A/N: And I present to you ... a lemon! Possibly too soon, but see what you think. I've put in hints of a fantasy couple I like in here, brownie points to anyone who gets which set of books they're from. I've also had to resort to making up the elvish, since the translation sites I have used in the past no longer exist. Or Google can't find them, either way.

Chapter Five

When Goldshield came to, she knew immediately that something was wrong. For one, there was no persistent ringing in her ears, as there should be. Second, she was comfortable. The kind of comfort she had never experienced as an adult, the kind where it would be all too easy to lie back into warm and soft pillows. Third, the noises. Actual birdsong. There should be the bustle of the infirmary, the slight pain of an IV in her arm. The heavy solidity of Stanner's presence. Unless she'd died. Maybe this was Heaven.

She didn't think so.

She opened her eyes, fully awake and alert. Sure enough, she was lying on a bed, something she would have called four-poster if not for the fact that the posts seemed to be living trees. It was situated in some kind of forest glade, a place of beauty that looked untouched by the war. She looked around more carefully. The flora was European, mainly oak, ash, pine and a few rowan trees. There were rabbit droppings on the ground. She looked into the branches of the nearest trees, attempting to see the birds she could hear. She caught the flash of a robin's breast; could hear the chatter of magpies and the faint scream of a red kite or two. Nothing that could tell her where in Europe she was, but that she was here was bad enough. Europe was overrun by fae. Especially the forests.

She continued her assessment, this time of herself. She could move all her limbs, no pain or numbness anywhere. She was even clean, her hair washed and brushed, soft around her shoulders. It didn't help her unease; she felt more like a virgin sacrifice than anything. Without the virgin bit. Her feet were bare, and she wore nothing but her white tank top, combat trousers and dog tags. Every pocket had been emptied, every weapon taken from her. About the most deadly thing she had now was her belt. But unarmed combat wasn't unknown to her. She could kill with her bare hands, and then take whatever her fallen enemy had.

She moved to the edge of the bed and lowered her feet to the ground. Nothing changed. The birds didn't falter, the sun didn't darken. There was a path leading from the glade, and it seemed she had no choice but to take it. Clearly this was some kind of trap, the comfy bed and pretty forest designed to lull her into a false sense of security. Just as clearly, her captor had no idea how to lay a decent trap. Goldshield felt strangely disappointed; she would have expected better from Silverlance.

If there was one thing that made Nuada disquieted, it was being unarmed. The humans had proven themselves formidable enemies in the last decade, always striking where they were unexpected, always stubbornly refusing to be exterminated. He had learned never to be unprepared. And yet today, he found himself without armour, lance or weapon of any kind. And the means with which he'd been brought here was further unexpected. Unlike the human woman, he had recognised the touch of magic. He was no mage himself, but he knew enough to sense it, and its direction. Non-lethal. Designed to incapacitate, not destroy. And strange – he'd thought all witches and most mages had been bound by Nuala into that ridiculous covenant. For the humans to have found at least one willing to work with them was … troubling. He could not accept the idea of Goldshield recruiting them. The sole issue on which they had common ground was the half-breeds. Creatures belonging in neither realm, human or elven. Too dangerous to ignore, too much of a blot on the face of creation to be tolerated. Until now, the human commander had done as he did, and destroyed those she came across.

She must be truly desperate, Nuada thought with a smirk. To employ witches must go against her every instinct.

But to what purpose? Why had he been captured, and not simply executed on the spot? Goldshield must know he would never enter into any kind of negotiations. She would never do so. He remembered the wrath and fury in the eyes of the human woman who had killed Orophin. That was the kind of spirit Goldshield possessed, he was sure. Nothing else could inspire such emotion in her troops. Although- Another human had called out to her, addressing her as 'General'. Was it possible she had been Goldshield? The two of them had never come face to face, after all, despite being locked together in this conflict. She had been, Nuada knew suddenly. That had been her. Younger than expected; humans withered as they aged, rotted like discarded fruit. Goldshield had given no impression of that decay. Good. It would make taking her life all the sweeter if she was in her prime.

Assuming she ever showed herself. At this moment, he was alone, having woken on a steel table, in a room made of the humans' artificial stone, only a single door, with a drain in the centre of the room. And no windows. Torture, he assumed, would be the order of the day. No expectation was disappointed – Goldshield was a human, and could not act honourably. Not that, were their positions reversed, he could have done either. No, when he finally had her in his grasp, her death would inch forwards, ever so slowly, dancing in time to the sound of her screams. For Orophin's death, and for so many others.

A small click came from the door and Nuada tensed, coiled to attack. But no one entered. And he could hear no voices. No breathing. The sense of unease increased. For a moment, he considered refusing the bait, remaining precisely where he was and forcing the humans to come to him. But that would achieve little. Death was intended sooner or later. And Silverlance had not possessed patience for years. Millennia of waiting for the Crown of Bethmora to surface had seen to that. Centuries of enforced peace and meditation. Since he had finally begun his war, he had been incapable of forebearance. So he opened the door. Beyond it lay a forest. So the magic continued then. And yet … this forest was real. He could hear the trees' song whispering with the breeze. It seemed they were just as curious as he – a human dwelling, here? Humans setting foot in fae-controlled territory? How had this happened?

There was only one path, which he took, hands curled into fists as he walked. The nature of the forest continued with him, animals and birds still going about their lives, as untouched by magic as they had been by the war. Then the trees changed. The first one only had a small alteration: a single blue tile on its trunk. A real tile, as Nuada discovered when he touched it. Mirrored surface, navy blue backing, shining in the dappled sunlight. But still – wrong. The next tree had three of them. The one after, seven, and so on. Before long he had left the forest and was beneath walls again, made of the same blue tile. Was it possible Goldshield was a witch? Was that why she had hunted them so fiercely, because they would see her for what she was? No, he thought, dismissing the notion. Goldshield hunted them because they were abominations. Besides, despite the frisson that had raced over his skin, the woman he'd begun to fight had been no witch. A powerful opponent, but no magical creature. Someone else was directing this magic, reshaping the world to her whim. Or their own.

In the cool dimness, Nuada pressed on, turning around corners, twists and turns like a maze. Finally he broke into a run, thinking to get to the middle quicker and knowing he'd not tire. He came to an immensely long corridor eventually, the end of it so far away even he could not see it. But he could see movement. And hear footsteps. A single figure, no more than a speck of white and green. At first. Then, of course, it coalesced into a human. A human woman, with strong, athletic limbs, hair of that muddy brown theirs sometimes was, skin tanned because even the sun hated them. And green eyes that locked onto his immediately. Goldshield. No illusion. She was here, and as unarmed as he was, and somehow, for whatever reason, the gods were giving him this chance. To kill or be killed, the promise of glory in either direction. Triumph in only one.

She increased her pace too, and they rocketed for each other, getting within thirty feet, twenty, ten— They never got closer. It felt a though he had run smack into the side of a cliff, propelled backwards to go skidding across the floor on his back.

Then a voice, one he'd deliberately chosen not to hear in nigh on thirty years. Still as low, and melodic. Still soft and clear as spring water. Still just as disappointed.

"You may not bring death here."

Nuala wore robes of deepest burgundy, white hair loose and flowing down her back. She glanced between Nuada and Goldshield, both gingerly picking themselves up. Flanking her were two others: a dark-haired vampire standing still with more grace than should have been possible on her left, and on her right and blonde witch with power that rolled from her, gently crackling from her fingertips in blue sparks. Apparently she was the source of this magic.

"No matter how hard you try," Nuala added.

"Who are you?" Goldshield demanded.

"We represent Seven."

She snorted. "Freaks." In unison, Silverlance snarled, "Nadorhurim."

He glanced at her sharply; she glared briefly and contemptuously, and looked back at their captors. "What does Seven want?"

"What we have always wanted. Immediate and eternal ceasefire."

"Clearly, your mind has left the realms of this world. I've left you too long to plot peace, sister," Silverlance said.

"More violence is senseless," the vampire said.

Goldshield curled her lip. "Says the bloodsucking leech. Pickings a bit slim are they?"

"Enough of this. They won't listen to us," the witch said, in a clear American accent.

"Finally, some sense. So let us go. With any luck one of us will kill the other one soon and then you can go back to your 'peace'."

The witch tried again. "Surely you can see how vital it is-"

"Free us or kill us," Nuada said.

"This can't just go on, endlessly-"

"It'd be one step closer to ending now if you hadn't interfered," Goldshield snapped. "You pulled me out in the middle of a mission to rescue Americans – so you'll forgive me if I don't have anything to say to you, witch."

"General," Nuala began, "is there nothing that will convince you a ceasefire and armistice must be implemented?"

Unlike the others, Goldshield seemed to give Nuala's question serious thought. Seemed to, though. If this elven bitch thought there was anything but total victory that she would accept, then she was dreaming. Or mad. "I've got something," she finally said. She pointed to Silverlance. "You give me his head on a silver platter. And then serve up your own alongside it. Then we'll talk peace."

"But surely-"

"We will speak of nothing until she is dead, sister!" Silverlance yelled.

Finally, she thought, we agree on something.

Nuala sighed. "If there is truly no other way." She gestured to the witch. "My friend?"

From the ceiling fell her short swords. Goldshield caught them neatly, seeing Silverlance do the same with his own weapon. The surroundings had changed again. "Remember," Nuala warned, "you may not bring death here."

Oh, they'd bring more than death.

With another soft, sad sigh that made Goldshield want to bury a blade in her gullet, the elven princess and her companions withdrew, literally walking through a solid wall.

Goldshield wasn't sure who moved first, but they seemed to meet in mid-air, mithril clashing against titanium composite. Bloody hell, he was strong. But so was she. When he'd leapt, the blade had been on a course to cleave her skull; she'd thrown up her swords and created a cross guard that had stopped it, but he was still pressing down. She threw her arms up and apart, driving her knee into his stomach before he could attack again. He did double over, but fell into a roll forwards and was on his feet again faster than she could blink, swinging the weapon around. She knew it could extend, but was unprepared when it leapt to her, only just managing a backflip to escape the silver lance itself. When she landed, she threw the one in her left hand towards him in a deadly flashing arc. It did nothing but buy her the time to reengage him – the sword itself was caught, twisted around the lance and sent flying into a wall. Now that Goldshield had her chance, she'd moved in close. With the lance extended she had no chance of landing any kind of blow, and Silverlance could keep her at a distance, wearing her down until she was too exhausted to prevent him killing her. That had to be avoided. So she fought almost toe to toe with him, sparks flying from the handle of his weapon as it met the blade of hers. Silverlance kept trying to dance out of her reach, and she relentlessly pursued him. He turned to using his weapon as a staff, attempting to force her back, against a wall where she'd have no room to move.

Goldshield refused him silently, ducking and dodging where she had to, landing iron-hard kicks and punches of her own. There was no speech between them, and she'd yet to look away from his face, determined not to give away any of her intentions. His eyes were burning amber now, just as enraged as she knew hers were. Good. That wasn't mere annoyance, she couldn't be brushed aside as an irritation. She demanded effort before she'd be defeated. She didn't know how long they continued for, but she felt no drain of fatigue in her limbs, nothing to indicate she was tiring. Quite the opposite; exhilaration lit through her veins like acid, burning through her. She felt like finally, here was the fight she'd waited all her life for. It wasn't disappointing.

She jabbed a cut at his hand, which worked to make him temporarily let go of the end of the lance. One end fell to the floor, so Goldshield used it as a springboard, pushing herself into the air, sword aimed at his collarbone. He grabbed the blade defensively, slicing open his palm but stopping the blade and wrenching it from her grasp. At the same time, he dropped suddenly into a crouch, sending Goldshield crashing for the floor. She was just barely able to stop herself breaking an arm, using her shoulder to absorb the shock and rolling, aiming for her other, discarded blade. She had just enough time to grab it and get to her feet, pulling back for a blow. Her strike found its mark – at the same time as Silverlance slid the tip of his mithril blade into her heart. But they had killed each other; Goldshield's short sword going through the base of his neck into his chest.

Now there was nothing to do but die. The pain was … not what she had expected. It was mostly like ice had pierced her, and then there was the seeping sensation of the blood leaving … but she wouldn't. Not before he did. The taste in her mouth was sweet copper, and it would be all the sweeter when she saw the light in that arse-wanker's eyes die. Except it wasn't dying. He'd half collapsed onto her, his legs too weak to hold him, and she could feel his ragged, pained half-breaths on her face. Caramel coloured blood stained her fingers. But he wasn't dying. She wasn't dying.

"What the …"

As with the study of any new language, the first words Goldshield had learned in elvish were the bad ones. So when Silverlance hissed, "Senayü?" she fully understood and echoed the sentiment.

For another moment they carried on staring at each other, before the words of his sister filtered through her mind. You may not bring death here. Literally, apparently. But it was okay to let them inflict agonising pain on each other? Sadistic bitch.

"Magic!" Silverlance snarled. It lacked the venom of before. Possibly because it was difficult to snarl while having your lungs shredded.

"Really? What was … your first … clue?" Goldshield panted.

Their hands moved at the same time – she had intended to pull her weapon free, and in hindsight maybe he had too – except the suspicion of each other was too great. They both ended up viciously jerking each weapon deeper. The pain ricocheted up another notch. It made Goldshield nearly black out, and she saw Silverlance blinking away a similar thing.

"The fuck … did you … do that … that for?"

He glared. "On the- the count of three."

"One …"

"Nín …"

"Three!"

This time, they simultaneously yanked both blades away. And immediately collapsed, though with the little strength she had left she shoved Silverlance away. In an instant, the pain disappeared, and while her clothes remained bloodstained, there was no injury beneath them. God, she hated magic. Able to breathe properly again, she took the liberty, gulping in air. Silverlance was in a similar state a few feet away.

She coughed. "Just so you know, I'm going to really enjoy strangling that sister of yours once I've killed you."

The answer was barking laughter, then he said, "And how will you do that, human? We are both invulnerable."

She got to her feet, and he did the same. She hoped the predatory grin on her face was making him nervous. "Well, clearly. Looks like only one of us is creative though."

She knew it was never going to work – but she had nowhere near got enough of her rage out to think clearly. And she was still going to enjoy this. They engaged once more, with the same fury and energy, so much that she felt alight with it. This bout ended with his victory, and one of her arms hanging by a thread of skin and tissue, and Silverlance's blade was buried somewhere in her digestive system. But with the same result. She didn't feel remotely like dying, and when Silverlance pulled away, the abdominal wound sealed itself instantly. The arm required a little more help; she had to hold it back in place for the skin and muscle to knit back together. Once it had, there was no trace of it, not even a reddening of the skin. Still, it had bloody hurt, and the next one had even more fury attached – Goldshield striving for personal vengeance as well as the vengeance for her species. The drive served her well, and this time it was the prince who ended up doubled over in not-quite-death throes. Goldshield had stabbed him front and back, skewering his black heart between her two blades. She let him dig them out himself, catching them when he threw them at her.

"Why do you persist in this?" he roared.

Part of Goldshield didn't understand why she laughed. All she knew was that she felt more alive than she had in years – stronger, faster, a literal one-woman army. And damn her, damn him, damn the whole world if she wasn't enjoying this, loving every bloodied second of it. She fell into another combat stance. "Because it's fun, o Prince. It is so much fun."

There was no way she could have only imagined the mad, delighted gleam that suddenly appeared in his eyes. Something that felt a little like pure, reckless joy hit her in answer.

And things certainly did get creative. They tried every possible method – stabbing through torsos, abdomens, groins, slitting throats, severing spinal cords. All with no change or improvement in success rate. Goldshield attempted her best method, and while he did go an interesting colour (it was a sort of crème caramel hue), he did not stop breathing entirely. Likewise, Silverlance tried her suffocation, but it was difficult when her body didn't require air to function. Impatience made her bite down on his hand. His blood tasted less like copper than her own did. After that, they fell back on fists and legs, inflicting damage the old-fashioned way. It brought them into close contact constantly as they wove around each other, coming together in bursts of violence and then splitting apart again. Goldshield had never danced in her life – but she knew they were doing so now, a pattern so rhythmic and intense this must be how it felt. It also felt … right. All her life had been leading to this one fight, this otherworldly monster human children feared. Her nemesis. How long had she known it would feel like this?

She had no idea how long they'd been at it for when he finally pinned her limbs, trapping her against the wall without the option of movement. The magic apparently superseded the need for food, drink or rest, so neither of them had tried. But apparently, Silverlance had run out of ideas. His body was pressed the length of hers, hot and steel-hard, just as furious as he'd ever been – but out of ways to inflict damage. Goldshield had one more. She lunged her head forwards, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and tearing at it. Yet more blood filled her mouth, but the knife-sharp taste underneath it, which had gone unnamed and somehow ignored, was suddenly identified on her tongue. Right at the moment Silverlance counterattacked in similar fashion. On paper, it would have ticked all the boxes for a passionate kiss; their mouths were pressed together, their tongues duelling just as the rest of them had, her fingers were sliding through his white hair just as his hands held hers. Except she wrenched at the pale strands, causing him to hiss against her mouth, and his grip on her fingers was hard enough to crush and grind her bones together. The pain (for either of them) did nothing to dampen their lust. There was no conscious thought, no tenderness and no knowledge beyond she needed him and she hated it. The feeling was obviously mutual. She could feel him pressing against her hip, rock hard and insistently aroused, a growl that was part-anguish and mostly-desire coming from his chest.

He physically ripped her clothing, tearing the seam of her trousers until they in no way did their job. Goldshield didn't care, tearing at his torso to get rid of the black silk so she could bite at those creamy, muscular shoulders, stamping her mark on him. All that was thrumming through her was yes, yes, let's do that, hurry, now now now let me take you feed on you-

He shifted his grip to her hips as she opened for him, and sheathed himself with one hard buck of his hips, both of them crying out at the union. It felt so incredibly forbidden, so wrong and so vile and so perfect. They carried on moving exactly as they had been, in perfect harmony and at perfect odds. Goldshield was still pinned, but he found her far from submissive. Her nails were short, blunted, functional, but she still manage to rake bloody scratch marks over his shoulders and back, her mouth still harrying the flesh of his jaw, even as the orgasm built at the base of her spine. He was just as rough, his grip at her hips tight enough to already be causing bruises and leaving bite marks along the column of her neck. Every movement he made drove her higher, wound her tighter, the pain blending with the pleasure until she was just … just … Goldshield finally exploded around him, no words, just an animalistic outpouring of pleasure, her climax demanding his. Silverlance let out a roar and bit down hard on her throat, the sudden sting prolonging her orgasm as he came too.

When their breathing had evened out, the silence was absolute. As was the stillness. Breaking apart, moving, would mean acknowledging what had just passed to be reality. As much courage as there was between them, neither dared to do that. Nuada was still suffering from the aftershocks of his climax, nerves too awash with pleasure to register anything but numb surprise. That had been unexpected. And terribly satisfying.

When he felt Goldshield begin to tremble, he pulled away, aware of the quiver in his own limbs and unwilling to show this weakness to his enemy. And she was his enemy. That act of (glorious, his mind whispered) madness had been the product of whatever magic that Seven witch held them under.

Goldshield collapsed to the floor, unprepared for his sudden removal. She let out a long shuddering breath, but he turned away before he could see her expression. Her face would no longer be bruised, and the wounds she had inflicted upon him were gone too. That had been the antithesis of everything it should have been, for both of them. When he left this place, Nuala would be tracked down and put in a cell for the rest of her immortal life.

When Goldshield did make a noise, it was as surprising as the rest of her. She laughed. Not the insane hysterics of a woman on the edge, but of genuine amusement. He turned to look at her, finding her divesting all her garments, no apparent modesty. She had a point. His own clothing was beyond repair too, the silk rendered into tatters. There seemed little need for modesty now. Her body was fit and taut, muscled and lacking the softness of elven women. The twinge of desire he felt even now repelled him. But he continued looking until she stood before him in naught but that strange necklace all human soldiers wore. She was still laughing.

"Desist!" he snapped.

She did, instantly obeying the command, though her eyes continued to sparkle with mirth. "Guessing that wasn't in the plan."

"There is no 'plan' human," he replied swiftly.

"General to you, elf."

"Clearly, I am as much a prisoner here as you, General," he sneered.

"Really? Of your own sister? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe."

"I do not care what you believe, Goldshield."

She reached for one of her knives, fingering it with a thoughtful expression on her face. Slowly, Nuada drew his own weapon too, and they stared at each other. But before either could move, there was that white flash, just as before, and then he was blinking in another place entirely.

Gone was the blue tile, dim light and Goldshield; he now stood by Orophin's carcass, the great dragon still twisted and broken in the wreck of this human town. He was still almost-clothed, and it was with cruel amusement he imagined Goldshield appearing just as suddenly, stark nude in front of her men. Those savages would probably be incapable of controlling themselves. Although, if they were savages, then what precisely did that make him? They had both been savage. Proof-positive, surely, that the lust had been of magical origin. He still desired to kill her. Only now that urge was joined by a similar one to see his sister gone too. He had long-known Nuala was with Seven, long-known she hoped and prayed and occasionally schemed for the end of the war … but outright betrayal? For that, clearly, had been the intention. Remove his and Goldshield's ability to kill each other and then let them resign themselves to ceasefire talks. Instead they had proven that under those circumstances, they would rather fight (and then fuck) endlessly. In the past, he had mused about attempting to sever the link between himself and his twin. Especially since the advent of the war. But only mused. Nuala could do no real harm to him without also harming herself. Now, however, it appeared that she had become a real problem.

But not his most pressing one. That being that he was in the midst of an unpopulated town, in an unpopulated once-country, in a largely unpopulated continent. Judging by both the number of flies and the smell swarming over Orophin, he had been missing at least two days. His standing orders were that High Command wait seven before assuming he had been slain and appointing a successor. Until that time, Lord Sameon was acting commander. Sameon was loyal to him, and had proven it many times over. He would have the elves scrying, so it would be a matter of less than another day before he was retrieved.

Nuada scowled at that – not that he would have to be rescued, but that by the time he was, their mission here would be lost. Goldshield obviously had not been dropped off here, which meant that she would be able to coordinate her own forces and continue with their rescue mission. And the thousands of humans who had clung on here, instead of being wiped out like rats, would go on to be turned into Goldshield's soldiers, pitted against him. Tens of thousands of them. Them and all their potential to breed. Truly, they were like vermin in that respect. And it was an advantage Nuada did not possess. Elven courtship required at least a decade (and that was considered an incredibly hasty match), and the production of heirs even more so. And after destroying billions of them, the humans could very well still be more numerous than elves.

And now he could very well have helped add to that number with his depraved actions. No, he thought. If that were to occur, Goldshield would destroy such an abomination. But still … the gods had a cruel sense of humour.

God had a fucking cruel sense of humour, Goldshield decided. Dumping her, in her birthday suit, by the side of an irradiated river when she was totally parched and when the sun was baking, had to be someone's idea of a colossal bloody joke. She sat up, looking around, only then seeing that what God had actually blessed her with was incredible good fortune. There was a line of people moving one by one into boats floating on the river. They were emerging from a well-concealed hatch in the riverbank. And she could see Stanner from here, looking even grimmer than normal and scanning the skies for danger. She grinned, lifting two fingers to her mouth and giving a piercing whistle. It got Stanner's attention … along with the attention of everyone else, civilians and military personnel alike. Goldshield refused to let an embarrassed flush crawl up her body. She could work out a cover story that included a good reason why she was starkers. Maybe she'd even tell the truth. Maybe she'd even tell Stanner the whole truth.

Her trusted ally grabbed a pair of binoculars – not bothering to take them from the neck of one of the men, so yanking him over as well – and peered through them. She kept her expression serious, only giving a brief nod of confirmation that it really was her. He took the binoculars down and could be seen issuing orders to get to the other side of the bank. While she watched them, Goldshield's analytical, tactical battlefield mind came to the forefront.

First, the good points. She was alive, and the evacuation of the American bunkers had begun. Not all of them, obviously, she knew that New Orleans was gone. And the initial mission had been to repel Silverlance's forces, not to rescue the people. Presumably that battle had been won, so the rescue operation had begun. Boats down the nearest river, ships waiting to take the survivors to Australia.

Bad: she had no idea how long she'd been gone. It could have been as little as forty eight hours – or upwards of a week. In either case, there would need to be psychological and physical assessments to make sure she was who she said she was. Make sure she hadn't been brainwashed. As if that was possible, she thought contemptuously. Although, she had enjoyed screwing the living hell out of her bitterest enemy. Perhaps there was something wrong with her head. Better to check.

When the boat reached her, the first thing Stanner did was hand her a jacket, which she put on, thus covering the bits likely to make her men uncomfortable. Stanner had given her the once-over, but more to check for injury than anything else.

"Wounded?" he asked.

"No. How long?"

"Three days. You're listed MIA."

"I'll explain later. How're things going here?"

"Slow. But progressing."

She nodded. "Good. Follow standard procedure, Stanner."

He saluted. "Yes, General."

Standard procedure being to escort her back to the nearest facility under armed guard, to await the evaluations. In the meantime, Admiral Yamada had command of the UHR. Goldshield was frisked for weapons – which didn't take long – then taken to HMS Ark Royal and put into a holding cell in the brig. She did not expect them to make her wait long, and sure enough, they didn't. Within hours, she was being seen by both medics and psychologists. She'd ordered that both be included in the evacuation personnel before they left Australia. It would take nearly a month to reach HQ – more than enough time to get the US soldiers assessed and the 'civilians' told how life would work from now on. Namely that there was now no such thing as a 'civilian'. Conscription was in permanent force, from the age of eighteen. Men, women, Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu, black, white … none of those distinctions existed under Goldshield, everyone living with only one label: 'human'. No division would be tolerated. There were so many things they needed to be made aware of, and there was no time at all to be wasted.

As for Goldshield herself, she had decided to stick with the truth. Mostly. She planned to skip over the 'rutting like wild animals' part, certain that it was irrelevant. And would die with she and Silverlance. No way he'd be telling any of his 'superior creature' brethren he'd deigned to touch a human. Much less enjoy it. With any luck, he'd be so utterly disgusted with his own actions he'd commit suicide. She felt … she wasn't sure. It was difficult to feel that he had personally violated her. Or she him. If either of them had been in their right minds it never would have happened. Magic had to have influenced the situation. Without it, she never would have felt even the dimmest flicker of desire for the elf. He was Silverlance for God's sake. She hated, loathed, despised, reviled him. It was impossible. At least she didn't have to worry about being pregnant, thanks to the miracles of modern medicine.

Her medic pronounced her in the peak of health – then showed the psychologist in. Dr Markov was very good, the best she had on her staff. He also accepted her story.

Seven had taken both she and Silverlance in the middle of combat.

Seven had removed any and all defences or weapons – including clothes – from the both of them.

Seven had imposed magic that had made it impossible for them to kill each other.

Seven's plan had been to force peace negotiations.

Seven's plan had failed.

She and Silverlance had spent the entire time they had coming up with ever-more imaginative ways to murder the other one.

None had worked.

Dr Markov nodded over his notes. "And are you aware of the reason they released you?"

"No. It was sudden. There was the same flash of light and I woke on the river bank."

"And what are your feelings, regarding this attempt of Seven's?"

Goldshield bit back her impatience. She did not talk about her feelings. But she needed to be cleared for active duty. "Frustration and anger. Perhaps a bit gratified," she added after a pause.

"Gratified?"

"I had my assumptions correlated. There will never be a mutual peace. Silverlance rejected Seven as completely as I did. Victory in war is the only possible outcome. I know that with certainty now – no, I knew that anyway. I can make sure others know it."

Markov nodded. "You also mentioned frustration and anger."

"For obvious reasons, surely. Dr Markov, there are a lot of important things that need my attention. Am I psychologically sound?"

He muttered something in Russian, which Goldshield chose to ignore (both the words and the insubordinate tone) and then scrawled his signature on the paper before him. "There. Done."

"Thank you."

She opened the door and strode out, heading to the bridge. Yamada was there, along with Gardner. From here, she had an amazing view. The flight deck stretched out before her, fighters sitting on it and a wonderful amount of people milling about. Ark Royal was the only aircraft carrier the UHR possessed – before the war, the British government had actually been preparing to scrap it. What a waste. The old girl might be a little rusty in places, but she was still more than serviceable. After getting reports from her officers, Goldshield moved to the window, looking out. There were twenty five thousand new humans in the war, the sea was calm, the sky was blue. Right now, the horizon looked pretty bloody promising.

A/N: Please, please review and tell me what you think. This chapter pretty much sets the tone for the whole story.