Disclaimer: If I had written Rebel Angels, I would have made like 283876349938 million dollars, and I would be shamelessly flaunting and spending my money instead of sitting here trying to appease my fellow fanfiction-readers.

A/N: Yeah, I made this chapter up. Pretty creative, eh?

Anyway it's a quickie, and a bit of time passes from the last chapter, so Kartik isn't dwelling on the things he previously dwelled upon. In the previous chapter. He's back to being jealous and horny. Because I'm lazy.

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I shuffled my way across the snowy park, gazing absentmindedly at the naked tress as I passed by.

It was Saturday afternoon and I had the day off. The Doyle Family had no where to go at the moment, and I intended to pass the time anywhere, anywhere but the Doyle Manor and their fancy silverware and social parties. Where she would dress up in her pretty little outfits and flirt with her handsome escort, Simon Middleton. Anywhere, anywhere but there.

Though, truth be told, I had no where to go. I had little money and all the time in the world to stand out in the frosty weather. My hands were nearly frozen, and I irritably stuffed them in the pockets of my dingy jacket as I thought angrily about the couple. For surely they were a couple. Simon Middleton was rich, handsome, and high in social status. What more could the girl possibly want?

And I saw the way he looked at her, the way his eyes lit up as he took in her image, her beautiful copper locks, and her deep green eyes. He would take her arm, gently pressing his own body against hers. Their bodies would mold, fit perfectly together, like two puzzle pieces. She would look up at him and smile, lips curling ever so delicately, eyes dancing. He would grin down at her, snake his arm around her small waist, lean forward…

I blinked furiously. The thought was more than I could bear.

I continued walking toward nowhere, my eyes blind to everything but the images I envisioned in my mind's eyes.

Why was I cursed with such thoughts, such misery, such…jealousy? Was I jealous of Simon Muddleton because he had her in his clutches? Never, I couldn't be…

But the more I denied it, the more it seemed to make sense. The anger, the reluctance, the way I waited for her every night, hoping that she would come down to the stables and talk with me, visit me, let me see her face…

But she and I could never be together. It would be an absolute scandal, positively absurd! The wealthy, proper Gemma Doyle running off with some coachman, a boy who owned nothing.

The thought excited me even as I knew the improbability of it. But there was also the Rakshana, always the Rakshana, watching, waiting…

I was going to murder her, Gemma Doyle. She was going to be dead soon, because of me. Because of the Rakshana.

I felt my stomach twist unpleasantly, and I quickly stopped my brisk walk, leaning against a nearby tree to support myself as a wave of nausea came over me.

Tangled red hair, blank green eyes, blood. Blood everywhere, my hands, her throat. So much blood, where on earth had it come from? From her. The crimson, sticky substance dripping off my fingers, my clothes, her lips. Lips that could say nothing, hands that could do nothing, eyes that stared. Stared at me. What have I done? What have I done?

Heart breaking, no reason to live, no reason to breathe, no reason…

Closing my eyes, I moved away from the tree, swaying slightly. I couldn't do it. I could never kill her. Never kill Gemma.

Gemma.

When had I ever thought of her as Gemma? Only, her, she, Miss Doyle.

"Gemma." It felt so good to say.

"Gemma." My mouth forming the word, the syllables sounding so natural to my ears.

Gemma, Gemma, Gemma.

I opened my eyes and looked up at the tree. The gnarled trunk was huge, and the tree's many branches twisted and curved every which way around each other, reaching up to touch the heavens. I laid a hand on the cold trunk, the smooth contours of the bark grazing against my dry fingers.

Gemma. I can't kill her. Gemma. I won't kill her. Gemma. I think I must love you.

I jolted away from the tree, heart beating rapidly. Love. I must love her. Do I? Do I love Gemma Doyle, keeper of the realms, child of the Order, girl I was instructed to murder?

Yes. In a way I knew I always have. Ever since that fateful day, the day Amar died. But I knew it only subconsciously, and even then when I realized it finally, I was still in shock, amazed.

Of course.

Her smile, her laugh, her quick temper. I loved it all. I loved her. I loved Gemma.

But how will I tell her? And will I ever tell her?

I knew she had the right to know, but my insides coiled unpleasantly at the thought, the probability, of rejection.

Rejection I was bound to receive. For what could she possibly see in me; a bossy, pitiable orphan boy? But she had to know.

She had to. I had to tell her, but how?

I could write a letter…or maybe let her know in some other cryptic way. But I quickly eliminated that possibility. I must tell her in person, see her face, feel her hair. That's what I would do.

I reached my hand into my pockets, fishing around until I had finally found a crumpled piece of paper within the mass of useless trash I had earlier stuffed inside of them. I sat down, trying to flatten the paper on my knee, and then, pulling out a bit of sharpened charcoal, I scribbled down a quick note;

There's something I need to tell you. I'll be in the stables.

I stuffed it back into my jacket, sighing slightly. I shall tell her of my love for her, certainly, but should I tell her everything? About the Rakshana, my mission?

Maybe. I'd debate that on the way. I had more important matters to attend to.

oOoOoOo

A/N: Yes, Kartik is unusually quick to realize his love for Gemma. And the fact that he can now pronounce her name. Congratulations, Kartik! You were always a smart fellow.