AN: And here's the next chapter up, mainly for you, Iloveorlando. I suppose I could turn this collection of drabbles into a more concrete story with a more focused storyline, though I can't promise anything in terms of updating, especially with my freshman year of college quickly approaching. Anyway, this returns to Michael and Cothiel, so hopefully you'll enjoy it. Please read, enjoy, and review!

SURPRISE VISIT

The wind blew steadily against his face, and he groaned as he shifted on his crutches. A dozen wounds all over his body stung, and he tried to concentrate instead on the gentle scent of spring on the breeze, but the pain was making it difficult. Not to mention the fact that he was wounded to the point where he was out of commission…until he completely recovered, he wouldn't be able to serve in the Durvagorian Army, much less the Black Guard. It was easy enough to say that it was all part of his duty to take wounds for the royal family, but he felt like he could have done better.

At least his squad had escaped the battle with little more than bumps and scrapes. He was the only one to receive truly serious wounds. Mary, Kristen, Richard, and the others would be teaching the newest class of Black Guard while he recuperated, so they would be kept busy. He, however, had little to do but try and keep patient as his body slowly healed. He was glad that his mission had been completely successful. Last he knew, Cothiel was in the royal section of the healing houses, getting the best care possible. It was unfortunate that she would have a scar on her leg from the shrapnel, but it was a small price to pay, considering what her captors COULD have done to her. However, he knew that she was probably suffering nightmares. He knew that he had after his first few battles. Nothing was the same after you inhaled the sickeningly sweet stench of another's lifeblood and watched the spark of life dim away. It was worse if you were the one who did the killing.

Sighing, he turned away from the panoramic view the window offered him, and looked over his quarters. Military gear and paraphernalia were strewn all over the place, and he shook his head. When he was in training, he had to keep his personal area spotless, but without the frightening presence of an instructor present, he found that he lacked the motivation to pick up after himself every day. Of course, his rooms never got messy, but they were never quite neat either. Running a hand through his high-and-tight haircut, he blew out an explosive breath. Well, he could clean…it's not like he had anything better to do. Hobbling over to his unmade bed, he was just painfully lowering himself to the surface when there was an unexpected pounding on the door.

Blinking in surprise, he stared at the sturdy portal for a moment, thinking he had heard the noise. It was midday…all of his squad would be training students now, and his father and mother would be in the middle of the lunch rush. There was no one who would want to see him. Again the knocking sounded, and he thumped his way over to his dresser, where his .45 caliber pistol lay, already loaded and on safe. Tucking the weapon into the back of his pants, he moved as quickly as he could over to the door. Balancing on his two crutches, he took a steadying breath as one hand went to the door handle and the other went to the grip of his black pistol. He paused, waiting for the next tattoo to pound against the door. He did not have to wait long.

As his visitor's fist began pounding against the door, he jerked it open, and a soldier in black clothes and gear nearly stumbled in the door. He stared at the man, wondering at his presence. "Jack?" he drawled, relaxing his guard slightly. "What are you doing?"

The Black Guard sergeant straightened up. "Michael," he greeted. "I was ordered to escort you to Princess Cothiel so that she could thank you in person for your service, as well as to see how you are doing."

Michael raised a brow in surprise before laughing lightly. "Ordered, huh? Who issued the order?"

"Princess Cothiel."

He sobered immediately. "I hardly feel like I'm ready to meet the princess," he dryly stated, gesturing to his unshaven face and his rumpled sleeping clothes.

Finally the other man smiled. "Yeah, you look like shit, man. Almost as bad as the first time you stole the wine from dad and got hammered. Anyway, you can change and shave, but don't take too long."

Glad that his friend from childhood had finally stopped being so formal, he jerked his head back, inviting the other Black Guard soldier into his humble abode. "Shouldn't take me more than fifteen," he said as he hobbled over to his washroom. "How has life in the Black Guard been serving you?" he called into the main room as he lathered up a horse-hair brush. "Last I knew you were being considered for a Corporal's position," he said as he began brushing the lather onto his face.

"Got that position, and have been holding it steady for more'n a year now. I'm surprised you don't come calling more often."

Michael stropped his razor as he looked himself critically in the mirror. A flying piece of shrapnel had ripped open his flesh from temple to eyebrow, and the wound was stitched up, and an aged yellow bruise darkened his cheekbone, and he needed a haircut. Not exactly the best he'd ever looked. "Yeah, well, you know how the job can be," he said absently as he began to carefully drag the sharp blade against his stubble encrusted cheek. "The graveyard shift especially sucks, and then you have all the extra training and meetings and what-have-you to attend, and you end up with barely enough time to get a decent day's sleep."

"Yeah, I hear ya. Only, my shift is a day one, and I'm not on any squad, I'm more support for if we get attacked, like we did the other day." The man's voice shifted as he moved around the room, and it was easy to hear him checking out the different memorabilia that Michael had displayed.

Michael paused his shaving. "Attack? I heard something about that…I was still unconscious when it happened. What's the sit-rep on that?" he asked as he began to shave again, the blade moving slowly in his thoughtfulness.

"Well, I got three kills, all worthless street scum who decided it was a good idea to attack the citadel." He scoffed derisively. "Dumbasses. Maybe the most interesting thing about the attack was led by an elf."

Michael frowned even as he perused his shaving job. "An elf?!"

"Yeah. Lord Donovan thinks that he and his wife were the targets, not any of the royals."

"Huh…" Wiping off any remaining soap with a rag, he moved out of the room and towards his closet. "Think the dress uniform is appropriate?"

Jack flipped a hand in the air with a nonchalant shrug. "Go right on ahead. I don't care."

He threw the rag at his friends face. "Yeah, right, ya fucktard," he grinned as he pulled open the closet door. Time to look presentable for the princess.

~*~*~*~

Cothiel straightened her dress again, her hands fluttering over nonexistent wrinkles. Her handmaiden sighed, but she ignored the young girl. She needed to be composed for this meeting, she needed to be professional. Professional…what does it mean to be professional? Does it mean possessing the sheer will to sacrifice your very existence for someone you know little about? She winced as the memory of that terrible explosion tore through her mind, the memory of the unbearable weight slamming into her body as the sergeant unhesitatingly threw himself on top of her to protect her from the threat. She didn't think she could do the same…she just didn't possess the courage.

Her thoughts went to the sergeant himself. There had been something about the man that had drawn her to him, though she had never seen his face even after they returned to the city. His voice was also not all that spectacular, as it was deep and a little rough but not enough to be remarkable. Was it his skills? She shuddered as she remembered how he smoothly and swiftly killed man after man…in her defense. "Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast," she whispered lightly, quoting her late primary protector. She bowed her head as a wave of sadness crashed over her. Alice had been more than a guard, she had been a friend. Cothiel swallowed thickly as she remembered the way Alice had screamed in pain and anger as the evil men had torn her to shreds. Fighting the urge to be sick, she groaned and pressed her hand against her forehead, wishing she could take away those memories.

Before her thoughts could continue to spiral ever downward, the door to the courtyard opened, and one of the Black Guard stepped in. "Announcing Sergeant Michael Âmul, leader of the Ninth Durvagorian Elite Guard Operational Squad," he boomed out in a thundering voice, and Cothiel stood, hands fluttering over her dress once again as she tried to swallow past a suddenly bone dry mouth. Why was she so nervous?

There was an odd thumping noise, and finally the sergeant came around the corner…supported by crutches. She winced as she saw how stiffly he was moving. It had been a week since her rescue, she didn't think he'd still be in a great deal of pain…then her eyes flicked to his face, and her breath froze in her throat. Sharp brown eyes scanned the courtyard, and she realized he was looking for threats. For a moment she was insulted, wondering if he thought she would invite him into danger, but then she remembered his profession. He was just doing his job by looking for danger, and probably didn't even know he was doing it.

His eyes settled on her, and she blushed slightly as she took in his features. High and prominent cheekbones, a strong jaw line and a slightly crooked nose, no doubt from it being broken during his career, and fair skin that was paler than she would have thought. He had broad shoulders and a deep chest, but not as barrel shaped as she would have expected…Durvagorians tended to be on the large side, but Michael didn't seem much taller than six foot even. He was also lean but exuded a sense of strength, power, and authority. Her eyes lifted, and met his intense gaze. She was captivated by the energy that seemed to spark behind his brown orbs but at the same time unsettled by how intent he was perusing her. Biting her lip, she glanced away. "Please," she whispered, "have a seat."

There was a click, and she looked up to see him unbuckling a saber from his side and leaning it against the small table she had been sitting at. She noticed he had a pistol strapped to his leg, and that it stayed there, untouched by the soldier before her. "No need to be so timid, my lady," he murmured as he moved around the table, his voice deeper than she remembered. "It doesn't suit you." He grasped the back of her seat, and motioned for her to sit with his free hand. Blushing harder at his proximity, she complied, and squeaked when he pushed her in with little sign of struggling. As he made his way to his own chair, she wondered just how strong he really was.

Hearing a soft groan from him as he sat down, she frowned in compassion. "Are you alright?" she asked softly, eyes fixed on the tabletop before her.

"Yes, my lady. I think I've suffered worse wounds in training," he answered briskly, and she wondered if he would always speak to her in such a manner. The thought saddened her more than she would like to admit. There was a light clatter as he set his crutches against the table, next to the sword. "You requested my presence?" he asked, getting to the matter of things.

She closed her eyes and sighed, wondering if calling for him had been a mistake. "Yes, I did. I wanted to thank you for your service by inviting you to a midday meal. It was the least I could do."

"Please, my lady. The service was nothing but an honor to do. I'm glad that I and not another was selected to rescue you."

Startled at his words, she looked up and into his face. "Why is that?"

He did not answer, but his eyes flicked from her to her handmaiden, and it only took a moment for her to understand. The conversation was being listened to. "The walk up to the Citadel was long, and I am thirsty, my lady," he said as he held her gaze.

Without breaking their contact, Cothiel turned towards the younger girl. "Riethel, could you go get a pitcher of water and some cups for Sergeant Âmul and me?"

Without a word, the girl stood and made her way towards a door in the back of the courtyard. Within moments the two were alone. Sighing slightly, Âmul visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping a little. "My lady, I am glad to have rescued you not only because my unit and I were the most qualified to do the job, but because I got the chance save you from a terrible fate. Not only that, but I was asked to meet you again under much better circumstances."

Her heart leaped in her chest, and she looked at him with wide eyes. "You…you enjoy my presence?"

His eyes were serious as he answered. "Why would I not, my lady?" At a loss for words, she could only continue staring at him as he went on. "You are kind hearted, and have a gentle spirit, one well suited towards soothing another's hurts. Your form is fair, but it is truly your personality that makes you worth protecting from all harm." He paused, and then looked away, shame coloring his face. "My lady."

Realizing she was blushing furiously, she gently cleared her throat. "Is that…is that how you truly feel about me?" she asked, barely daring to hope, but when he looked back at her with a slight glare affixed on his face, she recoiled slightly.

"Princess, this is a dangerous subject. I said too much as it is. I am merely a soldier in your father's army, not even minor nobility. I could be hanged for what was said here today." He muttered a strong curse under his breath, and leaned back in his chair. "I shouldn't have said what I did!" he growled softly, and she could only watch sadly as he looked more and more distressed. What he said was true, and she knew it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and his glare softened as he looked back at her.

"It's not your fault," he sighed as he removed his black beret and ran a hand through short hair. "Rather it's mine for even acknowledging those thoughts." Giving a humorless chuckle, he glanced at her. "You look like a goddess when you sleep, my lady…" Shocked at the words, she stared at him, torn between pleasure at the complement and horror at what the words meant. Seeing her reaction, he quickly waved his hands before himself. "My lady, you misunderstand. My squad is part of the night guard, and it is our duty to periodically check upon the royal family to make sure you are still safe and sound…nothing more than a quick glance in the dead of the night, I assure you."

Blushing at the thought of the handsome sergeant watching her sleeping, she barely managed to croak out: "Wh-when are your duty hours?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "From zero-one hundred hours to zero-two hundred hours, my lady. Right now, that slot is being filled by other squads until I heal enough for duty."

Nodding, she turned her head as the door Riethel had departed through opened, and a small throng of servants entered the courtyard, bearing food and other refreshments. Looking back to her guest, she frowned as she noticed that his eyes were guarded and his face masked into a look of neutrality. However, she felt a smile tug at her lips as the servants set the table before them. The panicked look that the sergeant gave the numerous pieces of silverware was amusing, to say the least. "Start from the outside, and work your way in," she laughed, and then blushed he shot her a grateful look. The rest of the meal passed in silence, both of them ever aware and ever cautious of the servants around them. After the meal was finished, Sergeant Âmul thanked Princess Cothiel for the meal, excused himself, and took his leave. They would see each other in passing again soon, but it would be a few months before they would have a chance to speak in private…but that is a story for another day…