Heh... I'm another year older. And... sniffle I feel old. Despite the fact that I haven't really yet grasped the concept of my own mortality, I feel like I'm old. God damn.

Fireblade K'Chona: I know. The fact that Gwena is Groveborn isn't exactly common knowledge among the Heralds, though, much less anyone else.

Captain Kurt Hoffman: That comment of mine was completely unwarranted. I went over the line with expressing my own views of the "President," but if you thought my comments were unwarranted. . . well, I suggest you go and take a look at what LockDown's (ID#358518) been saying about our country of residence. (That's assuming you live in America, but seeing as you support Bush, I can't imagine you live anywhere else. not an insult, merely an observation) I can't exactly say I agree with LockDown since he's been saying "America sucks," though not in so many words. He has directly said that Americans are ignorant idiots, though. Go get 'im, tiger.

Allornadara: It was a pleasure to speak with you.

Fimbrethil: I gotta say, you nailed it right on the head. I was planning on ending the story that way, but now I'm dithering over it. I can't decide . . . requited or unrequited? Hmm . . .

Also thanks to Moojava, TastuKitty, Raven'teacher, wizard116, zafaran, and Alacaeriel.

Warnings: This chapter contains somewhat graphic descriptions of incest, rape, and sex.

Notes:

Mischakitsune did not get a chance to beta this. There may be some errors.

Gaelan is pronounced GAY-lan. Shored is pronounced SHORE-ed. Shore as in the sea shore, and ed as in Edward. Jaron is JAH-rohn, and Tenri is 10-ree.

Kartak can be found at the southeastern point of the Altvar Confederation, which I believe is part of the Eastern Empire. The definition of the Eastern Empire, as defined in The Valdemar Companion, is "A collection of conquered countries east of Hardorn ruled by 200-year old Emperor Charliss." When I was reading, I remember that it was believed by Charliss that Valdemar, Hardorn and Iftel, etc. were 'too tough a nut to crack,' so they went south to the Salten Sea, and then went for the western countries. (I think.) There is a sea called 'The Bitter Sea,' which I believe is the Salten Sea. The whole point of me saying that was that I think that the Altvar Confederation is part of the Eastern Empire.

A random fact: Did you know that the Empire was founded by stranded mercenaries? This makes me wonder. . . how far back does Velgarth's history go, and what lies beyond Velgarth?

A random thought/Information you might be interested in: Neat. Tantara is apparently "a land far from the Kaled'a'in Clans. Amberdrake's family volunteered to live there in the city of Therium so that the Kaled'a'in would have agents in the north. When Ma'ar took over the neighboring realm of Predain and moved against Tantara, Amberdrake's family was caught in the war, and he never saw them again." Now, this makes me think; since Lake Evendim is where Ma'ar was when he died, I can only assume that Amberdrake's Predain College of Chirurgeons and thus Predain, are located north of the Ice Wall Mountains. Confusing, no? I just wish there was a map for whatever's north of the Ice Wall Mountains, and west and south of Jkatha and Velvar, i.e. the Haighlei Empire and White Gryphon. (and another continent, but that's entirely divided between four Haighlei kingdoms)

"And lo, the author forges onward in the journey to find an actual plotline."

Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

- John Donne

Chapter 24: Tell Me Where All Past Years Are

:You can't put it back?: Gaelan repeated.

:No,: Shored said, fingering the purple jewel around his neck.

:Why?:

:I didn't– I don't– I don't remember taking it out. I don't think I did it.:

:You had to have. You have the Stone, and the Shield was in the process of chasing you back. Speaking of which, what the devil were you doing inside the Border of Hardorn?:

Shored tried to remember, but could not. It was like he'd been asleep or something.

:Or something,: Gaelan said somberly. :You really can't remember?:

:No,: Shored said, slightly scared now. Why couldn't he remember? This had happened before in his life– or had it? He really could not remember much of his past life clearly, except for pieces here and there, mostly good.

Everything else was. . . fuzzy, like he had seen everything happening through a sheet of water while someone else had his body. And he could not remember some times at all. Like how he'd gotten here. . . .

But that was normal, right? Mum and Da sometimes talked about memories seen from an outsider's point of view. But. . . but Gaelan said that he should remember, yet Shored could only remember a few things. The first time he had seen Nikka, his bratty baby sister; that birthday when Da had taken him for a ride on Cob, the old plowhorse-turned-carthorse; when he had gotten that neat toy soldier for Winter Solstice. . . .

Those were the only times he could remember at all. Everything else was... blurry, somehow.

:Blurry?: Gaelan asked. :Even for a Herald, even for a very young Herald, blurry is not good. All you can remember are good times, never bad or even sad?:

:No.:

:Wait, did– no, even if you did block them out, you wouldn't block every memory that wasn't happy; only the ones that caused severe discomfort or mental anguish. . . . : Gaelan was musing now, and Shored turned his attention from the Companion to the blond-haired blind man.

Why was he blind? The young Empiran wondered suddenly. Did it have anything to do with the scars on the left side of his face, or the scary horse-man? And why was he always dressed in red? Shored could remember that much; when Gaelan had brought him here, the man had been wearing red, and now he was wearing red again. But even that was knowledge of what the man had been wearing. Shored could not recall any images from that time; only the knowledge of what had happened, like he had read it, or it had happened to someone else.

"Shored?" the red man said in that strange accent again. "What say Gaelan?"

"Gaelan said that he does not know why I can not remember much of my past." Shored spoke slowly so that the blond man could understand him.

The man asked him to repeat the word for past.

"Past."

"What?"

"Past! Past!" Shored shouted, gesturing with his arms and feeling slightly angry and embarrassed that the man couldn't understand and that Shored couldn't explain. Suddenly, it felt like he was trying to move while underwater. He stared at one slowly-moving arm, and it jerked suddenly. His fingers slowly clenched into a fist of their own volition, and he was afraid.

:Shored?: Gaelan asked, sounding alarmed. :Chosen:

"Gaelan," Shored tried to say out loud, but his mouth wouldn't obey. :Gaelan, help!: he shouted.

:Sho. . . what is. . .on?: Gaelan's voice was indistinct, and parts were blocked out.

Shored stared out of eyes that were no longer his, and his body looked at the man across the room.

"Who are you?" his voice asked angrily. "What have you been doing to me?" He said it fast, and the blond man couldn't understand him.

"Pardon?" he asked, clearly unaware that anything was wrong.

"Who. Are. You?" Shored's voice asked again.

"Julian J'Erthan," the man said, looking slightly perplexed.

"Where are we?"

"In the Healer's–" Julian used a word that he obviously could not translate into Empiric, and shook his head in frustration. "–of the Palace."

:Chos. . . can yo. . . me?: Gaelan's voice was indistinct again.

:Yes. Not very well, though,: Shored, said, hoping to reach his Companion.

His body happened to turn toward the small mirror on the wall, and Shored couldn't stop the purely mental scream that erupted when he caught a glimpse of himself. His face was twisted, somehow, much older and full of pain and fury. There was madness dancing in his eyes, and a sort of malicious sorrow. Burns and cuts began to appear on Shored's arms, and they hurt. The air shimmered, and Shored's eyes started playing tricks on him. He thought he saw ropes and a haybale.

"Shored?" Julian asked. "Shored?"

'Why doesn't he run?' Shored asked himself. 'Run, you fool!'

:He can't. . .: a vague voice that sounded at once like and totally unlike Shored's own sing-sang.

'Why?' he asked the voice, hoping that it knew how to get his body back.

:Blind. . .:

Oh, god! Julian was blind–of course he couldn't see what was happening!

:Have to wait for him to tire. . . only then can. . . get in control.:

Right. He would just have to wait. Shored had just made the difficult decision to settle in and try to ride this out, when he saw a truly terrifying sight. Across the room, a drawer was slowly inching open. When the light from the wall-sconces peeked through the opening, the cold glint of polished steel shone. Almost shyly, a long, thin knife edged out of the opening, handle first, and balanced on the edge of the drawer, see-sawing between the floor and the inside of the drawer. The mask of rage on the-Shored-in-the-mirror's face solidified, and the knife stopped wavering. It rose straight up into the air with an aura of determination about it, if that was even possible for an inanimate object. It swiveled until pointing towards Julian, whose face was still a mask of confusion. He groped blindly at the empty air, and realization obviously began to dawn that he was no longer safe.

The knife flipped around so that the tip was facing Julian, who was making his way toward the door.

The blade whizzed through the air like an arrow, gaining in speed as it went, and time seemed to slow. Julian jumped to the side of the door, but he would never be able to avoid the knife.

:Too late. . .:

:Never!: a voice trumpeted, and the door burst inward in a spray of splinters and silver hooves. One bright blue eye froze the knife, which stopped as if it had hit a wall and fell to the floor with a metallic clatter. Gaelan turned his head to spit not-Shored with the same stare.

:Shored?: he asked tentatively.

:Not here,: that little voice sang.

:It's me! I'm here!: Shored shouted at Gaelan.

Shored's body scrambled out the door, only to be blocked by the horse-man and an Empiric Healer, who had been standing outside on opposite sides of the door. Between the two of them, they managed to herd Shored's body back into the room without hurting him or touching the wounds on his arms. The horse-man settled into place at the door. It was clear that if Shored's body took it into its head to leave again, it was going to have to go through the horse-man. The Healer stood next to the horse-man, leaning against the wall to the horse-man's left. Julian had found his way to sit on the floor next to the horse-man, and both waited in an attitude of eternal patience. Gaelan merely picked his way through the splinters to Shored's side, and nuzzled his neck.

Shored's body recoiled and reached for the knife. The horse-man's eyes widened, and with a flick of his wrist, there was an intense burst of heat beyond Shored's fingertips, and the knife melted into a dull, quickly hardening puddle on the stone floor. Almost immediately, however, he winced and grabbed his head, pressing his fingers to his temples. Julian winced, and the Healer sighed and reached for the horse-man's forehead. Both men calmed down, and the Healer returned to his position on the wall.

:Shored?:

"Not Shored," his body growled.

:Then who?: Gaelan asked, dropping any pretenses of not being able to understand Empiric.

"Jaron."

:You are not Shored.:

"Who is Shored?"

:My Chosen. Who are you?:

"Jaron. Where are the–"

:Bandits? I rescued you from them. Don't you remember?:

"No. I don't."

:Always me, always me.: the sing-song voice whispered.

:Shored?:

:I can't remember either,: Shored said.

Jaron-in-Shored's-body spun. "Who was that?"

:Me?: Shored asked, nervously.

"Where are you?" Jaron asked, voice still angry, but with a quavering note to it.

:Almost free, almost free.:

:In my body. Where are you?:

"In my body."

:But you are in my body,: Shored protested.

"This is my body! Look at it! My scars, my face, my body!" Jaron cried, running his fingers down his arms. Then he stopped and looked down. "The hell?" he exclaimed, watching as 'his' scars elongated and disappeared and rearranged themselves into new, random patterns.

"What's wrong wifghthhhh," his voice became garbled and trailed off into nothing, and Shored had the distinct feeling that his body was empty–at least for the moment.

Then his physical voice started whispering.

"Free, free for nothing, oh, can you remember?" he whispered, sadness in his voice. "Running, always running, running on empty. . . running on empty. . ."

:What do you mean?: asked Gaelan warily.

"You don't remember Choosing me?" Shored's voice asked in a heartbroken tone. "But you said–you said you'd never leave me. You said you loved me."

'But– he said that to me!' Shored's mind wailed.

:I did?: the very confused Companion asked.

:You did,: Shored said. :But you said it to me:

"You said it to me!"

Jaron's voice joined the conversation with a shout. :Me:

":I remember! You said, 'Shored/Jaron/Tenri, I Choose you. You will never be alone again! I love you and I will always love you.':" all three voices cried out simultaneously.

Baffled, Gaelan stared at the-body-now-controlled-by-Tenri, and the other two boys that were staring at him from behind Tenri's violet eyes.

:Shored? Jaron? Tenri? I only Chose one of you. . . I Chose. . . .:

"Who did you Choose?" asked Julian, quietly.

:I can't remember,: Gaelan said plaintively.

"You can't remember?" Jaron said incredulously, using Shored's voice. The burns reappeared. "Great. Not only do I have a Companion who makes me have other people appear in my head, I have one with selective memory."

:I meant I can't remember Choosing one of you specifically. I know I Chose, but I think I Chose all of you at once.:

The body gave him a deadpan look, and drawled, "No, you think?"

:Let's just try to figure this out. Shored, you've already told me what you can remember, so you're off the hook– for now. Jaron, it's your turn. What can you remember?:

"You don't want to know."

:Yes, I do. I need to know.:

"No you don't."

:. . . Fine. Then tell me this: did you put someone's soul into that purple stone around your neck?:

Jaron went rigid with shock. "How do you know that?" he whispered, fear tingeing his voice.

:The King of Hardorn's soul is in that stone. He needs it back or he will die.:

Still rigid, Jaron asked, "Why should I care about some stupid King? I only did it 'cause They made me. But then, you don't know what else they did."

:What else did they do?: Shored asked curiously.

"You're just a little boy," Jaron snapped. "If I told you, you'd say I was lying."

:Tell him,: Tenri urged.

Without warning, the world disappeared.

So long ago, as a child. He was four– it was his birthday. Trust came with love came with pain, from and for the man that stood over him with a perverted gleam in his eyes.

"Hush, baby, everything's going to be all right. Da's going to make you feel good. Hush, hush." His mother was down at the Baker's shop with Kirt, buying a cake for tonight. They weren't well-off by any means, but they had enough to buy cakes for birthdays and a small toy for Shored and another toy for Kirt at Midwinters.

"Hush, baby, everything's going to be fine. Does that feel good?"

His father touched him between his legs, and forced him to touch. . . touch what he knew was wrong– was bad. Ripped his clothes off, the ripping noises that his best clothes made as they tore. The pain and the bruises that came when his father shoved him onto the chair, bent him over, and. . . the memory faded, and Jaron skipped them over the rest of that scene, and in some instinctual way, Shored was thankful.

The pleading. "No, no, please, no, Da, no–

Beatings that occurred at night, after more of That. The threats, that if Shored ever told anyone, his father would do it to Nipal, his baby sister.

Awareness. The pain as something slammed into his nether regions, and pain along his upper arms as something gripped them and formed bruises.

Awareness of another boy, hiding behind walls of stone and diamond, impenetrable, leaving him to deal with This

That boy who made himself Go Away during the rapings, and forced himself to Not Remember any of it; to pretend it had happened to someone else.

The new boy saw what he was doing, and forced himself to Not See what was happening, to lock it behind his eyes, to Not Always Know what that man did. He never knew anything happy, for whenever he was given a toy, or a present, or a gift of any kind, That Boy would come and steal it, making the new boy sleep, until he was tired of it, and the new boy could come back out. Most of the time, he was in control. He chose a name, to be different from That Boy, and he chose Jarod. He got older, and older, and Rinal became more sloppy at hiding what he was doing, until Kirt began to suspect that Rinal was doing things to Shored at night. He confronted their father about it– and Nipal vanished the next day. Hey body was found a few days later, lying in a ditch. She had been violated, over and over, until her body couldn't take it any more, and then she had been thrown away like so much garbage. The boy that knew only anger and pain Went Away, then, for years, Not Remembering that he had even had a baby sister, and then when Nikka came, she was his first sister. He only came when Rinal wanted It, and Slept the rest of the Time.

A Newer Boy lived during those times. His name was–

Tenri crowed with glee. :See? See? See what you missed?:

:I don't understand,: Shored said.

"Please, I don't want to see any more of that, I don't want to make him see any more of it," Jaron pleaded. "When I came back, it was gone. It was all gone!"

:Show now, show now,: Tenri said.

Shored found himself falling again, and landed on his feet in a maelstrom of fire.

His house was burning! He was in the kitchen, and the beams of the ceiling were falling all around him. He had to find his parents and Nikka and Kirt– had to get out! He looked through the flying embers and decided to check in the barn– maybe they'd gotten out already! Instead, his body ran through the flaming doorway toward the stairs– where the fire hadn't gotten yet– then up them. He found his mother, with Nikka in her arms, at the top of the stairs. Both weren't breathing, and Shored knew there was no hope of reviving them, even had there been a chance to get them out of the house.

:They're dead: Tenri said flatly.

They're dead– all my fault,' he heard. Then he ran back downstairs to check the barn for his father and Kirt. Surely– surely they had gotten out, right?

He launched himself out through the disintegrating front door just as the threshold collapsed, sending him flying out into the blessedly cool air. He raced to the barn, praying to the Hundred Little Gods that he'd find his father and brother alive. His feet practically flew across the dusty ground, and he managed to keep an eye out for hobgoblins; those horrible creatures that appeared when the lights had gone out and the markets for food had vanished. He rounded the curve in the path that led to the barn, only to fall and skid on his face when something tripped him.

"Here's one!" a man's voice called, and Jaron looked up, fearing the worst: bandits.

Oh, if it had only been bandits! No; much worse: rogue soldiers. An entire Company of them, clearly having been on the run since the temporary collapse of the Empire some years before. A dark-skinned one grabbed him roughly by the arm and dragged him upright.

"I'll take this one," he grunted. Jaron looked around for some avenue of escape, only to find none; the soldiers were all around, some milling in confusion, but to Jaron's fear and disgust, many of the men were gripping girls and or boys by the arms or necks. None were older than nineteen, and some of the children were younger than Jaron himself; eleven. Two of the soldiers moved, and Shored spotted the bodies of several of the village men in a pile. One was his father, head nearly severed from a rough blow with a sword. Jaron gagged a the sight, and 'his' soldier cuffed him. "Quiet, now." he growled.

"Kirt!" he called, hoping desperately to hear his brother. Perhaps it would be a blessing if his brother were dead; Jaron knew what was going to happen to them.

What was going to happen? Shored wondered.

"I said shut it!"

"Little brother!" Kirt's voice rose over those of the shouting men and crying children. An arrow struck Jaron's soldier in the chest, and he fell on top of the boy. None of the other soldiers seemed to be aware of it, perhaps because several of the other soldiers that Shored could see were already touching and kissing their own captives. They did notice when a horse with a single rider appeared among them, and was found to be the source of multiple arrow wounds among the soldiers. The horse galloped straight towards Jaron, and the badly armored rider grabbed Jaron's outstretched arm, pulling him awkwardly up behind him without stopping.

"Kirt?" Jaron gasped, when he'd caught his breath somewhat.

The rider didn't answer.

"Kirt!" he shouted, and pulled at the rider's shoulder. His brother groaned, and as they burst free from the throng of men, Jaron's questing hands found an arrow protruding from his brother's chest.

'Kirt, no!' Shored thought in horror.

They managed to get to the small copse of trees on the riverbank near the house before Kirt fell off of the horse, dragging Jaron with him. The horse kept running in a blind terror and disappeared over the bank, falling into the river. When they landed, Jaron's brother fell on the arrow shaft, breaking it off and driving the head in deeper. Jaron bounced and wound up a little ways from Kirt. When he got his wind back, he crawled over to his brother, who was writhing on the soil.

"Kirt?"

"Little brother," Kirt gasped. "Run. They killed Father, and if they catch you, they'll–" Jaron placed a finger on his brother's lips. "Shh. I know."

"Nikka– and Mother?" Kirt asked.

Not willing to make his brother's death any harder, Jaron told him, "They're safe. Hiding in the caves below the river."

"Hide with them. Get away from here, get out of Altvar altogether," Kirt rasped.

"But brother–"

"No buts," Kirt said. "Just go! Quickly– I hear them coming."

Jaron scrambled away toward the river. He'd almost made it to the cave when a soldier stepped out from behind a tree and grabbed him about the shoulders.

"Time's up, bitch," the soldier said. "You don't have a chance. Let's go back."

"Let go of me!" Jaron said, struggling to worm out of the larger man's grip.

The soldier tightened his grip, swung Jaron over his shoulder, and carried him back to the others, kicking and screaming.

Shored found himself back in the room. The body–Jaron–was breathing heavily, and tears were standing in his eyes. "Enough for you?" he asked through clenched teeth.

:Show them more,: Tenri prodded.

Jaron huddled in the tent flap that he'd been thrown at like so much baggage. He was frozen and nearly dead on his feet after the multi-day forced march from the village of Kartark

The man sleeping in the one pallet in the tent raised his head. "Gave me a new one, did they?" he mumbled sleepily. "Whatever. Come on, kid. Get in."

He raised a corner of his blanket and beckoned to Jaron.

The boy stared down at him warily.

"Kid, I'm probably not going to fuck you until tomorrow. I'm too tired right now, and you're making the tent cold. Either get in or go sleep with the real rapists."

Faced with that choice, Jaron hesitantly moved into the tent, letting the flap fall shut to shroud everything in the tent in darkness.

"Come on," the man said. Jaron followed the voice with his hands outstretched so he wouldn't run into the tent wall. A hand seized his wrist and dragged him down onto the pallet next to a warm body. The small blanket fell over them both, and Jaron edged back toward the edge of the pallet to get as far away from the soldier as possible. The man sighed and grabbed Jaron about the chest, dragging the boy back toward him. Jaron lay very still as the man– whose name he still didn't know– looped an arm around his waist and formed himself around the boy. Jaron was so confused– his family was dead, his home was gone, and he was in a strange place with men who wanted to rape him– who were already raping his friends and the only people he knew.

And now he was sleeping with the enemy.

:More.:

"He's just a kid!"

:Let Gaelan see.:

:Show us what you meant about the Soul-Stone,: Gaelan said. Funny. It almost sounded like he was shaken.

"First you need to see this, in order to understand what came next," Jaron said bleakly.

Jaron woke up in the dim light from the entrance to the tent. It looked like it was midday, and his new bedmate was nowhere to be found.

He sat on the pallet for the rest of that day, waiting for the inevitable. At twilight, the soldier stepped into the tent and stared at Jaron, seemingly surprised to see him.

"You– oh. Damn. I'd almost hoped you'd left."

Jaron studied the soldier, now framed in the light from the door. He was slight, as soldiers went; less than six feet tall, brown of hair and green of eye, with tanned, leathery skin and old armor worn over clothes somewhat in need of a mend.

There was a catcall from outside the tent. "Hey, Byrn, you gonna fuck him, or can I have him? Cap'n says you gotta, or someone else gets him. They're linin' up for your kid!"

"Busy with him now!" Byrn shouted back, and motioned at Jaron. Jaron stared at him, and Byrn mouthed, 'Scream.' Jaron nodded, and let out a wail, and Byrn grunted loudly.

There was a curse from outside the tent, and shuffling as the would-be rapist walked away.

Byrn rolled his eyes and grinned at Jaron.

Jaron looked at him, petrified that the man was going to rape him now.

"Hey– I wasn't really serious about raping you, last night."

Jaron continued to stare at him.

Byrn sighed and started undoing the buckles and straps on his armor, laying it carefully in an open chest in the corner of the tent. Jaron flinched, but didn't move away, figuring that it was going to hurt more if he struggled.

"What's wrong with you?" Byrn asked, closing the lid on the chest. He was now clad only in trews, a shirt, boots, and his brigandine, with his sword buckled over that.

"We might as well get it over with, right?" Jaron asked dully. "After all, you want it, and I'd rather it was one person than fifty."

Byrn looked up at the roof of the tent. Without looking at Jaron, he sad, "Look, as much as I hate to admit it, you're right. I do have to take you." He walked toward the pallet, and Jaron scrambled off it to the other side of the tent. Without making any moves toward Jaron, Byrn sat down on the pallet.

"Kid, I can't promise this won't hurt– but unlike those sadists out there, I can make it feel good for you. I'll be gentle, I promise. This goes against most of my morals– I only take boys that are of age, but there is one thing I won't do. I won't take the unwilling.

Jaron eyed him. Byrn hadn't touched him so far, and he seemed like he wouldn't hurt Jaron.

He slowly walked toward the man, fear making a tight knot in his belly, and he was so tense he could barely walk. He stood in front of Byrn, who was staring at him with a mixture of sympathy and growing lust. But if this was the lesser of two evils. . . .

Because he had nowhere else to go, and because Byrn had promised to be gentle, and because it was so damned cold outside, he let Byrn pull him down onto the pallet.

Without any prodding from Tenri, Jaron took them into the next memory. Shored saw a flash of gray, a vista of trees, a bloodstained body, and incredible pain in his nether regions before Jaron pulled them abruptly out. Apparently this was a memory he did not want to remember.

"I stayed with them for two years," Jaron said. "Then they were called to finish the takeover of Hardorn, and I went with them. Six months before we reached Tolmassar, Byrn died in a skirmish, and I was given to the Fury Brothers, who raped me almost every night." That was said with no inflection in his voice whatsoever, and it almost sounded like Jaron was dead. "Then they were killed while fighting the Hardornens, and I managed to escape from the camp. But. . .

a mage found me wandering on the road, and used me." His voice was broken.

The mage clamped the manacles around his wrists, and tugged at them to make sure that they weren't going to come out of the rock anytime soon. Jaron tried to struggle, but the mage slapped him and he stopped fighting. He'd been hauled off the road and into this stone tower that had appeared out of nowhere, and dragged into the middle of this stone pentacle that had been carved into the middle of the flagstone floor, and placed with his head at the junction of two arms and his legs spread as another point lanced out from between his legs. His arms were extended along two more arms, and stretched so far he could barely feel them.

"Soon," the mage murmured. "Then I can leave."

The man went absolutely still for a moment, and then grabbed a plain stone dagger off of the granite table and grabbed the pendant–a clear jewel–that had been hanging around his neck and advanced on Jaron. The boy struggled feebly–multiple days without food or water had weakened him to the point where he just wanted to die to end his stomach's constant assaults on his backbone. The mage knelt between Jaron's spread legs and opened his shirt. He placed the jewel on Jaron's chest and started chanting something, and Jaron couldn't move. He was paralyzed, somehow, unable to move. The mage moved the knife over Jaron's heart and lowered it– inscribed an X over the boy's heart, and placed the jewel at the crosspoint. The blood stained the jewel a dark red, and then the mage smiled. He chanted something else, and Jaron suddenly felt the pain of the cuts and tried to gasp. He felt Something Else surge into him with a rush, and looked down at the stone. It was now a deep purple, and seemed to glow with its own inner light. The mage smiled again and drove the dagger into the closing point of one of the manacles, breaking them both.

"The keys are there," he'd said, pointing at the wall, where a ring of keys hung on a bit of protruding stone. "Reach and you can get it."

Then he'd turned on his heel and left. Jaron hadn't seen him again.

"Gaelan found me wandering on the road, and Chose me there."

:Chosen:

"There are three of us," Jaron murmured, and Shored felt something crack inside him. That sentence meant something. He didn't know what, and he didn't understand why, but it was right.

There are three of us.

:Jaron?: Gaelan asked tentatively.

"Huh?"

:Can you put the soul back?:

There was a long, long pause as Jaron considered.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Yes."

Notes: (I put this at the end so to avoid spoilers. If I'm wrong on this next part, someone pleasecorrect me.) Dissociative Identity Disorder, formerly termed as Multiple Personality Disorder, and commonly mis-termed as Schizophrenia, (when you're Schizophrenic, you just hear voices,) is not exactly what Shored has. DID can not be turned on and off at will, and the 'personalities' will not just 'wake up' and say, "Hi, I'm so-and-so." DID can be formed by many reasons; a slightly common one would be someone having been put through extreme repeated trauma as a very young child. Here is an example. Steven is three years old and is beaten by his mother every night or every other night. Being young, his mind cannot handle the stress and creates someone to deal with it. Let's call this personality John. John comes out whenever Steven sees his mother in a rage, and thus protects Steven from being beaten, at a cost to himself. John's identity, as such, is fragmented, and he only experiences pain from the hands of his mother, and rage at everything from his treatment, since those are the only things that have ever happened to him. All he is is pain and rage. Now we'll throw in an event or a catalyst to create someone else. Steven's father dies, leaving him with extreme emotional pain at the loss of his father and the loss of the one person who could protect him from his mother. Then his sister dies, and then his brother. Steven cannot handle this emotional overload of losing everything he loves, so poof! out comes Mark. Mark is always sad, since everyone he knows has died. Steven is now a fragmented person. Whenever he begins to experience rage or pain, John comes out to play, and whenever Steven loses a friend, someone he knows dies, he remembers his mother/brother/sister's death, or he begins to feel immense sadness, Mark shows up. None of these personalities really have names, as such, unless they realize themselves as individuals and name themselves.

My point is this: Shored has my own personal version of DID.

For more information on Dissociative Identity Disorder, as well as an introspective look on child abuse, try reading When Rabbit Howls, by the Troops for Truddi Chase.

If any of you'd like to know, and so this clears up any misconception as to who has what Gift, all three boys have Mindspeech. Shored also has Foresight, Jaron also has the Mage-Gift, and Tenri also has Fetching.