Eeek! (Hides). It's been more than a year since I've updated this?!? BAAAAAD ME. My main problem is I will write something, then go back and reread it a while later, and go, "Naaah. That doesn't work," and delete and re-write. sighs Stupid writers' block. Anyway, keep an eye out for authors' notes since I may be changing or adjusting the previous chapters a bit to make the story smoother. Sorry again about the distinct lack of update here… --Alara

Oh, for the record, the poem is "The Highwayman," and it was written by Alfred Noyce.

And BTW, one cannot ride a horse quickly across a moor (really one oughtn't ride at all across a moor) because typically they're very marshy and boggy, etc. and tend to break horses' legs or swallow them whole. But I needed Roarke to be able to ride his horse quickly across the moor—so, some artistic license there… don't try this at home, kids. :)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Black is the Color

Chapter 5.

About an hour after dawn, Rogue fell asleep leaning just a little bit against Remy, much to his bemusement; he eased her down to the bed, and sat himself against the headboard, watching her. Almost against his will, he found himself growing heavy-headed, despite his worry over Rogue's condition. He, too, fell asleep, and this time was so exhausted he did not dream.

He didn't enjoy the rest for long, though.

He was awakened by Logan's frightening growl when he found Remy in Rogue's room—sitting on her bed, no less. In a somewhat backhanded turn of fortune, however, he wasn't in trouble for long. It appeared that Rogue's soak in the snow the day before had caused her to become somewhat ill; before Logan could accuse Remy of any inappropriate behavior, Rogue began to cough violently in her sleep, deep, racking coughs that simply sounded painful.

In an instant, Remy was glibly lying to Logan, saying her coughs in the night had awakened him, and he came to her room to be sure she was all right, but found her feverish and ill, and so stayed with her, but then of course hadn't he accidentally fallen asleep, and obviously nothing was going on, they both had their clothes on didn't they, and besides, Rogue was still sick so shouldn't they do something about that?

He decided that between "Rogue is sick" and "Rogue and now apparently me, too, we're re-living some people's lives in our sleep only we can't remember the dreams properly and so have no idea why we're having them, but from the great dream I had last night, I think they were getting it on together but I'm not sure since haven't talked with her about that yet," the first was slightly more believable, and was far less likely to get him in deep trouble with Logan.

Logan simply snorted, and left the room, muttering something about "I'll be back, so watch yourself." Remy, nonplussed, wasn't sure whether he left to get away from his rambling explanation or to get help for Rogue; in either case, he was out of the room, which was all Remy wanted.

"Chere?" He shook Rogue's shoulder, trying not to notice how pale and cool-skinned she was. "It's morning, chere. Time to be up. We really need to talk about what's going on."

Her eyelids fluttered slightly, and her mouth moved. "Ruh…" she breathed out, then was still again.

"C'mon, chere, got to get you up. Not good to be lying flat with a cold in your chest. Rogue…" He shook her shoulder again, a bit more strongly this time, and was rewarded with her eyes—did they look darker than usual? Her eyes blinked open, and slowly focused on him.

Her hoarse words—not to mention her accent!—startled him, however.
"Roarke, my love, so you are here. I thought I'd heard your voice…"

"Chere?" Remy said slowly, concerned.

She chuckled, weakly. "French, today, is it, dear? Por quois?" She laughed again at her own weak joke, and fell into a coughing fit. "Oh, I am indeed ill, aren't I? I'm so sorry to have ruined your visit." Her voice was weak, and he had to lean forward to hear her. "Help me sit up, would you? And I must tell you about the strange dream I had about us, dear…"

He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything at the moment. She was speaking like—like Old Robert, or someone from the town! A British accent, not her own lovely mellow Southern. And obviously she thought he was someone else—but wasn't that name, Roarke, wasn't that the tiniest bit familiar to him? Had she mentioned it to him before? Why couldn't he remember the dream he'd had last night?

He shook himself, and helped her to sit up against the headboard—but she promptly cuddled herself against his side. He hoped she hadn't seen his wide-eyed, startled glance. His Rogue didn't…cuddle. This is just getting creepy now, he thought, looking down at her, now peacefully falling into sleep again, one arm curled almost uncomfortably high around his thigh. And strange as that was, the sensation went through him that her arm around him, her head tucked against his ribcage, it seemed that those feelings should be familiar to him, but were not. He was feeling like he didn't fit in his body, or that his body didn't fit the things his mind was telling him should be common, easy. It was a very strange sensation, and he busied himself with checking on Rogue. Already, her breath seemed to be easier, and there definitely was more color in her face.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rogue started awake a short while later, going abruptly from foggy dreams to wakefulness. She blinked sleepily a few times, then realized that the pillow she was lying curled against was… moving. Slightly, yes, but definitely moving.

Pillows don't move. Am I still dreaming?

All right, enough with these freaky dreams already. She yawned, and raised her head abruptly when she inhaled Remy's musky scent of cologne and spices. She blinked a few times, and realized that the 'pillow' she'd been lying against was actually Remy himself, and that her arm was tucked around his leg, far too close to parts of him that no part of her should be close to.

Especially not when they were sitting on her bed.

Swiftly she untangled herself, sat upright, and punched him as hard as she could in aforementioned thigh.

"Ow!" he said reflexively, but instead of the "What was dat for, cherie?" that she was expecting, he said, pale-faced, "I've never been so glad to get hit in m' life, cherie. What's my name?"

She gave him a look. "Cajun, you drunk or something? You're Remy."

He released a pent-up breath. "Dieu, t'ank y'. You're back."

That required a moment of thought.

"Ah… where was I?"

"Damned if I know! Y' called me by de name of Roarke, though. Should I be jealous, chere?" He made the joke without smiling.

Rogue felt dizzy. "I called you… w-what?" The name echoed in her head. She hoped she'd heard him incorrectly.

"Roarke. And 'love,' and 'dear,' and—you just plain scared me, chere!"

Crap. It was the name from her dreams. "And I did this while I was… awake?"

"Well, half-awake, maybe. How's your throat?"

"My throat?" she frowned, and swallowed. "It's sore—" she interrupted herself with another bout of coughs, and winced. "Ow. That's why you were asking. It's just a little sore, but coughing is a bitch."

"Thought that might be so. You feel all right besides that?"

"I'm a little cold-feeling," she admitted reluctantly. He leaned over and touched the back of his hand to her cheek.

"Chere, you're feverish!" he exclaimed. "And a few minutes ago, you were so cold I'd have sworn you were dead if you weren't breathing."

Slowly, she stated the obvious. "That's not supposed to happen…" Shivering, she crowded down beneath the quilt, hugging her arms around herself. "Remy, what's going on around here? Why am I—why are we—having these freakish dreams?"

"I don't know," he admitted unhappily. "I'm going to go see what I can find out, though. You just stay here and get some sleep, chere. I'll see that no one disturbs you."

"Or hears me call you by another man's name again," Rogue added grimly, settling back against the pillow, her eyes concerned even as she closed them to sleep.

"Yeah. Or that." Was all the reply Remy could make to that, and left the room.

On his way downstairs, he met with Wolverine, who glared a question at him. "Easy, homme. She's sleeping—she's feverish and chilled, and sleep's the best for her right now. I was just going to get Kitty or someone to sit with her, in case she needs anything."

"And where are you off to?" Logan demanded gruffly. "You smell of flowers, Cajun; you seeing some local girlfriend?"

Apparently, Logan still harbored the belief that Remy really did have a girl in every town, despite his attachment to Rogue. The playboy assumption really annoyed Remy sometimes… like now.

"Non, no girlfriend in this little town, unless you think I'm dating Kurt. He's got to help me with an errand for Rogue… if dat's okay by you, Wolverine."Remy said insolently. Logan growled at him in response, but moved aside to let him pass by, apparently satisfied with that explanation. Remy couldn't resist tossing over his shoulder, "Oh, and by the way… I was with Rogue half the night, so it'd be her perfume you'd be smelling… didn't you know she does wear it sometimes? Guess you don't know her as well as you thought."

He heard Logan snarl as he walked away, seeking out Kitty and Kurt, who hopefully would help him sort out this supernatural mess. He decided not to mention to Wolverine that Rogue hadn't been wearing any of her perfume yesterday… but the woman in his dream had been scented with herbs… and wild roses.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He found Kurt, Kitty, Amanda, and Amara sitting together in the main room of the inn, playing a game together. A brief word got Kurt and Kitty to come aside with him, and he worriedly explained the events of the morning to them.

"We've got to tell Wolverine what's going on," Kitty said anxiously. "I think this whole thing is way over our heads."

"Do you think it's just her new mutation acting up? Reacting to the inn?" Remy asked anxiously. "Maybe just leaving will fix it."

Kurt shook his head slowly. "Nein, we cannot assume it is ze place alone—at least here ve are pretty isolated if her mutation acts up severely. Zhere are not too many people to be hurt. In any case, vhether it's her new mutation acting up, or something else altogether, ze Prof is the only one who would be able to figure it out. We have to have Wolverine go get him."

Remy sighed, defeated by Kurt's logic. "Remy 'most always willing to admit when someone's right," he shrugged. "But could you two help me figure out what happened here a couple hundred years ago?" He shook his head. "Something did, and maybe if we knew what that was, we could get Rogue free of whatever it is that's influencing her. And me," he added as an afterthought.

"'And you'?!" Kitty exclaimed, grabbing his arm. "Are you saying you've had the same dreams as Rogue?"

"Non." At her look, he amended, "Well, not exactly. They are connected, though. Some things she said this morning matched with what I dreamed last night, but I hadn't had the chance to tell her about it yet."

"That seals it, then." Kitty said firmly. "First, we'll try to find out from the locals if anything significant ever happened here, but then we're telling Mr. Logan what's going on."

"Agreed." Kurt seconded it, and added, "Amanda and I can go left of the inn, and you and Kitty go right. That way we can try to talk to as many people as possible. Let's meet up here at four, and see what we've found, all right?"

Nods all around. Fifteen minutes later, as they started off through the snow, Kitty bumped him with her shoulder. "Hey… it'll turn out all right, you know? Professor Xavier will be able to help, I'm sure of it."

Remy could only muster a halfhearted smile in reply.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

By five pm, the foursome were footsore and tired, but satisfied at how well their notes matched up. It seemed that around 250 years ago, there had been a notorious, Robin-Hood-like highwayman in the area. Nothing new, as so many other inns they'd been to boasted robbers' visits.

What was different about this one was that every person they'd spoken to mentioned a tragic end to the highwayman's career—he'd been double-crossed. Some said a friend did it to gain wealth, some said a townsperson turned him in for his robbing, however selfless. A very few said it was his lover, the local beauty, who betrayed him—but no one could give a good reason for her doing so, since she would have gained nothing by giving him up to the authorities. The women of the village said that like as not it was the jealous, plainer, mean-spirited girls back then who spread the (most likely false) rumor of the girl's treachery. But then again, that version had been told almost as long as the others—so it was part of the local lore about the inn.

Everyone also admitted upfront that the place was said to be haunted, most likely by the ghosts of those events of long ago. A middle-aged man had mentioned that before the heavy metal bars were placed over the windows, the upper-floor windows would often be found flung wide open, regardless of season—highly unusual, since the window's locks were heavy, metal, and intricate; they required a person to actually unlock them. Also, any piece of modern furniture that was brought into the inn would shortly somehow find its way outside the inn walls overnight—even those pieces that had required a team of men to move them into the inn originally. Bizarrely, the only exception to that rule was the mattresses: apparently the ghosts or whatever had to agree that mattresses, at least, had improved since the 1700s, and were therefore allowed to stay. The inn's owners had heaved a sigh of relief when the bedding, at least, stayed put, even if nothing else would.

For the rest of the mysteriously mobile furniture, the managers of the inn finally threw up their hands in exasperation, and prevailed upon the local craftspeople to make and repair the furnishings for the inn, which helped the locals by giving them work, and gave the inn the ability to market the "genuine 18th century/local handmade furnishings" in their advertisements.

Another thing the inn was fond of advertising was that the inn had been continually in use since its establishment in 1729, except for a few months in the winter of 1751, when the innkeeper's daughter—possibly the same one who was involved with the highwayman, but no one knew for sure—the innkeeper's daughter had been murdered. The man had left in his grief to stay with relatives for a short while, closing the inn while he was away, but in the spring he came back and never left the inn again. He maintained 'til his death that his daughter was still in the inn, which everyone dismissed as a harmless, hopeless fantasy.

"Maybe not so crazy, after all," Kurt commented, when he heard this facet of the story. The others could only nod agreement.

"So, like, where's Mister Logan?" Kitty asked curiously, looking around the quiet living room. Piotr looked up from the Dostoyevsky he was reading. "Wolverine has gone to play the backgammon again," he said. "I am currently in charge. What is wrong?"

The trio sighed, exchanged glances, and proceeded to fill him in on what was going on. The Russian's expression was grave as they finished. "I know where he was going to play his games," he stated. "I shall go and bring him back here, then we can have him go and get the Professor."

"While you're doin' that, I'm going to go check on Rogue," Remy said, and vanished upstairs.

Kitty looked worriedly at the clock: it was four-thirty. "Y'know, Kurt, it's getting awfully late, and it's getting dark. Do you think Mister Logan will go to get the Professor now?"

"I don't think we can afford to wait 'til tomorrow, Kitty," Kurt pointed out. "Rogue's dreams seem to be getting stronger every night, and she seems to be more and more lost in them when she wakes."

"And now Remy's having the same kind of dreams…" Kitty said slowly. "How long before we all are trapped here in dreaming?"

They exchanged wide-eyed looks, then hurried to catch up with Piotr. They had to find Logan, soon.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

While they were all out finding Logan and convincing him of the urgency of the strange situation, Remy went up and got Rogue to come downstairs and have some tea and some dinner. While eating, he told her everything they'd learned that afternoon about the inn's history. After eating, they sat at the broad table in the kitchen and played cards in silence for a while.

"I'm scared, Remy," Rogue said suddenly. "I have the feeling that something big is coming with this whole weird situation."

"Don't worry, chere, the others will get de Wolverine to go get the Professor, and he will come and find out exactly what is going wrong and fix it." Remy replied confidently. He added, "Besides, whatever happens, I will be right here with you. Scout's honor."

"You were never a Boy Scout."

"Picked enough o' deir pockets, though, I get honorary status; have all de badges t' prove it."

He got a laugh and a half-smile from that one, and counted it as a victory: She looked pale and drawn in the flickering candlelight. "You really mean it?" She said. "You'll be here?"
"O' course," he replied. "Always." His red eyes glowed from across the table.

For that simple statement, he got a full smile and a kiss, which he returned gratefully. He pretended to be insulted when she yawned immediately.

"I dat boring, chere?" he laughed.

"No, no—" she yawned again—"No! Sorry. I'm just so damn tired… stupid cold."

"Well, it's—" he peered at his watch. "Just after eight. You want to go upstairs yet?"

She shivered. "No, not yet. Let's just sit by the fire for a while."

They did so, and slowly the minutes ticked by. Occasionally they'd talk about what was going on, and at other times they'd sit in comfortable silence, watching the flames dance and curl around each other.

It was half past nine when the others came in, explaining that it had taken them a while to find Logan, then a longer while to explain everything to him, then yet a longer while again to determine from the locals which direction was best for Logan to go in to find a town with a telephone—or at least a cell signal. The roads, apparently, were still flooded and/or iced over, so it would be a long hike across the moor for Wolverine.

"…So, like, Mister Logan said for us all to hang on 'til tomorrow, since that's the earliest the Professor can come, and he said he'll totally come rightback when he gets through to the Prof. Okay?" Kitty eyed her friend worriedly as she delivered the message.

Rogue smiled wanly. "Well, I suppose I'll have to be, won't I?" Kitty looked stricken at the under-enthusiastic response. "Kit… I'll be fine, I promise," she glanced at Remy, and smiled. "I'm well-looked after."

Kitty's expression cleared somewhat at that, and she suggested they all play a card game while she, Kurt, and Piotr got a late dinner.

This managed to eat up time until nearly ten-thirty, by which time Rogue was drowsing against Remy's shoulder. After jerking herself awake for the fifth time, she growled in aggravation. "That's it; I'm going to bed," she said. "Stupid cold… can't even stay awake 'til midnight…" the others heard her muttering as she shuffled off upstairs.

Kitty, Piotr, Kurt, and Remy sat for a few minutes, discussing what they thought the Professor might do to help Rogue, and what they might be able to do to assist him. When the conversation stalled out for the third time, though, Remy stood and began clearing things up. "Well, I t'ink I'm going to bed, too. Figure it's like Christmas when you were a kid; sooner y' go t' bed, sooner it's t'morrow." The others muttered agreement, each lost in their own worries for their so-loved teammate. It was a quiet group that tramped up the narrow staircase, and a quiet Remy who looked in on the peacefully sleeping Rogue before making his way to his own bed. Eventually he, too, fell asleep.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

However peaceful-seeming, Rogue's sleep was not restful. Shortly after Remy left her, a chill pervaded the room, and she shivered with cold and fear beneath the quilt on the bed. From the previous dream-experiences, her body knew what was coming, though her sleeping mind did not. Like leaping into a deep, cold lake on the hottest day of summer, she plunged into the dream—

Dream? No, no dream, a terror, a nightmare! And would that it were merely a nightmare, but it was life after all, and crueler than Bess had yet experienced life to be.

Snythe was kissing her foully, forcing her lips apart, hands groping at her shift's hem, belt and musket stock digging sharply into her soft flesh where he leaned into her. She'd thought Tim's clumsy 'accidental' fumbling at her bodice or rear when she passed him to be horrible; now she knew they were like the scratch of a cat compared to the furious snapping of a mastiff.

The men-at-arms laughed and jostled each other and made crude suggestions to their commander as tears streamed from Bess' eyes, unable even the weapon of screaming as Snythe's mouth covered hers.

He stopped suddenly, slapping one hand over her mouth as he broke away, and the other hand fastening securely around her throat as he leaned toward the window and intently listened.

Her heart nearly stopped when she realized what he was listening for: hoofbeats. A gentle drumming, so faint, more felt than heard: Roarke was coming for her.

Snythe quickly tightened her bonds, her hands tied together, then each arm tied to the opposite bed-post besides, so she couldn't get free. He jerked the gag back into her mouth, knotting it in her long hair, so there was no chance she could force it out. He next unslung his long-barreled musket from his shoulder, and wedged the stock against the leg of the bed, the barrel digging into her breastbone. He took the opportunity to fondle her intimately as he settled the gun in place. His eyes promised that this would not be the last time he touched her so, as aloud he said, "This weapon is on a hair-trigger; even a small movement will set it off, so I suggest you do no more than breathe, Mistress Dawson. Therefore do attempt not to start too badly when I shoot that damned highwayman down in your yard. Keep watch for us, my sweet," and he turned to his men. "If she makes a move, slit her throat. We don't want to warn the bastard we're here."

The two Redcoats nodded their compliance, and settled in at either end of the window to wait. Snythe vanished through the door; she heard his heavy boots scuff their way down the staircase.

Bess heard the sound again, slightly more audible this time, like a pheasant's wings drumming the ground in panic: Roarke was coming. Couldn't he break a promise, just once? Must he always be so damned honorable? Please, God, she prayed, Lame his horse, strike the inn with lightning, shake the earth, only do not let him come here!

The hoofbeats continued, however, maddeningly even, though still faint and far away, and she smelled no smoke and the earth remained stubbornly solid. Apparently God was not listening to those sorts of prayers on this terrible night—and how could prayers get to heaven with so much evil around, anyway?

She had to do something. Something Snythe had said had caught on her memory, like a thread that snagged going through brambles—it caught, and was stretched out, but if she could only gather the thought in, it would be something worthwhile. He said… he said…

That was her one chance to save him.

She began surreptitiously straining at the coarse ropes that bound her wrists together, glad now for the gag that kept her cries of pain silent; she felt the fibers slice her wrists like tiny knives, and the back of her gown quickly became spotted with red. She had to move her hands round to her side—the gun was her one opportunity. If she could get her hands to it…

It seemed to take eons to move her hands—slow enough that her 'guards' didn't notice, but fast enough that it would make a difference to Roarke's living or dying. She struggled silently, felt a shoulder, than an elbow dislocate painfully, but it made the difference: she was just millimeters away…

The hoof-beats rang out more clearly now: he was nearing the crest of the moor, from which it was a straight road down to the inn. They were actual, unmistakable hoofbeats too, reverberating off the inn wall, feeling like nails being driven into her heart.

Why did he always keep his promises?

She saw his form crest the moor and begin to swiftly descend; the men in her room raised their muskets to their shoulders and braced themselves for the first shots. Their attention was wholly focused on the descending rider and horse. They had forgotten she was in the room at all.

It was what she'd been waiting for.

Up on the moor, the monastery bells began chiming midnight.

Her finger stretched—a little further—a little further—

Her dislocated arm screamed at the movement, as her wrists and mouth bled more freely from the bonds carving into them.

The hoofbeats now seemed to thrum, "Fare-thee-well, Fare-thee-well," and she felt the barest sensation of metal against her fingertip.

It was enough.

She focused every ounce of will she had on that one finger, all pain, all fear falling away—

The fingertip moved, caught, and forced the trigger down with all its strength.

The shot rang out like a trumpet, a warning cry with the only voice Bess had, shattering the night, and the figure on the hill abruptly wheeled and swiftly disappeared, only rising dust marking his passage.

Bess, for her part, felt an awesome heat, was suddenly aware of every particle of her being for one timeless instant—that final heave of her heart—

Then, rapid-closing darkness as the men at the window, shouting, leapt at her, seconds and an eternity too late to stop her.

A great splash of blood was against the wall, the ceiling, spilling across the floor, dripping down her body like honey.

She was beyond knowledge of this, her tormented shell empty.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy, for his part, was having a similarly tormented dream, wherein he was that same guy—Roarke—only this time, he was riding a horse. Remy didn't ride horses, Remy rode motorcycles. But not… not…

Roarke patted the night-black mane of his horse, then kicked her into a faster gait, his full saddlebags jingling. He'd promised to be back with Bess tonight, and he'd won his prize and more besides, and he couldn't wait to tell her all of his news… He urged the horse on faster, a dark streak across the moor. There was the monastery up ahead, and he could see the night watchman in his cowl begin the long ascent up to the bell-tower; it must be nearing midnight. He had to get to her. He'd promised her, and he didn't break promises. Especially not to Bess.

He came over the moor's crest and began the careful descent, letting the horse pick its own way down, so long as it wasn't slow. He looked down at the inn, and was surprised to see that Bess didn't have a candle lit for him… and the shutters on the tavern part of the inn were still open and lit. Strange… perhaps there was a celebration going on in the village. But this late at night? He frowned, suspicious.

He was nearly to the bottom when his horse perked up his ears and sent a soft whicker ahead of them. Roarke could see a group of four or five horses standing together, just to the right of the inn. One of them looked oddly familiar, a striking white horse with blonde mane and tail… Where did he know that from?

A shot rang out suddenly, and with that sound, he realized that the horse had been the favorite mount of one of the officers of the Redcoat troop he'd served with. It must be an ambush! Adrenaline coursing, he wrenched his horse's head around and galloped up the steep slope to safety over the crest of the moor. "Sorry, Bess," he said aloud. "This will be the last promise I break." He grinned, white teeth flashing in the moonlight. "…I promise."

He made a brief detour into the monastery—they knew him well there— to relieve himself of much of the weight of his saddlebags, then took off across the moor again to an alehouse on its far edge where he and other highwaymen often took refuge from King George's justice.

Upon arriving at the alehouse, he slapped two coins down on the counter and wordlessly rolled himself up in his cloak near the hearth to catch a few hours' sleep before venturing out to see if the hunt had been called off. He was woken with a hand shaking his shoulder roughly, and a half-familiar voice saying urgently, "Roarke? Roarke? Wake up, lad. There's news you need to hear." Blearily, he opened his eyes to see the house's owner, Ben, standing over him, prodding him awake. By the feel of it, he'd only been asleep for four hours or so; it must be near dawn.

"Roarke. Roarke. Are you awake? You need to be awake," the man said. Roarke lazily climbed to his feet, muttering.

Another fugitive from justice thrust a flask of whiskey into Roarke's hands, saying, "Take a swig o' that. It'll get you awake, and—and you'll be needing it, boyo." The man looked away quickly, before Roarke could ask him what he meant.

He looked around the alehouse, confused, and all around, men wouldn't meet his eyes, or swiftly doffed their caps. He looked back at Ben, whose face was compassionate. "Lad," he said, "It falls to me to be tellin' ye this, an' it's not a job I relish. Y'see, there's been a shooting. Over at Dawson's Inn, last night."

The tension went out of him, and Roarke laughed and waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, I know about that, I was there…" Muffled oaths went round the room as the others stared at him in something like horror. "They shot at me, but missed badly, and I managed to escape. There was no shooting, you've been misinformed."

Ben swallowed heavily, and shook his head. "No, lad, that's what I've got t' tell ye. There was a killing last night, there, at the Inn. T'was 'Bessa killed by them Redcoats."

The ground dropped out from beneath his feet. "No…" he shook his head. "That's not possible. It's—no. It was someone else." His face took on an ashen hue; he staggered back a few steps as though he'd been physically struck. The others caught him, kept him from falling. He felt his heart constrict, squeeze, stop for a second: he fell into blackness.

He woke a few hours later to a much-unchanged scene. Many of the others were still sitting around, lending him the silent support of their presence during his time of sorrow. As soon as he sat up, the flask of whiskey was again folded into his hand, and this time, he drank deeply, barely feeling the burn of the alcohol when compared to the pain his very soul was feeling to know that she was…just gone. Stolen from him, like so many other things those damned Redcoats took from him.

The church bells in the town nearby tolled eleven o'clock. Eleven hours she'd been gone, and he'd been consciously aware of her loss for perhaps a total of five waking minutes.

It was forever.

He could not possibly live like this. They couldn't expect him to. Certainly he could not live on the same Earth that her murderer lived on. Thanks to that white horse last night, he knew exactly who he was looking for: Snythe, a cruel, brutish commander who maintained his commission through threats, bribes, and blackmail.

Snythe, he vowed, would not live to see the sunset.

He had been sitting so quietly, so despondently, since waking that it took everyone entirely by surprise when suddenly young Colin Roarke leapt up and headed straight out the door, picking up his pistols and sword as he went out. Everyone gaped at the empty doorway for a second, then scrambled after him: who knew what a man in his disturbed state of mind might do?

But he was already galloping away, shouting, shrieking at the top of his lungs, "God damn you to the darkest pits of Hell, Snythe, and may He grant mine be the hand to send you there!"

Ben, left alone in the alehouse, shook his head sadly. He'd seen things like this before, and it could only end badly.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

His promise to himself notwithstanding, Roarke found Snythe far earlier than sunset—indeed, in less than an hour, Snythe's sulking command unit found itself upset by a raving, furious highwayman with madness in his eyes. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, and killed two men on his way through the ranks to Snythe, who calmly drew his pistol, cocked it, aimed it, and fired at the onrushing madman.

He wasn't able, however, to duck the throwing knife Roarke expertly threw at him; as he fired the pistol, the point entered his eye and sank to the hilt. He was dead before he fell forward against his horse's neck.

Roarke was knocked sideways out of his saddle with the impact of the shot. He struggled to get back on the horse—the injury wasn't immediately deadly.

The next three, however, arriving more-or-less simultaneously, were. His last sight was of the burning sun standing directly overhead, as his blood dyed the Brussels lace and his legs twitched in those doeskin breeches his sweetheart had given so much to buy.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy came half-awake with a shudder, to find himself standing outside, in the cold, dressed in the fine clothes he'd been wearing in the dream—Was it a dream? No, it wasn't, it had been a terrible, terrible nightmare, but if he walked along the inn-wall, surely, surely it wasn't true, his Bess would be waiting there for him as always…

Rogue was standing somehow outside of those heavy metal bars as though they didn't exist at all, Rogue—'Bessa dressed in that familiar fine long lace-edged nightgown, and all her long black hair was twisted behind her, and she looked down at him as he strode up 'til he was just beneath her windows, his boot-nails clicking on the cobbles.

As though by common accord she reached down to him the same moment he began to climb up, so that before he had come up very far her fingertips were sliding through his hair, urging him up faster. In a moment they were together, shivering in the cold night air, reveling in simply touching one another—

Neither noticed the bloodstains on the other's clothing, nor her slashed wrists and tender mouth, nor the powder burns on their skins.

"It's too cold," she said, "Let's go inside." He nodded, and opened his mouth to ask what about the metal bars—but he looked again and of course there were no metal bars, there never had been, what a silly thought. And then they were inside and her hands were urging his high boots down, off, now, and they weren't going on her bed—he threw them near the chair in the anteroom, and his long coat spilled its velvet length across its arms a moment later. Hopefully there were no guests wandering the inn; the boots in Bess's anteroom, visible from the hall, would be a dead giveaway that he was here. But he really couldn't bring himself to care overmuch when her hands and lips were on him, holding him, touching him, drawing him toward her. Then they were in her bedroom and their mouths and arms and bodies met on her bed, and this was how it was supposed to be, not—

"I had the most terrifying dream," he said softly, "I dreamed that—"

"You had died?"

"You had died, and I never saw you again. You had the same dream?"

"Yes, but it was only a dream…"

"Just a dream…"

"Yes—see, feel, I have a body, it has a pulse—look, there is no wound, my body is whole— and here—" she placed her hand on his chest, "I feel your heart beating. Simply a terrible dream."

"Yes… Enough of dreams," he said then, "This is life, real life, not those dreams," and he drew her close against him, pulled the quilt over them both, and he kissed her again and again…

That is how that night should have ended… A voice seemed to say silently, but neither in the room heard it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Soo… an extra long piece for you all. Doesn't make up for a year's worth of not-posting, but… it helps. …Right:)