*sob* I know, it's about damn time...I didn't forget, I just switched jobs, and my tech's been on the fritz. But you are not interested in excuses, only results. and so, I bend to your will, oh reader...

Chapter Two

Bitores was panting as he followed Sera up another steep, forested hill. 'Old Man!' He gasped, 'Where in the world are you taking me?!'

Sera looked over his shoulder to see the exhausted chief. He smiled, having not even broken a sweat. 'Flatlanders,' He mused, 'Come on, Bitores, we are nearly there.'

Bitores frowned and continued to follow him. 'You know, it will be very hard to haul silver all over the place,' He grumbled, 'I'll die trying, as they say…'

They reached the crest of the hill, and Sera touched the Big man's shoulder, pointing. 'There-- at the base of the cliffs. Right near the river.'

Bitores shook his head, 'I can't see anything with this eye, Amigo,' and he tapped his patch. He paused, something silver catching his eye, and squinted. 'No, wait… I think I can see something…'

'Let's go, Bitores. The sooner this nasty business is done, the better.' And Sera lead him off again, toward the glimmer of silver.

They reached the top of the cliff via one of the trappers' well beaten paths, and peered down intently, then recoiled. 'It-it's a child!' Bitores cried. 'Hello?! Hello down there!'

'No!' Sera said sharply, stilling his friend. 'See, Amigo! It.. It's Lord Salazar!'

The young castellan lay sprawled at the base of the crumbled ruins, flat on his back, blood staining his long, wispy silver hair that fell across the stonework, loose. The silver Bitores had seen. His clothes were tattered, his shoes, stockings, hat and coat were missing, almost as if he had been robbed.

Bitores looked at Sera, both with eyes wide with confusion and alarm. 'We have to help him!' The chief whispered.

Sera looked back down at the listless body. Slowly, he shook his head, 'N..no,' He said quickly, 'We leave him. He'll kill us, if he finds us on his land.'

Bitores gaped, 'If we leave him, he will die!'

Sera looked bitter and afraid, 'He's probably already dead-- let us leave this place, and tell none what we have seen!' he would not look at Bitores as he spoke.

'Have you so little love in your heart for the Salazars, my friend?!' Bitores cried, 'Have you no soul?!'

'Leave him!' Sera snapped, 'He dies, or we do, for saving him! It is he that has no soul! You said yourself, Bitores-- he cares nothing for us, and I care nothing for him, or his bloodthirsty, cursed ancestors!' And he spat off the cliff and turned away.

Birores knew that Sera was not himself- he was afraid. He knew that Sera was a good man…

Growling with annoyance, he pushed the old man aside, hopping off the edge to grind his boots into the side of the cliff, sliding down in a hail of dust and rubble. In a few swift, long steps, he reached the castellan. Bitores knelt, placing his fingers to Ramons' throat gently. The man was cold, and unnaturally still. Slowly, the throb of blood pulsing through his veins met Bitores' fingertips, and the chief let out a sigh of relief. He stood, pulling off his huge duster and draping it over Ramon's tiny form, then gathering the castellan in his arms like a small child. He weighed hardly anything, and the chief was painfully cautious as he moved him, as if tending a bird with a broken wing. He looked up, seeing Sera watching him silently. Bitores shook his head, and turned away, tramping off in the direction of the castle.

He had time to think, as he walked, his long strides passing the foliage swiftly in his nervousness. He was being pretty reckless, he had decided. What if Salazar did decide to punish him, for trespassing? What would his people do, if he was killed? How would they suffer, without a proper leader, unafraid of this small, powerful man? But surely, the castellan was not so heartless as to cruelly condemn the man that had saved him? Bitores would not have left the castellan, no matter what Sera had said, his heart wouldn't allow it…

Ramon gave a shudder from within the coat, and moaned softly. Bitores glanced down at the castellan's face, and saw a crease of pain darken between his eyebrows. His breath was sharp between his clenched teeth.

…Best he hurry.

xXx

The castellan woke feverish, and tasted blood on his tongue. He groaned painfully as he opened his eyes, the shapes around him were fuzzy at the edges, and bright enough to sting. He raised his arm to cover his eyes, and let out a cry as pain shot the appendage, now draped in a sling. Was it broken? He now felt bandages clinging to his face and legs, and the gauze wrapped carefully around his head. What the hell had happened? He couldn't remember…

His back was stiff and sore as he sat up, feeling unnaturally drained in the process, and he was panting with effort as he leaned back against the headboard of his four poster bed, closing his eyes and swallowing. He felt hurt and a little scared, as he couldn't place exactly were his memory faded, and he had suddenly woken here, like this. He felt sick.

Ramon slid out of bed, stumbling to the window and throwing it open to gasp it the cold crisp air. It was early in the morning. He slumped against the sill, growing dizzy as he clung to the wood and glass. Why did he remember joy, in those woods? Why did he remember looking for something, and the disappointment of never finding it? But mostly, why did he remember the feeling of perfect silence, in his ears and his burning mind?

'Lord Salazar,' someone said, and he turned to see one of the maids, 'are you alright, sir?'

'Rum,' he growled, 'bring me rum.'

She had fetched it in a matter of minutes, and he managed to shuffle over to his draft chair, curling into its deep, wide seat as she poured him a small glass of the dark colored liquid. He took it from her with a quick 'gracias,' and tipped it into his mouth, finishing with one gulp. The alcohol was harsh on his tongue, replacing the blood, and it burned as it slid down his throat to settle in his stomach. He bared his teeth and let out a sigh. 'Leave the decanter and go,' he commanded, and she nodded, 'Wait,' and she paused, 'are you married, senorita?' she shook her head, 'Interesting, as you are very pretty. Perhaps--' but he was interrupted as a manservant hurried in, bowing quickly.

'Lord Salazar,' he said, 'you have a visitor.'

Ramon frowned, glancing at the girl, who blushed, bowed, and hurried out, 'who is it, and what do they want?' he snapped.

'He says his name is Senor Osmund Saddler,' the servant replied apologetically, 'He also says he is the man that "brought you in". Do you know what he is talking about, my Lord?'

Ramon considered a moment. Obviously this man knew something of what had happened, during his lapse. 'Send him in.'

'Would you like time to better prepare yourself, my Lord?'

"Are you deaf? I said send him in.' and the servant bowed and hurried away. Ramon poured and drank another glass of rum, his pain subsiding as the drink numbed his body, 'probably wants a reward,' he grumbled, 'a moment of weakness, and parasites come crawling out of the woodwork…'

There was a laugh, and Ramon jumped, looking up. 'Parasites? Such and interesting selection of words. And no, I didn't come for money,' the stranger watched him with raised brow, 'are you always such a cynical, bitter little man?'

Osmund Saddler was a man of average height-- in fact, he seemed average in nearly every way. His dark hair was slicked against his head, with streaks of mousy grey every now and again, and he had a stubble on his round chin, as he was a bit tubby, with a small belly hanging over his belt. Creases of age shown across his face, deep crow's-feet under his pale blue eyes, sparkling with amusement. A wide, sly grin split his face almost charmingly. He was not dressed in the manner of the villagers, and he wore dark colored slacks and a blue, button-up shirt, not dusty work clothes.

Ramon blinked, then glared, 'Excuse me?'

The servant bowed as Osmund stood, carelessly unaware of the disrespect he was showing, and the servant chanced a timid glance at him before hurrying away. 'I just came to check up on you,' Osmund continued, 'but, seeing as you're hip deep in a bottle of rum, I'd say you're feeling better.' Ramon stared in shock as the man strode over to him, pushing on his shoulder-- 'skootsy!' -- and sitting beside him in the seat. Ramon jumped to his feet, his face flushing indignantly, 'Oh, did I sit on you? Sorry. My butt's big, and you're little, so--'

'Just who the hell do you think you are, sir?!' Ramon demanded shrilly.

'You squeaked! How cute!' Osmund clapped his hands gleefully.

'Get out!' Ramon roared 'Just get out, before I kill you! I don't care what happened, just leave!'

Osmund raised a brow. 'What happened? You do not remember?'

Ramon made an effort to calm himself, 'I do not. But, being a moron, I have no doubt that you are clueless, as well.'

Osmund shook his head in disbelief. 'Perhaps it is better, that way,' he whispered.

'What?!' Ramon demanded, 'What is better?! I command you to tell me!'

Osmund glanced up at him, then stood. He towered over Ramon, as most people did, and the castellan found himself taken aback by this careless display of power, taking a step back. Osmund reached for him, and Ramons' eyes rounded in horror. He swooped the castellan off his feet and strode to the bed, laying him upon it and covering him in the blankets. 'Sleepy time, Ramon,' he chimed, tucking the blankets under the small man's chin with a smile, 'I'll tell you when you are better. In the meanwhile, rest up!' he planted a kiss on Ramons' forehead and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

'I hate him,' Ramon decided, his body burning with fury and fever.