd have to be better prepared next time, or she'd get too overconfident. No *way* was she ready to face the real world yet. Her current overconfidence would most likely get her killed within an hour. Her skills needed honing, and the only way he could think of to do it was by forcefully driving humility into her. Arrogance and superciliousness were things to be quelled *now*, before they got out of hand.

He growled, rounding back on himself and speeding along in the little girl's wake. She kept her back to him and failed to keep an eye on her opponent as he'd taught her.

_Stupid!_

With inhuman speed, Logan tore across the training circle, crouching low and leaping high into the air to strike from above. At the last second she turned, throwing herself aside to roll away in the dust. But Logan had taught her that move, and he compensated skilfully by jerking his body in mid-air, throwing out his arms and catching her legs as she stood up. She stumbled, cursed, and fell on her nose in the dirt.

The difference in size between the two fighters was immense. The girl was a mere child, whilst Logan carried the bulk of a heavily built Wolverinnen. Even amongst his own kind he was considered massive, if not in height then in stature, and his weight effectively pinned her tiny body to the ground, disallowing her to stand up. She grunted helplessly, but it was no use. She was trapped.

But she was also stubborn.

His pupil twisted so that her spine screamed, and landed another punch squarely on Logan's nose. He blinked, not expecting that, and she threw another, this time catching him in the eye. He roared, momentarily blinded.

That was all she needed.

Her foot jerked up, connecting with his chin and snapping his head back. In the ensuing confusion she wriggled free of his embrace, scrambling to her feet and stepping back to kick him in his jaw, hoping to knock him out and effectively end the match.

Logan clutched at his face, and a thin trickle of blood leaked through his hairy fingers. The girl saw this, but blanked it out as he'd schooled her to do. To take pity on an enemy is to commit suicide, and that is not the way of an assassin. She went to kick him, but as her leg swung forward he suddenly wasn't there any more.

Swift as the wind, Logan jumped into a crouch and launched at her whilst all her weight was on the one leg. She brought her arms up to cover her head, once again throwing herself aside to avoid the blow he intended.

This time, Logan was ready.

With a metallic 'snikt', lengths of deadly metal erupted from the backs of his hands. He stretched out; his reach elongated by them, and sliced at her shoulder to keep her from escaping. Surprise briefly flashed across her small face, before he crashed into her, head on.

As one they tumbled over and over, a mass of flailing bodies and gleaming metal, until finally coming to rest with a thump, scant inches away from the circle's edge. The child gasped against Logan's claws, indenting her throat just as his sword had done so well only minutes ago. Her tutor leaned close. Close enough that she could see the stubble spiking through his chin. Close enough to smell the meat he'd eaten for his last meal. Close enough that she couldn't avoid that stoic, unblinking gaze.

"Game over," he growled. "I win."

"You never said you were gonna use your claws!" she protested hoarsely, windpipe obstructed some by said claws.

"I never said I wasn't," he retorted. The shafts of metal slid back into place between his knuckles and he rolled off her to stand, allowing her to breathe and sit up.

"But that ain't fair!" she continued petulantly.

"Life ain't fair, kid. Deal with it."

She rubbed at her shoulder, finding the sleeve of her jerkin torn, but the flesh miraculously unharmed, and muttered rebelliously beneath her breath, "T'aint fair. Said it was hand-to-hand, not hand-to-claw. Didn't have a chance."

The Wolverinnen's sharp ears picked up on her huffy murmurings, and he leaned down again. "Listen, Marie. In the real world outside the Guild, enemies ain't gonna warn you when they use weapons, and some of 'em are much worse than my claws. With an attitude like *that* you're gonna get yourself killed in five seconds on your first mission. I didn't train you to be so arrogant, so quit acting like some spoiled merchant-brat."

"But Logan, I - "

"I said quit it!" He snorted, folding his arms. "I hate to say it, but I was ashamed of you today, Marie. Your stance was sloppy, you didn't check for ambushes, and you relied too heavily on dodgin'. It ain't good enough, y'hear? You're gettin' too full of yourself, and it shows. Badly."

She stared up at him, young face aghast at his open criticism. Logan was harsh, but fair, and rarely ever reverted to verbal cruelty to teach her a lesson. Her lip trembled slightly, and he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, give me a break. Tears? From you? Listen up, Marie. You ain't any old kid on the street. You're a trainee assassin, and *my* pupil to boot. You got standards to live up to. Assassins don't wimp out at a little criticism, and they certainly don't *blub* about it!" He sighed, shaking his head. "You got real talent, Marie, and the potential to go far in the Guild. But it ain't gonna happen if you don't stop closin' up your ears and start listenin' to me when I'm trying to teach you stuff. I know for a fact that you could beat any other pupil in the entire Guild, but it ain't good enough. Until y'got the right attitude, you might as well be some penny-per-dozen rent-a-blade. A *mercenary*!" He sneered the word like it was an insult - which, indeed it was to any self-respecting assassin. The Guild of Assassins was an ancient culture that went back thousands of years, and formed an integral part of Earth-Realm and its people. Mercenaries were nomads of dubious origin; blemishes that stained the good name 'assassin' since they lacked the code of honour lived by every warrior trained in The Guild.

This final remark was too much for her. To be criticised by Logan - whom she only ever wanted to impress and make proud - was bad enough. But she was tough. She could take that and still keep going.

Yet to be openly smote and called a *mercenary* was more than she could stand. Shame blossomed inside her mind. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling, lurched to her feet, and ran.

Logan called out as she pushed past him, but she didn't stop. Not even for him. Not this time.

"Hey, kid! Stop! You get your butt back here this *instant*!"

Yet she didn't. For the first time in her didactic career, Marie threw caution to the winds and ignored Logan's summons. She streaked from the training circle; out of the clearing they used to practice in, and away into the surrounding forest as fast as her small feet could carry her.

Gradually, Logan's voice faded away, as she careened full pelt, neither seeing nor caring where she was headed.

_A mercenary. He called me a *mercenary*!_ she thought miserably. _I tried so hard for him, and he calls me *that*! All I ever wanted to do was please him. I tried, I really did. T'aint mah fault. But a *mercenary*? Does he really think so little of me?_

She kept running, 'mercenary' whirling around the inside of her skull like some deranged mantra; a twittering ghost she could neither rid herself of nor forget, no matter how hard she tried.

A familiar building hove into view over a grassy knoll, and finally she stopped beside it. Leaning against one massively curved wall, Marie panted from her exertions. Only when she'd regained her breath enough to stand did she take stock of her location, regarding the place where she'd ended up.

It was a huge empty construction, amphitheatre-like in design, with outer walls covered in gruesome mosaics of past battles and epics taken from Guild Lore and myth.

The Combat Arena.

Marie smirked. No wonder it was deserted. The Arena was never used save for official matches and ceremonies, like title-giving or the presentation of swords to assassins newly graduated from their mentors' custody.

A stray thought crossed her mind. _I'll be old enough for the ceremony in a few years. Old enough to finally get my own personal sword and a title. That is, if Logan thinks I'm good enough to go beyond *mercenary* status. The council would probably call me Marie the Mercenary, and I'd be laughed out of the Guild before I could even lift my new blade._

She didn't have a blade of her own. Not yet. Nobody had one until they came of age and went through the title-giving ceremony, whereupon a specially forged one was presented along with a suffix to their name. At the moment she used those in the communal armoury for training purposes, and once or twice Logan had allowed her to hold hid blade, just to get a feel of it. It had zinged in her hand like molten power, and the feel of it was something she'd never forget.

Anger mixed with shame flared inside her, as she remembered the look on Logan's face as he called her... she couldn't even bring herself to say it again. He'd been disgusted, and so deadly, deadly serious. Ashamed of his own pupil's arrogance and sloppiness. Ashamed of her....

_I probably won't get to see inside here now. I ain't good enough, according to Logan. Well, if he ain't gonna recommend me to get a sword when I come of age, then I'm getting a peep at the inside of The Arena now, while I still can. Gods know I won't be allowed in later if I'm no better than... than street trash!~

Marie's dark eyebrow's knitted together, and she purposefully followed the length of the wall, searching for some kind of entrance. One manifested itself in the shape of a narrow side door, which creaked stiffly open when she rammed it with her shoulder. A shadowy corridor was revealed beyond, and she took a quick, perfunctory look around before entering and closing the door behind her.

The arena itself lay at the end of the corridor, and Marie gasped as she laid eyes upon it. The great open space all but completely took her breath away, and her footsteps echoed loudly across the ascending rows of empty wooden benches and wrought iron railings fencing the audience off from the combatants and their weapons. Splatters of old brown blood could still be seen in cracks here and there, but otherwise it was immaculately kept. The walls were white, and the vaulted roof painted to resemble the night sky. If one hadn't known it was the work of an artist, it was quite possible to mistake the ceiling for the real thing.

Marie gaped, open-mouthed at the splendour of it all. In the very centre was a large rectangular podium, no doubt used for the council to sit on during ceremonies. She could just imagine them all - a score of old men, wizened with age but oozing wisdom as they perched, stroking their long white beards sagely and dispensing awards and titles left, right and centre to deserving assassins.

_But I'll never get to see them. 'Cause I'm not deserving enough,_ she thought bitterly.

Enveloped in self-pity, Marie drew closer to the dais, running her hands along the dark wood and smelling the faint aroma of incense, which always followed the councillors wherever they went. Their chambers stank of it, but here it was subtler, a vaguely pungent memory of their last visit. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the muted sweetness of it. She could almost taste it...

Tears stung the backs of her eyes; ashamed tears, which she hastily blinked away. She was eager to protect her reputation, despite there being nobody around to bear witness to her fleeting weakness.

It was true what Logan had said. She had been arrogant, thinking her way was best and ignoring his lessons in favour of her own techniques. Techniques that were obviously flawed, it seemed, if he was able to defeat her so easily.

_If that had been a fight in the real world, I'd be dead now,_ she mused ruefully.

A loud creaking suddenly rent the air. Marie spun round, the smell of incense and her own self-pity instantly forgotten. Someone was coming. If she was caught snooping around the Combat Arena she'd have more than Logan's cruel tongue to worry about. They might even throw her out of The Guild altogether for such blatant audacity. The Arena was strictly off-limits to all those not yet in possession of a title and their own sword, and ancient tradition dictated that all trainees be kept away until their coming-of-age ceremony when they were eleven winters old.

She shuddered at the thought of becoming outcast. Even among the trainees there were stories and rumours about what happened to rogues, all of them terrible.

Panicked, Marie cast about for an escape route, but there were none save for the locked main entrance, and the corridor she'd forced her way in through. Footsteps from there told her that route was out of the question too.

She was cornered.

Having little other option, Marie did the only thing she could think of. She hid.

One of the audience benches served as an adequate hiding place, and she secreted herself beneath it in an effort to remain undetected. From there she couldn't see a thing, and hoped that the same was true for anybody looking for her. Visions of enraged elders dragging her out by her ear filled her psyche, and she tried vainly to still her breathing and thumping heartbeat, too. She closed her eyes, attempting some semblance of serenity, as she'd been taught to do when in a tight spot with enemies closing in.

_Be still. Be calm. Be unseen._

The footsteps grew louder, echoing as the invading person walked across the arena. They were quick; indicating that the person they belonged to was either short or in a hurry. This didn't provide much solace, however, since over half the councillors were smaller than herself.

All of a sudden they halted. Marie shrank further under the bench, willing whoever it was not to see her and just go away. She waited uncertainly, though her face had automatically become a mask of indifference, just as Logan had drilled it to do.

A voice, fluty and light, floated through the air and slithered into her ear unbidden. It was male, but most definitely not that of a councillor or other such person. It was too soft for that, too high-pitched and childlike. And horribly familiar.



"Marie?"

Marie screwed up her face. The voice came again.

"Marie, I know you're here. I saw you come in."

Still she didn't answer. She had a good idea who it was, and possessed no desire for him to see her like this; so nauseatingly emotional and weak. Not him. Not now.

The owner of the voice paused, as if considering what to say next. Then he spoke again, but there was an uncertain edge to his tone, as if he didn't quite believe what he was saying.

"Are you crying?"

Marie's green eyes snapped open. How could he have known? She hadn't been all weepy outside when he'd seen her, so how could he have guessed what she'd been doing? Intuition? Or had he been there in that corridor the whole time, watching her? Seeing her make a sentimental fool out of herself.

"Marie? *Are* you crying?"

"No," she replied sullenly, revealing her presence. "I'm not."

"You sound like it. All stuffed up. Or have you got a cold?" The footsteps started up again, and Marie knew it was because he was following the sound of her voice. Hence the inane chatter to get her to provide an oral beacon. Perhaps she should just clam up and let him search for her by himself. Why give him any help when she didn't want to be found at all?

However, it was too late for that. Boots tapped their way up the stone steps, and traversed the length of the aisle to stop right in front of her. Marie waited tensely, staring at two black boots, which stared back at her stonily.

A small, elfin-faced boy, with snowy white hair and startling blue eyes popped his head round the rim of the bench. He grinned at her with a playful 'I found you' expression, revealing a winning smile that would surely make women fall at his feet when he was older.

Pietro.

She'd known him as long as she could remember. He was her oldest, and - on some days - only friend. Today was one such day.

"Hi," he said, to which she only grunted. "Mind if I cop a squat?"

"It's a free bench," she retorted moodily.

"Care to join me?"

Marie groaned, knowing that, if she didn't agree, he'd just pester her until she did. It was easier to assuage Pietro then endure him in full auto-whine, which could last for hours on end without a break if he chose.

Sighing, she hauled herself out from her hiding place and balanced on the edge of the wooden seat. Pietro plopped down beside her, and she avoided his eyes.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, and Marie self-consciously wiped under her eyes to make sure no tears were showing. She was tough. She didn't cry. *Especially* when someone could see her.

At length, Pietro broke the silence. He cleared his throat, as if wondering how to broach a conversation with a girl who so obviously would prefer it if he just left her alone. Yet years of spending time with Marie had taught him a few things about her nature, and he was reluctant to just leave her in such a state, since she would no doubt just stew about whatever was bothering her and blow it out of all proportion.

"Rough day training?"

She didn't answer. He glanced across, taking in her dishevelled appearance.

"Those are some nasty bruises you got there."

Idly she fingered the purplish lump manifesting on her cheek. "Had an argument with a tree trunk."

"I take it that it got angry and beat you up?"

"Something like that."

More uncomfortable silence.

"How come you're not training with your mentor, Pietro?"

"Emilios is still sleeping. Drunk himself stupid at the feast last night. I couldn't shift him this morning, and we missed our appointment. What about you? Why aren't you out with Logan?"

"I was," she said curtly.

A pause. "Aren't you going to give me any more information than that? Come on, inquiring minds want to know."

Marie sighed again. He was such an inquisitive pain in the butt. _Why can't he just leave mah problems alone? I don't ask much. Just a little private time to mahself._

"Marie? You okay? If you're supposed to be with Logan, what are you doing here?"

"Because Logan doesn't think I'm good enough for him to bother training," she bit out, the bitterness in her voice almost palpable. "He's ashamed to have me as his pupil."

Pietro quirked an eyebrow. "He said that?"

"Uh-huh. He said I was no better than a mercenary. A *mercenary*, Pietro. He might as well have said I was horse dung he scraped off his boot."

"I find that pretty hard to believe. Logan's real proud of you. Emilios is always complaining about how he brags about you, that you're better than I am, and why can't I be more like Logan's pupil? You'd have to be good to make Emilios jealous."

Marie looked up, meeting his gaze. "Emilios is jealous of *me*."

"Sure he is. And with good reason, too. Listen, Marie. Logan's always saying stuff he doesn't mean. I remember when we first got our mentors and he called you a little Pebehock. You refused to come out of your chamber for three hours after that. Remember?"

She smirked wryly. "How could I forget? And y'all stood outside banging on the door until Emilios came and dragged you away."

"Yeah." He smiled, and his face seemed to light up. "But the point is, he didn't mean it. He never means it. It's just his way. Logan talks better with his claws than he does with words."

"I know," she replied, rubbing the sliced fabric of her jerkin-shoulder. "Boy, do I know." Then she let out another lungful of breath. It whistled over her lips, communicating her slightly-abated bitterness.

Pietro noted it, and scooched around to face her properly. "That's not what's really bothering you is it?"

"Yeah, it is," she shot back.

He shook his head. "Don't insult me, Marie. I've known you long enough to tell what you're not telling me something. Now spill. What's the matter?"

_Intuitive Kaju._

"Marie."

Marie stuck out her bottom lip, and muttered insubordinately, "I just can't seem to get anything *right*. Well, I mean, I can get it right, but not right *enough* for Logan. All I wanna do is make him proud of me, but every time we have a training session, he goes on about some tiny detail or fault I hadn't even noticed. It's like, I can win twelve battles in a row, and he'll get at me because mah feet were positioned wrong at the start of one of them. I just can't live up to his standards! It's too hard."

"But isn't that what the training is supposed to do? Teach you *how* to reach his standards?" Pietro reasoned softly. "You're not supposed to be perfect straight away, Marie. That's why we have mentors. To teach us and tell us where we go wrong so that we can be the best we possibly can."

"But I try so hard, and he doesn't even seem to notice."

The white-haired boy sighed. "From what Emilios told me, that's because you're so much more talented than most pupils. Logan knows you have the potential to reach levels far beyond those most assassins can, and he's just trying to help you get there the only way he knows how."

"A little positive criticism wouldn't go amiss now and then."

"I'm sure it wouldn't, but you have to remember, Marie; Logan's a Wolverinnen. They just don't *do* nice. If Logan was pleasant, I'd be the first to check his forehead for fever."

That elicited a small laugh, and he smiled again. Marie looked so different when she wasn't scowling. _I wish she'd do it more often._

"If it's any help, Emilios has been getting on at me again, too," he confided, looking down at his scuffed boots.

Marie's eyes widened. "Again? But we did so much training this Spring. Y'improved so much. How can he still think you're no good?"

Pietro shrugged. "You know Emilios. Unless I'm beating you, he isn't interested in any progress I've made. Sometimes I think he'll be dissatisfied with me until I put you six feet under. This rivalry with Logan can be a real drag."

Marie nodded, subconsciously contemplating what a rough deal Pietro got. He was by no means a weakling fighter, but Emilios worked him hard, and never ever acknowledged the effort his pupil put into training. All Emilios ever seemed to think about was being better than Logan, and Pietro was usually the one to bear the brunt of this near-obsession. Many times as a child, the slender boy had come to Marie's chambers to hide when Emilios had some pent-up aggression that needed releasing.

Sometimes he didn't get away fast enough, and it was up to her to clean up what damage his mentor had done afterwards. Pietro still bore some scars from past beatings, or 'toughening up sessions', as Emilios preferred to call them. There was nothing anyone could do about it, since a pupil basically belonged to their mentor until they were given their own title and sword, and became their own person.

Yet something deep down inside Marie knew that Emilios was wrong. Pietro worked so hard - probably harder than she did herself - but only got thrashings in return for his labours. It didn't seem fair somehow, but nobody said anything.

These thoughts helped to put her own situation into perspective. She mused on Logan's behaviour, as well as her own performance today. Maybe he was right to go on at her so. She'd certainly done nothing worth praise in their battle, and all he'd done was inform her where she was going wrong. Expect the unexpected. Just like always. Emilios never did that with Pietro. His policy was 'beat first, teach later'.

Pietro shifted his weight, bringing her back into reality. "Yesterday he was telling me how you're faster than I am; how he'd seen you fight, and your reaction time was quicker. I can't help how fast I see things. Sometimes, I just can't dodge quickly enough, or bring my blade up in time. But he doesn't listen when I tell him I physically can't *go* any faster. He never does. And when I try to tell him he... well, you know..."

Marie glanced up, and caught her friend absently rubbing the back of his hand. It was swathed in bandages, thick with dirt and grime, and he scratched at the skin around it. Her mouth became a hard line. _That was where Emilios burned him with hot metal last week._ she recalled, and anger flared in her gut. _That Pebehock._

She reached out and touched his arm. He jerked up, startled out of his own ruminations by her contact, and then gave a lop-sided grin at her comforting action. "You know, we could get into a lot of trouble being in here," he informed her.

She nodded. "I know. I just... wanted to have a look around. In case I didn't make it to the title ceremony."

He frowned at her words. "Hey, Marie, don't talk like that. You're the best trainee there is. If anyone makes it to the ceremony, you will. Logan'll probably force the council to call you Marie the Wonderful, or something."

She giggled, a strange sound to anyone who had never heard it before. her voice was deep for her age, and the noise burbling in the base of her throat sounded not a little like a hacking cough. "Yeah, right. Marie the Whiner, more like. What about you? I think Pietro the Persistent sounds apt."

He laughed. "Seriously though, Marie. I *know* how good you are. You deserve to get a great title, and you will. I guarantee it."

"Aw, come on sycophant. I'd best get back and face the music before I get you in real trouble for following me."

Together they rose, and began their descent to the darkened corridor and exit beyond. At the creaky wooden door, Marie paused for a second, casting a last look back at the Combat Arena. Pietro stopped a few feet up ahead.

"Marie?"

"I'm coming, don't worry." Her eyes took in the dais, the benches and the gruesome mosaics. Drinking it in - just in case. She blew her white bangs out of her face and surveyed the plain, but oh-so-beautiful place. "Pietro."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For coming in after me, I mean. I appreciate it."

He smiled in the gloom, blue eyes dancing. "S'alright. I know you would've done the same for me. Now come on, before we both get in trouble so deep we'll have to swim to get out of it."

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

Running. Keep running. Dodge left, then right. Drop into a roll, and then leap. Undercut. Yes! Got him!

"To your left, Pietro! Left, boy!"

"Hey, no conferrin'."

"Ah, shut up, Logan!"

Marie smiled, listening to the two men arguing from the sidelines. She didn't let it distract her too much, though; lest she wanted to lose the battle. Even though her opponent was someone she didn't particularly want to beat, she'd been trained to win, and win she would, damn it!

Pietro came at her again, sword blade flashing in the wan early morning sun. Deftly she parried the blow, dropping into a crouch and swinging her leg round to knock his feet from under him. He went down like a sack of rocks, hitting the ground hard. Instantly she was up, ready to press the tip of her sword to his throat, but already he'd rolled aside and was jumping to his feet.

"Clever move."

"Likewise," she replied.

It wasn't usual for them to face each other in such a manner, but a drunken bet between their mentors at the inn the previous evening had ensured that, come daybreak, both teenagers engaged in their first battle against each other. It wasn't a fight to the finish, as Emilios had wanted, but they had compensated him by holding it at his and Pietro's training ground on the cliff top.

Early morning winds battered the pair, throwing sea salt from the ocean far below them into their faces and stinging their eyes. Pietro was used to such harsh conditions, but Marie wasn't, and had to keep reminding herself where the edge of the chalk circle was, so that she didn't blindly step over it and unknowingly forfeit the match.

Now both fifteen winters old, they were mere weeks away from their title ceremonies, and honing their stalking and fighting skills every waking moment. This battle had been a long time in coming for their mentors, and they stood willing their pupils on gamely, every now and then wiping the harsh spray from their grizzled faces. It was quite humorous to see them together, actually, since even the short Logan towered over the squat, rather hairy little man by his side.

Yet the anger emanating from Emilios quickly quashed any ideas anyone may have had concerning laughter. His face was a mask of hatred, and he intermittently called out instructions to his pupil, despite the 'no instructing' rule that Logan had insisted upon.

Pietro dived forward, feinted left, and struck a blow home with his sword. Marie ducked, allowing the force of his swing to carry the blade over her head, before leaping up and driving her sword handle into his gut. His cerulean eyes bulged as the air was knocked from his lungs, and he doubled over, trying to catch his breath. That was all the chance Marie needed. She drove forward, full pelt, Emilios' choler-filled voice ringing in her ears.

"You stupid Kaju! Get up! Get up or you'll feel the back of my hand afterwards!"

"I said shut up, Emilios. Let the kids fight on their own!"

"Oh, that's just typical of you, Logan. Only because your brat's winning. Get up you lazy Pebehock, or I'll make you curse the day you were brought screaming into this world!"

Marie raised her sword, intending to rap Pietro on the back of the head with the handle while he was still bent over. If she could knock him out, the match would be over, and she wouldn't have to listen to Emilios' yelling any more. She regretted what she had to do, but knew that all of them would know if she lost on purpose, and Pietro would probably get a worse beating for being a 'charity case'.

She sped forward, arms outstretched, ready to perform the deed. Her eyes flashed involuntarily with the thrill of impending victory, and a small shout escaped her lips.

However, at the last moment, just as she was about to lay him cold, Pietro straightened up, catching Marie's waist and using her momentum to throw her over his shoulder. Emilios gave a triumphant yell as she went flying through the air, out of the circle, and bounced across the slippery ground.

Pietro turned, glee shining in his face; but the expression vanished when he saw Marie slither and slide out of control... straight over the edge of the cliff.

"Marie!" he screamed, darting forward, the victory forgotten.

"Kid!" Logan yelled, also making to run, but finding himself snagged by Emilios' arm.

"Don't interfere, Logan. Your own rule, remember?" The weedy man wagged a finger at his long-time rival, a spiteful smile gracing his rat-like features.

Logan growled savagely, showing his teeth; a sight that would have made any lesser man's blood run cold with fear. "Get off me, Emilios! The match is over. Pietro won."

"It ain't over until it's over," was the cryptic reply, followed by a feral grin patently filled with malice. "*Completely* over."

Logan's eyes widened. "You *Pebehock*!"

Emilios only smiled.

"Marie!" Pietro screamed, skidding over to where she'd fallen, and trying to retain his footing so as not to follow her. "*Marie*!"

Unaware of the conflict going on between their mentors, he sank to his belly and peered over the jagged edge of the cliff. Spray lashed his eyes, and he blinked profusely, hardly able to see. Where was she? He couldn't see his friend anywhere.

_Oh gods, what if she...?_ Desperate, he scanned the virtually sheer drop for any sign of Marie. But there was none.

"*Mariiiiie*!" His voice was saturated with panic at what he'd done.

Still nothing. No scrap of evidence the female trainee had been there at all. No torn clothing. No discarded sword. Nothing. She was gone.

_No._ all the blood drained from his face. _No, no, no, no, *no*! She can't be gone. She can't! I... I... I didn't mean to throw her over the edge. If I'd known it was so slippery... I mean... Marie, you can't be dead. Our ceremonies are in a few weeks. You gotta be there. You gotta... you gotta..._

Whether the result of salt water or emotion, Pietro couldn't help the backs of his pale blue eyes stinging. And if any tears ran down his sharply featured face, then they were lost in the water splashed up at him by the crashing waves battering the cliff base below. Staring down, he saw serrated rocks erupting from the foam and flotsam. Like stone teeth raking through the water, anything that fell on them would be dashed to pieces and carried out to sea in an instant.

Or anyone.

Pietro felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, and nausea bubbled up the inside of his maw. He'd just killed his best friend. The girl he'd known virtually since birth. Sent to her death and a watery grave by the one she'd shared food with when Emilios was extra hungry. The one who'd comforted her when she was down, who'd sought her help to improve his fighting skills. He'd murdered his only friend.

"Pietro!"

What was that?

Pietro's head jerked up, unsure whether he'd heard or imagined the thin, reedy call, half-deadened by the wind and waves.

"Pietro! Down here!"

There it was again. Urgently, he leaned out as far as he dared, straining his sight to its utmost limit.

There! Right there. Clinging onto a scrap of rock that shielded most of her body from view, Marie hung by her fingertips not three feet beneath him. Her sword was gone; lost in the hungry sea, and her feet pedalled fruitlessly against the empty air. Her grip was tenuous to say the least, and it was obvious from her blanched knuckles that she couldn't hang on much longer.

"Pietro! Help me!" she called, gazing up at him with frantic green eyes. "Please!"

"Hold on, Marie. Just hold on!" he yelled back. Gripping the rim as best he could with one hand, and bracing his back legs, he reached down towards her, hand outstretched.

Her expression was fearful as she realised that, to take this proffered aid, she would be forced to relinquish her own hold on the outcrop; thus leaving herself open to that perilous descent should his grasp fail.

Pietro saw her dilemma, and his jaw set. He was the one who'd gotten her into this mess. And even if it killed him, he'd be the one to get her out of it. He wasn't going to fail her again!

"Take my hand!"

"I'll fall!"

"No, you won't! I won't let you!" he shouted. Still she was hesitant. "Trust me. It's the only way."

Marie gazed up at him, realising with a strangely detached part of her brain that he was telling the truth. This was the only way. Her grip was failing. Only another couple of seconds and she'd die anyway. Grab the chance of salvation whilst you can, her almost-conscience told her. You won't get another opportunity.

Shifting her hold, Marie tensed her muscles and placed the flats of her feet against the stone; the outcrop crumbling slightly as she did so.

Pietro saw what was happening with horror, and shouted over the booming waves, "Come on, Marie! Hurry!"

With a burst of desperate strength, the girl pushed off from the outcrop, lunging for Pietro's hand. She caught his wrist, swinging precariously and slamming the rest of her body into the cliff-face. He closed rapidly numbing fingers around her arm, yanking her upwards with strength he didn't possess.

Marie reached up with her other hand and latched it onto her friend's limb. He dragged at her, but realised in dismay that he simply couldn't get her back up top. She was too heavy for him to lift that far in her armour. Hopelessly he tried, but it was clear to both of them that he couldn't do it. He just wasn't strong enough.

Marie began to slip from his grasp, wet clothing providing little resistance. _No!_ he thought angrily. _No! Not again!_

But there was nothing he could do. He was helpless, and watched as she turned unbearably resigned eyes upon him. She knew, as he did, that there was no saving her now. She was going to die. It was something all assassins learned as children - death was inevitable. It visited everyone, arrival just being a question of when.

Her wrist slipped, and he grabbed at her hand, then her fingers. With all the power he could muster in his slender frame, he held on, yet he could feel her slipping; sliding through his hands like soft, dry sand.

Suddenly a large, bulky form appeared beside him, throwing itself down and reaching to clutch Marie in a grip as unbreakable as iron. Pietro looked up in surprise, his desperation and agony having made him forget there was anyone else there.

"Hang on, kid!" Logan gritted, though whether to Marie or Pietro was a mystery. "I gotcha."

With muscles that dwarfed those of normal men, the Wolverinnen exerted his massive strength and hauled his pupil up and over the cliff-edge. The force of the movement sent her, Pietro and himself flying backwards, to land in an ungainly heap several feet away.

Pietro was up like a shot. "Marie!" he gabbled. "Marie, are you all right?"

The female trainee lay on her back, unmoving; but her voice, croaky with shouting, filtered over to him. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Marie, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to send you off the cliff. If I'd known that was going to happen I would've just forfeited and damn the consequences. If it hadn't been for Mister Logan... thank you Mister Logan. Thank you so much. I don't know what would have happened if Marie had... if I'd..."

Logan held up one hand to silence the gabbling youth in an uncharacteristically genial motion. "S'alright, Hummingbird," he panted. "No harm done in the end. I couldn't 'zactly let her go so easy, now, could I? Despite what old Blood n' Guts over there wanted." He nodded towards Emilios' unconscious form. A sizable lump was beginning to swell on the scrawny man's temple where Logan had cracked him with the flat of one claw.

Pietro turned back to his fallen comrade. "Are you okay? Really? Can you move? Is there any pain anywhere? Tell me, Marie? Where does it hurt? Do you have any broken bones? You hit the rock-face pretty damn hard. Is there anything I can do to - "

"Leave off, Pietro. You're acting like a mother hen. Of course I'm okay. A little scrape like that's nothing to worry about." Marie heaved herself into a sitting position.

Pietro's jaw hung slack. "But you almost *died*," he pointed out incredulously, tone clearly saying, 'doesn't that bother you'?

"And as soon as the title ceremony's over and I get mah first mission, I may well almost die again. Heck, I may *actually* die."

He frowned. "Don't say stuff like that. I don't want to even *think* about it, Marie. I don't know what I'd do if you... if you..."

"Bit the big one?"

"Yeah," he replied sullenly.

Marie, though still shaken, decided against revealing it to her friend, and instead casually ruffled his snowy hair in a comforting gesture of affection. The already mussed peaks and troughs became a veritable melee of battling tresses, and he batted her hand away with a perfunctory, "Hey!"

"But I didn't this time. And despite what you think, it ain't your fault, Pietro."

"Yeah. If it's anybody's fault then you can blame sleepin' beauty over there," Logan interjected. "Emilios probably figured something like this would happen. That's why he suggested holdin' the fight here on the cliff-top, even in such bad conditions."

"But I - " Pietro tried again, but Marie pressed a hand over his mouth.

"No more, y'hear? I don't wanna hear you blaming yourself and putting creases in your face with frowns. Buck up, Pietro. You ain't responsible for the inner workings of your mentor's sick little mind."

"You shouldn't talk about him that way," Pietro protested half-heartedly, averting his gaze as the degree of loyalty remaining in his breast to the man who'd raised and trained him raised into view. "He *is* my mentor after all."

Marie looked at Logan over her friend's head. Logan looked back at her, rolling his eyes.

Marie smiled wanly, and reached out to take Pietro's gauntlet in her own. His head jerked up, baffled at the tactile motion. Marie stared at him, and said with complete and utter sincerity, "Pietro, I owe you mah life. You could've died just now trying to save me when I was already lost. Thank you." She shifted, a little uncomfortable saying such things with Logan nearby. "You're... a friend anyone would kill to have."

His pale cheeks coloured slightly, and beyond him, Logan rolled his eyes again. Yet this time he was grinning.

_Ah, sweet,_ The Wolverinnen thought wryly to himself. _I'm getting' cavities over here._

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

Marie hid in the shadows, silent as the night-breeze and twice as swift. Her green eyes darted to and fro, gauging the landscape for any signs of others. Silence consumed all around her; a deathly quiet usually reserved for graveyards and the like.

To anyone else, it would have elicited a spin-tingling shudder, but for Marie it was almost homely. The near-pitch darkness was comforting to her, and though tense with expectation, she was much more relaxed than she would have been had she been abroad in daylight.

Then again, if it were daylight, he wouldn't be hiding. He'd be sitting in his quarters, or training for a fresh mission. There was another one coming up soon, so she heard; an important one, which was rumoured to concern the sanctity of the entire Guild itself.

Personally, she was quite surprised it hadn't been given to Logan already - he was by far the best assassin they had. However, the Council's choice was theirs, and theirs alone. And besides, she had bigger things to speculate on right now.

Determining there was nobody else around to disturb or hear her, Marie gathered her distinctly unfeminine muscles and dropped, cat-like from the branches of the tree she was balanced in. Her didn't make a sound as she touched down, and with barely a whisper, she wended her way speedily towards the huge, circular building highlighted against the cloudy sky by beams of pale moonlight.

Reaching a small wooden door embedded in the wall, it was but the work of a moment for her to ram into it, hoping to open it as she'd done once before. To her surprise it flew open with a large crash, sending bits of loam and plaster raining down on her. Coughing slightly into a fist, she peered into the dusty passage beyond.

_Somebody's already here,_ she realised. _And if I'm right, then I'll bet I know who that somebody is._

Creeping forward, the assassin pressed her body against the wall. Several successful missions had taught her never to assume anything, and she was less than willing to put herself in danger of being caught should the person inside the Combat Arena prove to be someone other than who she was looking for.

_But I'm sure it must be. Where else would he go to be sure of a little privacy? Nowhere's sacred any more - not with those two scouts from The Silver Sword staying here. They get more free reign than *we* do, and they're only visitors._ Her thoughts took a peevish turn, and she dispelled them rapidly, concentrating instead on the way ahead.

At last she came to the end of the corridor, and, peering surreptitiously around the corner, looked into the open space that lay within.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. Several torches burned brightly on the walls, keeping the Arena permanently lit, since there were no windows to speak of in the place. Tradition told of it being bad luck for any of the torches to go out, and it was a special privilege to be put on torch-duty.

Marie blinked in the semi-gloom, squinting for the one she sought. There appeared to be nobody about, and for the first time since she'd been to his chamber and found him curiously absent, she wondered whether she was on the correct track after all.

_Maybe he ain't missing at all. Maybe he just went to visit... no, wait - _ Her eyes narrowed. _There he is._

Triumphantly she spotted what she sought - a lone figure, sitting dolefully on one of the benches bordering the Arena, and only separated from it by delicately wrought black iron. His face was in his hands, and he obviously wasn't looking out for people who might catch and punish him for being in here without permission.

Inadvertently, she was struck by a memory. The last time they'd been here the roles had been reversed. It had been he who found her, and now here she was seeking him to do exactly the same. It was funny, in an ironic kind of way.

_Big deal,_ she told her almost-conscience irritably. _That was six years ago. This is now. both of us have changed since then._

Have You? it enquired. Have you really?

Ignoring it, Marie quickly padded across the Arena, past the Council's dais, and over to the boy. He didn't even acknowledge her approach, and jumped when her footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden stairs.

"Wha - " he startled. "Marie? What are... how did you know where to find me?"

"Call it woman's intuition." She plopped down beside him. "Plus a little common sense. Where else were y'gonna go? Am I right in thinking you came here to think things over?"

He sighed - a dejected sound. "Yeah."

"You wanna talk about it?" she asked, but he said nothing in reply.

Marie cast a wary glance over at her friend. His face was drawn, and there were worry lines at the corners of his pale blue eyes. He looked a wreck, as anyone might do after receiving the information he had mere hours ago.

She regarded him critically, then said: "You want me to leave you alone?"

"No, no," he assured her. "It's just... ach, I'm so confused. I don't know what I should do, Marie."

_Neither would I in your situation,_ she thought, but said: "Well, what do you *wanna* do?"

He contemplated her words for a moment, not looking at her. "You want the truth?" His tone was stiffly reserved, and strange to here when addressing her. "I'd like to go, Marie."

Her mouth dropped open. Never, in all her days would she have considered Pietro the Loyal a deserter. He'd even stuck by that Kaju, his ex-mentor Emilios when he got in trouble with the council a few months ago for brawling. Loyalty like that was hard to find, and - or so she'd thought - unshakable.

"You'd desert the Guild? Just like that?"

"Nuh-uh." He shook his head. "Not desertion. Would you believe it, but Emilios has worked it so that I could go *legally*? Kind of like a... a vacation." He used the word the Silver Scouts had introduced to their tongue, and she blinked, recalling the meaning behind it. Vacations did not exist in the Guild, and the notion was an odd one to contemplate.

Pietro went on. "The Council's already approved his request, provided he goes with me as an escort. And I come back afterwards, of course. Except, that part never really came up in the conversation."

Marie stared, at a loss for what to say. When she'd come to find him, she'd assumed he would never leave The Guild, and that she'd be telling him he'd made the right decision by not going to Österrik. It came as a complete shock to her system that he would actually *want* to go, and she simply sat there, opening and shutting her mouth like a beached fish.

He glanced up, saying ruefully: "I was afraid you'd react like this. That's why I needed some time to think about it - to phrase it properly. But I've obviously botched things up. Again."

"You'd leave?" she repeated, incredulous. "Just like that?"

"Not forever," he hastily reassured her, "just for a couple of months. It'd be like going on a mission. Except, when I got back I'd... I'd know who I was."

Anger abruptly flared inside her chest. "You already know who you are," she snapped archly. "You're Pietro the Loyal." _Or at least, you were._

"And you're Marie the Steadfast," he returned. "But beyond that, do you really know who you are?"

She frowned, not seeing what he was getting at. "Of course I do. And so do you."

"No, I don't Marie. That's the point." He let his chin fall onto his chest once more. "I'll admit it; before Emilios gave me the news, I'd never exactly considered my identity beyond the Guild. I was an assassin, and that was it. But now... now I want to know who I was before that. Where I come from. Who my kin are."

"You come from the Guild, and we're your kin," Marie bit out. "Or are we not good enough for you anymore, now you've heard about this... this charlatan in Österrik?"

"How do I know he's a charlatan?" Pietro demanded hotly. "For all I know, he could be telling the truth. He might really want to see me. The message the Council received said he's spent years tracking me down, and wants to meet me."

"Then let him come here," she virtually spat. "Let *him* come to *you* if he's that desperate to meet you."

"Marie, you *know* that wouldn't work. The Council would never allow someone they hadn't approved to come here. That's why they strung up the messenger who delivered the scroll, remember?" his eyes travelled down, casting over the tight roll of paper in his hand. One corner was soaked a brownish-scarlet, but the rest was relatively clean. "This place is secret, or had you forgotten?"

She stared sulkily at the ground, muttering; "No."

Pietro looked at her, wishing she could understand why he had to do this. He sighed once more. "I have to go, Marie. I didn't tell you before, but this Erik character, he... he says he's my..." - he swallowed - "... father."

She exploded. "What? Your *father*." There was disbelief and scepticism in her voice, and he winced. "But I thought you said he was just some distant relation?"

"That was because I needed some thinking time. I didn't want any pressure from anyone," he replied, turning aside his gaze and saying in a small voice: "not even you, Marie. Don't you ever wonder where you came from? Who your family were before you were trained by Logan? You had to have a mother to birth you, but you're the only female in the Guild. So who was she? Don't you ever wonder about things like that?"

She shuffled her feet self-consciously, unwilling to admit the truth. "Sometimes."

"Emilios thinks I should."

"That Yept-for-brains just wants a break from being around here. You know he's been suspended from missions until he sorts his act out. All Emilios wants is a..." she wrinkled her nose, "A... *vacation*. He doesn't care about you. Why else would he be going to Österrik, of all places? There's nothing for him there."

"Be that as it may, he's still my ticket out of here. Marie, I've made my decision. I wish I could've phrased it better, but it's too late now." Pietro breathed deeply, as if gathering strength, and hurriedly gabbled what he wanted to say. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to Österrik to see if this guy really is who he says he is. To find out if he really is my father."

His jabbered words hung between them like an intangible gulf. Pietro looked away, embarrassed, whilst Marie could only gaze at the Arena below.

She was flabbergasted. That her best friend would voluntarily leave her... it was almost too much for even *her* harsh resolve to take. Through all of their training, and all of the missions they'd taken so far in their assassin careers, they'd always been there for each other. Even at their title ceremonies, they'd stood side by side to receive their names and swords. For them to do anything without the other was... well, it was unthinkable. Almost absurd, in some fundamental way. It hurt her that he'd kept information so momentous as this from her, and a feeling of dread manifested in the pit of her stomach.

_If he's willing to keep personal stuff from me, and lie like that, then what's to say he won't just *stay* in Österrik? Become a Rogue and remain with his... with his... his *father*._ Even inside her own head the word came out a sneer. She hadn't met the elusive man who claimed to be of her friend's blood, but already she hated him for threatening to take Pietro away from her. It surprised her a little. She'd never been the most emotional of people, but a deep sense of regret filled her at the thought of losing him so abruptly and so completely.

_If he's in Österrik, then I'll probably never see him again. Ever. Unless... unless I'm the one sent to assassinate him for desertion._ She shivered. _I don't know if I could do that to someone I care about. But I don't know if I could become a Rogue for disobeying orders, either._

Cold silence stretched between the two teenagers, making both of them extremely uncomfortable; until at last, Marie broke it. Her voice was resigned, and with more than a hint of sadness to it.

"Are y'gonna come back?"

" 'Course." Pietro said, evidently surprised that she would ask such a question.

"No, I mean *really*." She turned to face him, eyes serious. "No lies, Pietro. I want the truth. You don't know who this Erik character is. All you know is that he sent you some scroll telling you he knows who you 'really' are and wants to meet you in some tiny little village on the Österrikan border. The fact that he knew where to send the messenger is weird enough, but... Look, if by some chance this 'Erik' character really is your father, are you gonna stay for good with him in Österrik?"

He looked at her, expression incalculable. "I can't say the thought's never crossed my mind," he admitted at length, "and I'd be lying if I said I'd never considered it as a possibility. I don't want to lie to you, Marie. You're the truest friend a person could wish for. I wouldn't want to hurt you by lying or sugar-coating the truth. You at least deserve to know what's going on." He tapped at the side of his head, inadvertently brandishing the scroll. "In here, as well as out there."

Her breath all but hitched in her throat. So it was true. He *was* going to live in Österrik with his new father. He *was* going to leave her. She'd be alone - abandoned to this lonely life of shady dealings and bloody pacts. The thrill of the hunt wouldn't be so sweet if she had nobody to share it with afterwards. Logan didn't count. He didn't understand her the way Pietro did. To Logan, this was just a job. He liked fighting, not hunting. Sometimes, she believed he didn't want to kill his targets, and only did so out of some strange sense of duty or debt to the Council.

But Pietro knew; Pietro knew the delicious sensation of tracking prey, of performing the deed and returning triumphant to The Guild. He knew what it was like to meet with your best friend and relate tales of daring do until late at night in your chambers; to practise swordplay and cards, but never lose sight of that camaraderie that had stuck with you since you couldn't remember. Pietro knew, and shared them.

Or at least, he had.

"Go then."

The white-haired boy glanced at her. "What?"

"Go. Go to Österrik and your poxy father. Go. I don't care. I don't care if I never see you again." She spit the words out like hot coals, voice gravely and frozen.

"Marie, you don't mean that - "

"Yes, I do," she cut in. She looked away, unable to meet his pained gaze. "I don't need you."

"But I need you."

She blinked at that, eyes still averted. "No, you don't. You need your family. Your *real* family. You said so yourself. So go to them. Your father obviously wants you." She lifted her chin and made to rise to her feet. "I don't."

"But - "

"You're gonna go anyway, no matter what I say. So just go now, and spare me your insincere goodbyes. I don't wanna here 'em."

"Marie, if you'd just listen for a second!"

Her eyes flashed, but stayed away from his face. "No, I - "

"Marie!" He reached out and caught the crook of her arm, pulling her round to face him. "Marie, I'd never leave you. This Erik may be my father, but I'd never put anyone above you." he was emphatic. "Never!"

She stared at him, still sceptical. "You said you needed to find out who you are - where you came from."

"I may not know where I'm from, but I know where my life is going, Marie. Straight back here. I need *you* more than any father I've never met before."

She looked at him, gaze slitted. Indisputable sincerity glistened in his eyes, of the kind that rarely inhabits mere humans without being tainted by their ultimately disingenuous nature.

Pietro stared at her, willing her to understand; hoping with all his heart that he could make her appreciate why he had to do this, but also why he would never leave her; to silently tell her what he could never say aloud.

Marie looked at him, slowly coming to realise what he meant. His eyes pleaded with her, and she answered them with a tentative smile, telling them she understood, and despite what her pained tongue had said, she didn't hold it against him; that she too cared too much to hurt and lose him.

He raised a hand to cup her face. He ran one finger along her pale cheekbone and leaned forward, closing his eyes. With a tenderness incongruous to their brutal profession, and filled with all the apprehension of youth, his lips touched hers.

She was warm, and didn't retaliate against him. Affection flowed through her body, as they melded together in a warm kiss, and her own hands reached up to encapsulate his face.

The newness of the experience lent wings to their emotions, sending the pair of them soaring to the stars, hand in hand. They rode, giggling, on a sea of friendship that had deepened into something else, feeling for the first time the intensity of what the other had become to them. In those few tender moments they made a silent pact. Begun in friendship, and forged in love, they promised they'd see each other again some day. Come hell or high water, they'd see each other again.

Somehow.

Gently, they broke apart, but neither felt able to remove their hands. They both revelled in the touch of the other's skin, of the warmth there, and the faintly pulsating veins signifying life. The life they'd quiescently promised to share together.

Marie rested her forehead against Pietro's, and he smiled, whispering softly into her ear: "I'll come back. I promise."

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

Marie stood outside Councillor Maxor's chamber, waiting. She rocked idly back and forth on the heels of her boots, eyes flickering this way and that in a nervous manner. She'd never been called by the head councillor before, only by his subordinates.

The empty hallway echoed forebodingly, and she could hear the steady 'drip-drip-dripping' of water trickling through a hole in the roof. It was raining again. It had been raining on and off for several weeks now, but that was only to be expected in the transition between Winter and Spring. She heard the distant rumble of thunder, and if she'd been outside, then she would've been privy to a flash of lightning illuminating the dark sky.

_What a miserable night,_ she thought dejectedly. _And here I was hoping to get in some night-manoeuvres training. Fat chance now._

Pseudo-indolently, she perused the hilt of her hunting knife, rubbing at a speck of dirt that wasn't really there. It gleamed in the weak torchlight, flickering flames reflected in shining metal.

She'd been cleaning it when the message arrived. 'Councillor Maxor requests the presence of Marie the Steadfast immediately for a private consultation concerning a most delicate matter of the utmost security.' She'd been intrigued, not to mention dutiful about following the messenger directly to his chambers on the uppermost level of the Guild's underground complex. As she was considerably younger and less important than he, her chambers were on a lower level, and had been forced to traverse several flights of roughly hewn stairs to reach her destination. Despite this, the passage adjoining Councillor Maxor's compartments was considerably darker and underlit compared to her own, and she was forced to strain her eyes to see almost anything.

Patiently, she waited; mind wandering more than once onto a number of various subjects. None of which she could settle on thanks to her nervousness.

_I wonder what he wants to see me about? It sounded very urgent. Has Pietro crossed into Österrik yet? It's been two moons now. I hope Emilios has been treating him right. That dripping sure is loud. Wonder if the rain will let up any time soon? I really wanted to get in some training before mah next mission. Come to think of it, I should be getting a new mission soon. It's not usual for them to leave it so long. Where will I go next? Perhaps Österrik? Ha ha, no such luck, Marie._

Suddenly, the thick oaken door beside her gave a squeak and opened a crack. She whirled round, but there was nobody there. Instead, a voice filtered out.

"Enter."

Replacing the knife in her boot, Marie adjusted her cloak - which she'd put on more to cover her less-than-presentable training armour rather than because she was going anywhere. In truth, it had been fashioned from bits and bobs she'd gleaned from male assassin cast-offs, and as a result was useable, but rather unsightly. To her, it was beautiful in an incongruous way, but others only noticed that it was male, not female armour, and judged it as such.

She went in, closing the door behind her after a perfunctory glance down the corridor to make sure nobody else was there. Then, turning around, she found herself in a large room, with echoing floorboards and arches that obviously led to other adjacent chambers.

It was a cluttered space, with a round table right in the middle of it, and a warm fire burning nicely in the grate. It was obvious to whom it belonged, since only a councillor would have concerned himself with the objects crowding in from every conceivable angle - disintegrating parchments caked in the dust of bygone ages; beautifully delicate ivory carvings of strange and exotic creatures, presumably imported from the Far-East; tapestries of richest silk and satin, embroidered to resemble myths and legends from each and every realm ever visited by an assassin; various curved vials and bottles brimming with oddly hued liquids; rusty swords, unusable as combat weapons but filled with history and character; skulls (some with lighted wicks burning in their open mouths) and other fragmented brown bones, the origin of which was best left un-investigated; and the mandatory number oil lamps and candles, all overflowing with sticky wax that oozed onto the surfaces they rested upon, notwithstanding the fact that a number of them were not even lit.

In the midst of this ostensible chaos a small figure sat. His snowy beard stretched down to his waist, and on his head he wore an unusual black hat, most likely to cover the lack of hair therein. His clothes were dark, and spattered with candle-wax and all manner of other substances, which resulted in him fading into the background somewhat in the flickering iridescence of the chamber.

"Come in, child. Come in." He gestured that Marie should step forward, and squinted at her through an old monocle, reputedly given to him by the King of Espan, many moons ago, for a successful mission against the monarch's usurping son. Edged in pure gold, the monocle flashed in the firelight, making Marie blink involuntarily.

"Marie the Steadfast," he said at last.

"Yes, Councillor Maxor," she replied, unsure how to address him.

If she was incorrect, then he seemed not to notice as he motioned for her to sit down on a chair partially covered in dried-out old maps tied up in faded ribbon. She perched on the edge, unwilling to crush the items, but not knowing where to put them otherwise. Something told her that, though the room may appear chaotic to her, for Councillor Maxor there was some degree of organisation.

"I have called you here on a most important matter, my dear," Maxor wheezed, reaching for a tankard of frothy liquid nearby and taking a long gulp of it. No such beverage was offered to Marie. Not that she noticed. "A most important matter indeed."

"I am yours to command, Councillor," she said obediently, to which he smiled through his foam covered beard.

"Glad to hear it. The younger generation are so much harder to control than they used to be. It's good to hear some obedience for a change. Firstly, my dear, I must ask you a few questions, to make sure that you are the right one for the job."

_A mission then,_ Marie thought. "As y'wish."

Maxor grinned again, laying his hands in his lap. "To start with, how long have you had your sword and title, girl?"

"Twelve and a half moons, Councillor."

"And you were trained by Emilios the Savage, were you not?"

"No sir. I was not." Marie could hardly keep the disgust out of her voice. "His pupil was Pietro the Loyal."

"Oh yes, the one who's gone to Österrik for something or other," Maxor said quickly. His eyes, like pieces of coal set deep in his portly face, darted to and fro as he spoke, scanning the room in a most disconcerting fashion. Marie hardly had time to ponder on it, though, because he pressed on immediately, as if this was a subject on which he didn't wish to linger. "So who was it trained you, girl?"

"Logan the Swift, sir," she replied, a little putout by his constant forgetting of her name.

"Ah, yes," Maxor nodded. "Now I remember. Tell me child, why do they call you 'Steadfast'?"

She blinked. The councillors had given her the title, along with a little help from Logan. Surely he should know why it had been bestowed upon her, since he was head of the Guild Council? "I... I suppose because I don't lose mah head in a fight, sir. I don't let mah emotions cloud mah judgement."

"Good, good," he murmured mysteriously. "But surely you must be called that for other reasons too. Titles are rarely given based on only one aspect of a person's character. What about your relationship with the Guild? Are you faithful to it?"

What an odd line of questioning. "Yes, sir. Mah loyalty to The Guild of Assassins has never been in doubt. They're mah family. Mah home. Mah comrades in arms." _Or at least two members are. I can't say I speak for the rest._ She kept her errant thoughts to herself.

"Just what I wanted to hear." Maxor clapped his hands together with glee. "Now finally, tell me, girl; if forced to choose between the good of one person and the good of many, whom would you choose?"

"Why, the good of many, of course sir," she answered. "That being the most logical course of action."

"And that concludes your test, m'girl." Maxor sat back in his chair, sighing happily.

Marie raised one chiselled eyebrow. "Test, Councillor?"

"Yes, and I'm pleased to say that you passed with flying colours."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

Maxor breathed heavily, blowing several strands of hair out of his small, rather puckered mouth. Marie tried not to think of horses' rears as she looked at it, and instead looked at his darting, intelligent black eyes.

"You wouldn't, my dear, because the mission I was testing you for is very hush-hush, if you get what I mean." He pressed a finger to his lips. "What I'm about to tell you must never leave this chamber."

"As y'wish, Councillor."

"Good, good." He leaned forward, expression beneath his hairy brows becoming earnest. "Girl, you're aware that to all assassins, the safety and secrecy of the Guild and its activities is paramount, don't you?"

"Sure do, sir," she said, still having no idea where he was going with this.

"Well, of late, certain... politics have been going on amongst The Guild and a... shall we say, an outside party."

"Outside party, sir?"

"The identity of this party is none of your concern, girl," Maxor said rather sharply, "it is strictly Council business." Marie must have looked shocked at this abrupt change in tone, for his face then softened, and his voice became deceptively gentle once more. "But let me assure you, it is a very delicate procedure, and has recently been jeopardised by the actions of one individual. I must stress, my dear," he leaned forward towards her, laying one knarled hand on her knee, "that these negotiations are *very* important. If anything should happen to them, then the results could be disastrous for us."

Marie kept herself from shuddering only by pure force of will. It was like being draped with a clammy corpse. His fingers were cold, gripping her firmly, and his eyes never left her face.

She didn't know why, but somehow she knew that by 'us', Councillor Maxor wasn't talking about the entire Guild. A strange feeling of uneasiness began to form in the pit of her stomach; growing and climbing up her insides as she listened to the wizened old man continue. She couldn't explain it, but she'd long-since learnt to trust her instincts.

"Thus it is that I have called you here tonight, my dear. We are in desperate need of your assistance to rid us of the individual who so threatens our negotiations."

"I don't rightly understand your thinking, if y'don't mind me saying, Councillor," Marie interjected. "There's more experienced assassins than me at your disposal. Why choose me, a mere rookie to perform such an important mission?"

He nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. Well, you see, we of The Council have heard of your prowess and talent, my dear child." The hand on her knee inched its way upwards slightly and tightened its grip. "And believe that, with the advantage of youth and alacrity on your side, you were the best choice. Plus there is the added advantage of loyalty..."he muttered, half to himself.

"Loyalty, sir?" she repeated. "Is this another test? Are you assessing mah reliability as an assassin?"

"Partially," he replied tactlessly, "but there is also the matter that you can use the target's trust against him to complete the task."

Once again, Marie blinked in bewilderment. "Excuse me sir, but I'm confused."

"Then allow me to elucidate for you."

Maxor grasped the sides of his chair and hauled his body creakily out of it. He walked over to stand in front of the fire, staring into the flames like a thing transfixed. Marie waited patiently for him to carry on, and at length he deigned to, though he didn't face her.

"Marie the Steadfast, your new target is Logan the Swift."

One could have heard her jaw hit the floor as it dropped. "L... Logan? But why?"

"Yours is not to question, yours is just to do," Maxor reminded her pertly. "Your loyalty is to the Guild, is it not? And Logan has become a danger to us; so he must therefore be eradicated. He trusts you, so you will be able to get close enough to kill him without too much mishap."

Marie simply gaped. Kill Logan? The man who'd raised and trained her? Made her who she was today? He was like a father to her. How could she possibly murder him in cold blood?

You've done it before, her almost-conscience pointed out. The men you assassinated over the past twelve moons were probably fathers, brothers and sons to people, yet you killed them. And without a second thought.

_But this is *Logan*,_ she mentally argued. _*Logan*. It's different._

How so?

_Because... because I placed mah loyalty to him when I was a baby: he cared for me. Nurtured me. I gave mah allegiance to The Guild when I received mah title. There's a lot of difference between twelve moons of loyalty and sixteen Winters' worth._

But what about the good of many overcoming the good of one person? What about that?

_I'm not sure. But I don't trust Councillor Maxor. There's just something about him rubs me up the wrong way. I'd like to know just what these 'negotiations' are that Logan's supposedly jeopardizing before I make any promises._

"Girl, why don't you say anything?" Maxor demanded softly from the hearth.

"Councillor Maxor, I have to ask, what is it that Logan's done to deserve assassination? As far as I know, he's been the model recruit all his career."

Maxor sighed. "Logan the Swift has been sticking his Wolverinnen nose where it's not wanted. He's somehow got hold of information that may effectively collapse the delicate situation with our... benefactor, if it ever got out. And I *know* that he means for it to get out."

Marie's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Benefactor?"

For a moment, Maxor seemed flustered. "I mean outside party. He is to be beneficial to the Guild in the future, hence my slip of the tongue."

"So it's one man, then. Not a group of people," she surmised aloud, rubbing at her ear in thought.

"Enough of this question and answer session." Maxor swivelled his head to look at her. "Do you, or do you not accept the mission?"

Marie stared back at him, meeting his gaze sedately. Her exterior showed nothing but composedness and calm, but inside she was fizzing with half-recalled memories about something Logan had been up to recently. She and her ex-mentor had grown apart somewhat since she'd received her title, and he hadn't taken on another pupil in her wake. As a result, they didn't see each other as often as they would've liked, since their missions rarely coincided.

Yet recently, on those rare occasions when she *had* seen him, he'd only talked about... now, what was it again? 'Something big' he'd said. 'Something big and dangerous, to all assassins'. If only she could remember what it was. It had something to do with Councillor Maxor wanting him dead, she was sure of it. The signs all pointed that way, as did her own gut feeling.

But what? That was the question.

"Well?" Maxor tapped his foot impatiently. "What is your answer, girl?"

This part of the process was just for show, to make the assassin in question think he or she had a choice in the matter. They didn't really, but each councillor who doled out missions insisted on going through the motions anyway. Here was where she was supposed to accept the task set for her. To kill Logan. Her mentor. Her friend.

Absently, as it always did whenever she was presented with a fresh hunt, Marie's hand strayed to her sword-hilt. She tapped the end thoughtfully; wishing with all her might she could remember what Logan had been talking about. It was connected, she knew it was. But how? She had to remember quickly. Maxor was getting irritated. Involuntarily, her fingers curled around the handle of her sword.

Suddenly, something stirred.

Her sword.

Sword...

Shining... sword-blade. a precious metal... dangerous... 'politics'... something about silver... silver... silver...

Silver Sword!

"The Silver Sword!" she said incredulously, and much louder than she meant to.

Maxor glanced up sharply. "What did you say?"

"That's your mysterious 'benefactor', isn't it? The Silver Sword."

Maxor's eyes darkened. "What do you know about The Silver Sword? He has nothing to do with the Guild."

"Not yet he doesn't," Marie replied hotly, "but if the Council get their way, he soon will be."

"He got to you first, didn't he?" Maxor demanded, all traces of amiability vanishing as he turned to face her. "Logan contaminated your mind against us."

"No, he opened mah eyes," she retorted. "Don't you know what'll happen if you ally the Guild of Assassins with the Silver Sword? We'll lose our identity. He'll crush us out of existence and put us to work in his armies and mines. Is that what you want?"

"The Silver Sword has promised to *enhance* The Guild," Maxor proclaimed, not a little prudishly.

"Only so's he can use us to his own ends. Logan found out about this, didn't he? He found out just what the Silver Sword's planning to do to the rest of us once he gets us under his thumb, didn't he? That's why you want him dead. So that he can't spread the warning until it's too late to do anything."

"That's *enough*!" Maxor shouted, cheeks colouring as he spoke. "You will talk no more, you mere *child*! What do you know about the delicate politics of the Guild of Assassins?"

"Enough to know that there must be something in it for you if you're willing to sacrifice all those people. They look up to you, and respect you. And you'd betray them, just like that." She snapped her fingers to emphasize her point. "You're... you're just disgusting." The words were out before she could stop them, and Maxor's face purpled.

"I said *ENOUGH*! You will be *silent*!" he roared at a volume out of place in his old body. "Marie the Steadfast, you refuse the mission given to you by the head Councillor himself, *and* further disgrace yourself by insulting the council in plain hearing."

"Yes," she replied daringly, with much more nerve than she actually felt. This was a councillor. What in all Seven Hells was she *thinking*? "I do."

"Then," Maxor said sepulchrely, "you are *outcast*." There was more than a hint of inexplicable triumph in his tone. "You shall no longer be known as Marie the Steadfast. Henceforth, you are a Rogue. One to be shunned and hunted to the ends of Earth-Realm, until your foul presence no longer infects this world. Guards! Guards!" He lunged for an erstwhile-unseen pulley hanging from the ceiling. It rang once before the girl in the chair launched herself forward, knocking him backwards with a well-place elbow to the midriff.

Maxor stumbled, tripping gracelessly over a pile of leather-bound books strewn across the floor. His arms windmilled as he tumbled rearwards, falling into the formerly heart-warming fire with a yell and a rush of sparks. The girl needed no more opportunity. She dashed to the door, wrenched it open, and was through and away in an instant.

"Guards! Catch her, damnit! Don't let that Rogue escape. Kill her! Slay her quickly! Guards! Hurry, you buffoons!" Councillor Maxor's cries rang in her ears as she ran down the corridor.

_Thank the gods his chambers were on the upper level near the exits,_ she thought gratefully.

Yet her thanks were premature, it seemed; for as she rounded a corner a pair of burly men carrying spears bore down on her. They wore the Guild insignia on their clothes, and were quite obviously Council-guards simply by the way they yelled upon seeing her, giving chase instantly.

Fleetingly, she thought how stupid they were, pursuing the first girl they came across without any regard for her identity. After all, concubines weren't all that uncommon around here anymore, what with the Silver Scouts introducing them. Blind and mute, the girls were often seen traversing the corridors going from one set of chambers to another.

However, her mind was predominantly taken up with escape, and the lack thereof in her current situation. Desperately she turned back on herself, hurrying back along the passage until she came to an underground crossroads of sorts.

Darting left, she ran as fast as her legs could take her, feet slapping the floor as she went. Her breath came in short panting gasps, as she zigzagged this way and that, trying to lose her pursuers. Soon she had no real idea where she was anymore, though the sounds of the guards had faded into obscurity some way back. Desperately, she began searching for a way out. She had to get away; away from this place with its false leaders and broken promises; Away from the deception and the lies, and the council's bloodlust in the pursuit of power - even against their own.

Her cloak billowed out behind her. Where the Yept was the way out? She was sure she'd passed this way before, just before the guards chased her. Frantically, she ran to and fro, looking for some kind of an escape.

Then at last she found it. A heavy door, locked, and with the key removed. A faint breeze blew in around the edges, and after a few rams with her shoulder yielded no results, it was but the work of a moment to cleave off the lock with her sword.

And then she was free. Appreciatively, she dashed from the opening, only to be confronted by a score of brawny sentries already waiting for her outside.

_What the Yept?_ she thought incredulously. _How did they get here so fast?_

There was no time for more pondering, as the first of the men rushed at her. Yet for all their size and strength they weren't quick of wit, and she deftly threw herself aside, dropping into a roll and jumping up to keep on running.

Where to? She didn't know. The only thing that was important was putting one foot in front of the other; was getting away. Staying alive. Escape.

_Keep going,_ she told herself. _Just keep going. Don't look back. Keep running._

Her chest burned and heaved with exertion as she ran and ran and ran and *ran*. But no matter how fast she went, or how many zigzags she made, there was always someone behind her; always a pursuer at her heels, never letting up. It was more than their lives were worth to give up the chase, and her life depended on carrying on. So they continued. On and on and on; a flurry of people running through the trees in the moonlight.

Gradually, the landscape around her became more familiar. She glanced around, sure that she recognised things, but going too fast to get a proper look and discern exactly where she was. A canopy of leaves and branches fenced off the sky overheard, and she ran now in near-complete darkness. Several times she stumbled, but she didn't once lose her footing or fall. Twigs scratched at her exposed face, scoring deep red lines through her skin and making their stinging way across her malleable flesh.

Suddenly the trees were gone, and a pungent smell invaded her nostrils.

Salt.

Immediately, she realised where she was, and put on another burst of speed. The guards behind emitted yet another wordless battle-cry and renewed their efforts, pounding onwards, heedless of the grass that gave way to sandy rocks and half-buried stones that stubbed their feet and toes as they ran.

_Keep going. Keep going. Just a little further now._

She leaped patches of scrub, speed never faltering for a second. Pound, pound, pound. Her heart thumped against her ribcage, as if trying to break loose. Just a little further. Not far now. Just a little. Bit. Further.

Abruptly, the ground she was running on ended, dropping away into a sheer cliff nestling into the crashing embrace of the sea. The fleeing girl teetered on the edge for a moment, before stepping backwards away from the unquestionably lethal fall. Breathing heavily, she spun back to face her oncoming pursuers.

The mob slowed their pace, and crept towards her in a wide arc, effectively cutting off any retreat away from the cliff edge. Their faces were obscured by shadows, but their expressions were bleak. Her own face was angry and grim, as she readied herself for what she knew would be the final showdown.

Her sword was still clutched in her sweaty palms, and she raised it before her, silently challenging the guards to final combat. She wasn't going to go meekly. Let them come and take her, if they dared.

With a shout, one of them broke ranks and bounded forward. Presumably he wished to enhance his status with the council by killing her single-handedly. He jutted out his spear, but she ducked, ramming her blade deep into the exposed chest. For a moment he looked startled, before she savagely wrenched her sword free and sent him tumbling into the frothing waves far below. Her expression didn't waver one iota.

All at once, all hells broke loose. At the sight of their slain comrade, the remaining guards ploughed forward in one great mass, hoping to skewer her or push her off by sheer force of numbers.

However, she was too shrewd for that. She became a deadly whirlwind of stabbing blades and jabbing limbs, cutting a swathe through their ranks before they even had time to register that she was fighting back. Several men fell to her in those few bloody minutes, their bodies littering the ground, or else plummeting into the sea to be lost among the white-capped waves.

Yet she couldn't win. Wherever she cut down a guard, another sprang up in his place. Her flesh became torn in a multitude of different places, and blood sprayed and mingled into the air as each side's weapons found their marks. There were simply too many of them for her to beat the single-handedly, and she was tired from the chase. Gradually they forced her back, fighting and swearing all the way to the crumbling brink of the cliff.

There she stopped, hurling off a man nearly twice her size and whipping round to face his brethren. Her features were streaked with sweat and blood, and she breathed hard, glaring harshly at those who would see her dead in the line of duty.

It didn't take a prophet to see that she was done for. Already they were regrouping and coming at her for another attack; an attack that would finish her for good this time. The taste of copper swirled inside her mouth, and she spat part of a broken tooth out onto the ground, never taking her green eyes from them.

It was ironic, really. This was the very same spot where Pietro had saved her from dying just over twelve moons ago, and now it seemed the god of Death was back to reclaim the prize that had eluded him. Her lips curved into a sardonic smile. She wasn't afraid of death by any means - what assassin was? - but she wished she could have warned Logan before she passed, or at the very least seen Pietro one last time.

Pietro.

_Guys, I'm sorry._ She sent out a mental apology. _Y'all rescued me from the sea before, but it looks like your efforts were for nothing. I just wish I could tell y'all that mahself. I wish I could tell you that I'm sorry I won't be here when you get back.... and that I love y'all._

It felt good to finally say the words, even if they were just in her head. Liberating. Like a heavy mantle had been removed from her shoulders, and she could now think clearly about her final precious moments.

Suddenly she was struck by an idea; an outlandish notion spawned in the throes of desperation. An idea so crazy, that it just might work.

She cast a thoughtful glance at the soil beneath her feet, noting how close to the edge she was balanced. The wind caught at her hair, sea-spray plastering a few locks to her already crimson-smeared forehead. Looking back at her approaching foes, she smiled cruelly, and replaced the sword in its scabbard.

Momentarily they looked perplexed, blinking at her in the moonlight. Her grin widened, and she shouted above the waves:

"Sorry boys, but I choose mah own path!"

With that, she spread her arms, and purposefully toppled backwards over the cliff.

A few masculine cries were emitted as she plummeted to the furiously churning water below, but they were rapidly replaced by a roaring that blotted out all thoughts, sounds and senses. Spray whistled past her face, stinging her eyes and splashing her skin with an almost refreshing vim. Her mouth opened in one last victorious shout.

Then she hit the water.

And her world became chaos.

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

The Captain of the Council Guards leaned out as far as he dared, craning his neck in hope of spotting the Rogue who'd evaded him and his men in favour of a watery grave. His dark blue eyes darted here and there, taking in the churning froth smashing bits of flotsam and jetsam against the rocks, which poked above the surface now and again; hidden weapons the ocean used to fill its bed with unsuspecting cadavers.

"Did she know about them when she jumped?" he wondered aloud.

"Wonder about what, Cap'n?" a nearby guard with a crown of blondish fuzz asked. The Captain started, not even realizing he'd spoken but recovering quickly.

"Those rocks down there." He pointed with his reddened spearhead.

"Perhaps that's why she did it," offered another, bearded man, with more hair on his chin than his scalp. "Better to die quick-like on the rocks than drown. I hear you stay alive for a few minutes underwater, and feel everything right up until the moment you pass on."

"Can any of you see a body?" the Captain asked, bringing them back to the matter at hand. "It might be impaled on one of them, or still be hanging around near the bases."

"Nay, I cannae see nowt," replied yet another guard in a thick Highland accent. "If'n it be goon int'ay water then ye'll nay see t'wood fer trees."

"Excuse me?"

"He means, if she's fallen in the water, the waves will have covered the body and we won't be able to see it," translated Blondie.

"'At's what ah seed, 'int it?"

"Plus, the current may have already taken her out to sea by now," added Beardy.

"Then look further out for a corpse," his superior ordered. "We don't go back until we know what's happened to her for *sure*, or it'll be our heads that roll."

All the panting men scanned the water as far as they could see, and after a minute or two one of them shouted, "Lookie, oot theer!"

"What?"

Highlander pointed. "Lookie, a body."

"Its floating Cap'n," reported Blondie, shielding his eyes against the reflected moonlight's glare. "Doesn't seem to be moving either; and her face is in the drink. I think she's dead."

The Captain gave a sigh of relief. "Mission accomplished then, lads. Though it was a bit unorthodox, I must say. But we got the job done, so let's - "

"Wait, Cap'n!" Beardy exclaimed. "Wait! She's... I think she's moving!"

All of them crowded to the edge again.

"Probably just some sea-creature pulling her under as food. Nothing to worry about," the Captain surmised hastily, but was corrected by Highlander.

"Nay. What ye be talkin' aboot, laddie? T'lass be swimmin'!"

"Swimming?" He strained his vision until the backs of his eyeballs ached. "Gods be damned, she is! She's alive. Yept! And she's getting away!" Hurriedly he rapped out orders. "All of you back underground. I don't know how she survived that fall, but if we don't do something quick then our butchered carcasses will be the ones to take her place! Hurry now, we have to tell the Council that the Rogue got away! *Move* it!"

Swiftly, his men ran from the precipice, melting into the trees like shadows into darkness. The Captain remained a while longer, and glanced out at the steadily absconding figure far out in the water, before following them.

"Damn you, Rogue," he growled. "Damn you to all Seven Hells and beyond! You won't escape The Guild. Mark my words. You will never escape us all."

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

Heralded by the raucous call of seabirds, sunrays flooded golden and warm through the greyish morning clouds. The murky miasma parted to allow them passage, and they spurted down to gently caress everything within their reach.

The beams of light caressed the wet bundle on the spume-covered tide-line, and a wayward seagull floated down off a thermal it had been riding to alight on the pitiful mound. Jerkily, it found its feet, flicking a feathered tail and turning its head to eye the likely looking package. Expectantly it tugged at a fold of sodden cloth, yanking this way and that in the typical manner of its kind.

A gurgling groan set up at this, and the gull took noisily to the air as the bundle began to move. Cheated of the carcass it had mistaken for dead, it circled around, rejoining a haphazard flock and watching what unfolded below.

The girl coughed, raising herself up on her hands. Bile and seawater retched from her gullet, and she could do nothing for a few minutes but let it flow. All the impurities she'd taken in were spewed forth, and afterwards she sighed with relief to be rid of them.

Tiny wavelets lapped against her as she struggled to sit up. The world spun for a moment, but she doggedly refused to lie down again. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she took hazy stock of her surroundings.

She was on a beach, but where and how were both mysteries. Vaguely, she remembered a long fall, and then descent into darkness where she clawed fruitlessly for light and air. Absently a hand went to her throat, recalling the desperate struggle for breath in a place where she couldn't tell up from down, and was thrown and smashed around heedlessly like a rag-doll.

How had she gotten through that? The fall, the rocks, the swim to shore? A quick glance out to sea informed her that the Guild land she'd left wasn't even in view anymore. It was so far away it had ceased to be a feature on the horizon. She rubbed at her temple, trying to remember.

A sizable piece of driftwood nearby answered the question of how she'd stayed afloat. The rest was still a blur, however, and she could only assume that her survival instincts had kicked in at just the right moment, forcing her to carry on.

Recollections stirred lazily at the back of her mind. Of the time before the fall. The smell of incense. Pushing someone into the fire. Running. The fight on the cliff-top. Her last plea for Logan and Pietro.

Pietro!

The name echoed inside her skull. Where was he now? How long had she been out? Had he already discovered what she'd done and what she'd become in his absence?

What she'd become...

She blinked, recognising for the first time the magnitude of what had occurred. She no longer had a name. Her previous identity was no more. Her own people had cast her out. The people she'd lived with and around every day of her life. The people who'd sent her on missions and provided her food and board.

The people who'd been willing to sacrifice thousands of lives for their own personal gain. The people who'd ordered her to murder the closest she'd ever gotten to a father.

The Guild.

Her mouth inadvertently became a hard thin line. She wasn't an assassin anymore. She was a Rogue. An exile. A pariah.

But that was better than living a lie; of existing on a dangling thread, wondering when the day would come when she'd be recruited into the Silver Sword's faceless army. Or worse, sent to his mines as nothing more than a slave. Being a Rogue was better than that. Wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

On impulse she scrambled to her feet. One thing was for certain; she couldn't stay here. A hunting party would be dispatched forthwith, and since she had no idea how long she'd been unconscious, she had to move out straight away if she wanted to keep ahead of them.

But you're outcast, her almost-conscience reminded her. You're duty-bound to die by either their hands or your own. When your name and title were stripped away you became nothing. A nobody. What kind of a life is that?

_Mine,_ she replied, striding - somewhat shakily - up the saturated sands to the top of the beach.

Her body was battered and bleeding, and her numerous cuts and wounds stung with the pain of a thousand stabbing needles; but all this served to remind her of one glorious fact. A fact that most people took for granted each and every day of their lives.

She knew, and regretted, that there was no saving Logan now. Another would have already been assigned to the task, and it was too late for her to do anything about it. She mourned silently for her lost mentor, but strove to make a promise to his spirit that she wouldn't follow in his footsteps. She wouldn't fall as prey to the blood-and-power-lusts of the Guild Council.

True she was a Rogue now, but she boasted something that they, with their shattered morals and untrue existences, could not. She'd survived where others saw only death and pain. She'd escaped the bloody fate laid out for her, and intended with all her heart to go on escaping it. She'd fought off an entire squad of Council Guards single-handedly, and remained to tell the tale. Tired and half-dead from exhaustion, she'd taken on the very ocean itself. And won.

She was alive.

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

To Be Continued...

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