The Hunting Trip
Chapter 38: Rivers of Blood

The tumult of wicked weather struck him as his feet took the quick pace of one hunted.

Faramir bolted from the cave and into the confusion of night. Crashes of thunder shook the earth around him as air stirred over his fleeing form. Strands of hair flew into his eyes and particles of dust and leaves whipped circles about him. He was free of the cave now, but he could hear the heavy tread of feet in pursuit.

He swallowed hard on his panic, trying to cut the gasp of fear that threatened to make itself known. His pursuer was mere yards behind and showed no signs of faltering or slowing, and though Faramir knew he might do battle with a single foe and win, the one in chase was so close as to not even give Faramir the opportunity to stand his ground. It would be difficult to fight someone thus, like fighting in a space too narrow. It could be done, but given the weight and girth of the one who followed, Faramir would prefer to wait for a better opportunity to present itself before he unleashed himself in final battle.

A hard wind brushed him, blowing into his back as if to give him more speed. It was abrupt and assuming, moving him with a tug that seemed almost contrived. Actually, the whole of the oncoming storm was a surprise to him, and he blinked at the madness its blustering force caused to swell around him. Only minutes before, when he had been prowling in the dark, scouting for signs of his wife's presence, had the clouds come. It had been still then, the climate calm, unremarkable. His veteran senses told him the night would be clear. Yet now, in the aftermath of his clash in the caves, reckless wind threatened to rake over him and he could not help but feel perplexed at the swift change in the weather.

His legs raced over broken ground, and his lungs filled with shaky breath. Leaping off the open path and into the shadow of the trees, he crashed over and under fallen branches and limbs. His pursuer did the same. It was difficult to see in the clouded darkness, but he kept his steps light, balancing on his toes, treading as a dancer over unsteady terrain. The land was uneven, hilly and gutted, and he knew he must make cautious progress, lest he step into a small gulch or trip over a tree root. At the same time, he knew he dare not slow. And all the while the wind whipped him as he ran, urging him to go with due speed.

Light flashed in the sky, and almost instantaneously the powerful boom of thunder followed. The heart of the tempest seemed centered around him, following him, and all that was missing was the pummeling of rain to make the effect complete.

He had no choice. Run. That was all there was left. Yet Éowyn had been left behind, and he could feel pain build in his chest for having deserted her. He felt desperately anguished at his decision, but he had seen there had been no hope when she had last fallen. A wailed protest of his forced expulsion threatened to rasp out of his lungs. Anguish prodded his guilt but he also knew it was the right choice, for with escape he still stood the chance of finding rescue for those trapped. He knew time still worked for them, and that he might save them yet even if he must now leave them to accomplish this goal. And having witnessed the harm done to his wife and his companions, he knew that if he lingered his own death would soon follow. Thus he pushed aside his heartache for the sake of their preservation. Faramir still possessed his wits. His brain, like his steps, was running rapid pace over what he might do in the moments ahead.

He had a knife. It was the one he had borrowed from Kattica in what seemed like a lifetime ago. He had slipped it into his boot when he had sought out the sound at the river, and in his actions to save Gimli followed by his own sudden departure, the knife had not been returned. It's curved blade tucked neatly against the flesh of his forearm, it was balanced well and with a twist of his hand Faramir could have it poised for a fight. There was assurance in holding a weapon, and he felt empowered for having it, giving the briefest of glances over his shoulder as he considered this advantage. His pursuer might be keeping pace with his long strides, but Faramir still stood the chance of fighting for his life, and fighting well, if he were forced into battle.

The footsteps reverberated behind him, the grunt from a small slip telling him just how close the hunter was. But the sound was accompanied by a faltering sound, a jarred grumble, and then what could only be a crash of body and limb to the branch-littered ground. Various snaps and cracks followed with the bellow of curses, and he could imagine the fall that had occurred in the wake of his steps. It was the opportunity for which he had been waiting. He knew this gave him an advantage over his pursuer, a chance to turn and make his stand.

In the darkness ahead, he could make out the edges of a clearing. Seconds later, he halted within it, spiraling, realizing that he stood in the remnants of a quickly raised camp. He could see the charred bits of what looked to be singed debris strewn about dusty fire pits. Wind whipped the ash in tiny cyclone-like whirls. A flash of light brought his attention around. Something caught the corner of his eye. His head whipped to see it, his eyes daring but to dart to that place before they returned to where he knew the man would follow. In the winking contrast of white to black, the flickering lightning revealed to him what he thought was a small figure, an animal form. It was there and then gone, an apparition in the violent light. He took a step towards it. Fear played at the edges of his senses as his brows furrowed. It looked as had the buck, great and tall and regal, but then it had changed and suddenly the form was a wolfhound. And then it had been gone completely. He tried to put reason to what he had seen, but he had to dismiss it as he heard the approaching steps of the other man.

A flickering spray of raindrops met him as he turned. Wind breezed lightly over him, cooling his heated skin but doing little for his starved lungs. He heaved in gulping breaths as his heart pounded thunder in tempo with the increasing rain. A chill pushed its way over his body, the temperature inversion as abrupt as the storm. Lightening flashed, and thunder boomed and the thrumming vibration of its sound suddenly spurred him. Move! Move! he thought. Be ready!

He pivoted, prepared to dash into the woods, but in the seconds spent pondering the unknown creature, he had lost his opportunity. As he turned, there stood his assailant.

In the flash of light created by the threat of storm, red-rimmed eyes met his as he and Gordash stared at one another. Agents of war they were, and they summed up one another with their glances. The larger man appeared agitated and wary, saddled with the mysteries of an unspoken anguish. Sobs racked the massive body as the Romany man unloosed his misery. He looked conflicted, torn between the fight and his own horrible regrets.

Faramir felt a moment of compassion for the bereft appearance of the man, and he could not keep silent his thoughts. He judged that he might console with his words and perhaps quiet the battle in which they were about to engage. "Let it be known, I would not choose to fight you, Gordash! I would halt this madness now!"

He held his hands out in a gesture of peace, yet despite this, Faramir found himself circling to counter the moves of the other, his feet stepping lightly as if in a dance. The blade in the Romany's hand was grasped in the practiced hold of one accomplished with fighting in this manner. He was swaying lightly as if trying to judge the right moment for attack. Gordash snarled, "It will not end until she has all her dreams fulfilled."

Agitation made Faramir speak, his anxieties and fears getting the better of him. "Tell me then what would my death would solve."

Despite his stance, Gordash sobbed. He truly looked anguished over what he must do. "'Tis an impossible task! Her goals can never be fully reached! There will always be something more! I cannot allow this to be!"

Faramir could not hold back the curiosity that emerged with Gordash's words. It was disturbing to see such a tumult of emotions and he came to assess from the tearful cry that the attempt on his life was Gordash's doing. Not Bregus'. After all that had occurred, it seemed strangely out of place for one of the Romany to be acting of his own volition. Further, when he had followed Éowyn into the cave, he had done so with the confidence of knowing Bregus would not wish him dead. The cry for his killing had come as a great surprise. All expectation had turned tail, and now he was set to wonder, "Yet you have not answered my query. How does my death halt the whim of her satisfaction?" Faramir's eyes locked on Gordash's as he endeavored to reach the truth. "She will take Mattias in my stead, will she not?"

The large man shook his head, venom spilling into his words as his mood settled on hate. "Mattias will be spared. I will kill the Elf in order to stop her. My brother will not succumb!"

"But we are innocents!"

"Can you not see that I will not kill HER!"

Faramir could not see for he knew not of the argument. He gave a questioning glance at the man for his perplexing response. Madness stormed through bulging eyes as the Romany man then suddenly charged. A conundrum of words raged all the while as the man sprang forward, wrestling moves apparently his tactic. "I have been trying to stop her, trying to hinder her plans! But you and your friends would not heed the warning from the danger presented to you. Have you no sense? A spell befalls you and yet you journey into the woods? For a hunting trip? Are you so gullible to her wooing as that?"

Faramir, light-footed and sure in such a manner of defense, easily dodged the attempt to gain hold. But he was thrown by the accusation. He darted away from a tangle of reaching arms as he tried to understand why the gypsy would voice such thoughts. "We - We did not -"

"You had to come near! You had to enter our camp and entice her again!" Gordash said, circling again. Vindictive malice flared in his eyes. "Though my brother killed two of the Elves, I freed a third one that he might go free! It failed but I tried. That their blood was spilled was not my doing! That she might not achieve her goals was! I tried as much and she appeared defeated to learn of her loss. I thought we might have won! But then you put one directly in her path to give her renewed hope!"

"We did not know !"

"Fools! All of you! And now I can do nothing to stop her! The whisper of lust and greed beckons her forward!"

"I do not understand," Faramir said, his voice flattened by conflicting waves of emotions, anger at hearing of the Elves' deaths and confusion still over Gordash's words.

"You know not our strife! How would you? The tribe was surviving as best we could before Mother's dreams came. Then everything changed! She became consumed by her desire, as if it might protect her from meeting the realities of fate. But I know the course of her life. I know she has done much harm and that she has done so to many people. In the Other World she will pay, just as my father has paid though he tries to escape it. That is the way of my people, our beliefs. There is another life we must face after. We all meet our judgment. But she has tried to trick doom, to slip past the inevitable. It is painful for I love her, yet I know she is wrong. Her goals ultimately hurt my people. And me. Thus, I have tried to prevent anything more she might do to the tribe. You came among us. There was nothing I could do to stop that turn. And now you leave me no choice. I must kill you and the Elf if we are to survive. None will then know of the tribe's part in what has happened here."

Gordash was ranting, his eyes wide and wild. Faramir knew he would be hard-pressed to stop him of his speech. "At least Kattica had sense enough to flee when she saw the danger. But then your woman appeared . . . is there nothing about your folk that will keep you at safe bounds? Aye, but Bäla has a role in this! I can see that now. I would not choose to have him return. Better that he suffer in the Other World. Yet your presence only makes her resolve firmer. She was not meant to live an eternal life, and I cannot bear the idea of her leading us beyond her given years. She has done us such harm!"

"Work with me then, Gordash! Our goals are the same!"

The man looked torn, as if uncertain he should believe this. "They are not," he said weakly, "for you would see her dead, and I will not kill my own kin!" Then, as if mustering up his will, he said, "I will kill you and all of yours before I would let one of my own die! You will die because you carelessly wandered too close to the flames! The insanity of her dream will be squelched with your deaths."

"It is wrong that you take me on!

"You think I fear you? I have fought a greater power than you! For years I have done battle with the compulsions she continuously delivers upon me. I know of her conversations with him, and I have heard her speak in her dreams. Sometimes I comply with her whims when they are harmless. But this. . . What she plans to do to Mattias . . it is a vulgar desire!"

"Why do you not rally the tribe against her then?"

"I am the only one who fights! Not even Curtik will stand up to her."

"Others fight!" Faramir pointed out desperately. "Mattias fights! Kattica fights!"

"The results of which can be seen," the man spat derisively.

"But if more of you"

"There are no more!" Gordash interrupted. "I have tested the binds often enough to know they hold true. Bregus' power is strong. Her sway is not easily broken!"

"You broke it."

"Are you so sure?"

The words hung in the air and Faramir blinked at them. He stared deeply into the eyes of the man, unsure what the statement meant. A twisted smile crept over the face of the giant and then Gordash added in a softer voice, "Can you be sure even these words are not somehow a fabrication of her desires? I cannot. I know not where her yearnings end and mine begin. Too long has she ruled my actions. That is why I must end it."

Faramir saw the piteous conclusion. He could see the man's torn soul. But he could not feel complete compassion. For Gordash to wish death upon others to end his own torment was twisted logic. Faramir could have debated the point to reveal all the misconstrued absurdities of the man's convictions, but the harm really lay in the prejudice put in place by years of misunderstanding between their peoples.. It was the crux of their problem, for the prejudice went both ways. The Romanies viewed anyone outside their world as merely a thing to be maneuvered and used. Yet the Romany suffered because they did not fit in with the perceptions held by the rest of mankind? In Faramir's mind, there was guilt on both sides.

"You know too much!" Gordash suddenly screamed. And with that statement, the fight resumed.

An order was bellowed in the Romany tongue, "Jukuri! Mà-nus keléka!" Faramir did not understand the words, but with their utterance he suddenly realized he was being observed from the shadows. Animal eyes glared red, the dark shadows of their bodies nearly indistinguishable from the forest backdrop from which they watched. Low growls emanated from trembling jaws. The vicious hounds Faramir had seen in the Romany camp slunk forward. Their number had dwindled considerably, as there were only now three of them when before, in the camp, there had been twice that number. Still, they posed a frightening visage.

In that second, with a suddenness that jolted Faramir , the large man lunged. Faramir dodged as Gordash came forth, wincing as he caught the skimming touch of a streaking blade. Hands twisted into the folds of Faramir's tunic. He found himself thrown back and off balance. Both men wrestled in the brief contact, twisting legs into legs to knock the other off balance. Yet they did no real damage Their knives were ineffectual, too closely pressed in the embrace of their bodies to be effective. Despite this, Faramir was not about to dodge away if he could use their proximity to his betterment. In the confined movements, Faramir swiveled his blade, daring to raise it the few inches he could find free. He plunged the knife, feeling it make contact with the well-muscled arm before him. A gasp followed. The blow had been dealt. He shoved off, heaving mightily on the tugging mass as he regained his balance with the release of the giant.

Recovering quickly, the Romany lunged again, the pain of his bleeding wound apparently not disabling him. The knife again was poised outward in the large man's hand, and Faramir cursed that he now faced the deadly weapon. As expected, the charge came, and with barely a hair's breath of time Faramir jumped away. It was with practiced agility that Faramir curled beneath reaching arms, and then dodging away from yet another swing of glistening steel, he spiraled and stepped back. His balance was poised on the balls of his feet and his moves became deft as he continued to dart away from Gordash's lunges. And then taking an offensive stance, he brought up the knife in his own hand and leapt forward in a move designed to send the other stumbling. But the other man danced away with swift steps as well and had retreated by a quick move, missing the glance of the blade as he did.

However, the charge had merit. The menacing man was thrown by the counter motion of the action. In the struggle to reposition his legs to a more offensive stance, Gordash lunged forward, his balance being compromised. He seemed as if were attempting to catch himself, not so much as to harm. Yet his knife was still drawn. The blade was still angled in such a way as to slit Faramir's gut open if his steps brought him close.

Spinning around, Faramir's knife-wielding arm shot ahead into the void between their bodies. While he dodged his body around the barreling frame, he did not watch to see if his blow landed, for his pivot drew his eyes away. He could only eye his presumed target before stepping back. It was a matter of timing and projection that would answer the success of this move, and Faramir was practiced in both.

Gordash fell forward, and as he did, Faramir looked deeply into the dark eyes of the tormented soul. What he saw put surprise in his own heart as he saw similar emotion in the face of the Romany man. That, and fear.

Immediate regret slid over Faramir's mindset, and he did his utmost to draw back his offense. He read something of anguish in the gypsy's eyes, and it stirred Faramir into granting mercy if it could be attained. As Gordash slipped on awkward legs, his feet losing tenure, his hands reached out to pull at the Steward's tunic. Muscle memory had already countered Faramir's balance but he fought the action to drive as deeply as he might were his goal to kill.

"No!" Faramir cried, already knowing it was too late to check his swing. The knife lashed outward, and the large man stepped into it, his torso falling into the splaying curve of the blade's arc. With one shorn cut, the man's midsection was torn open.

Both men fell, the opportunity for counter-movement lost with that swipe.

And just as abruptly the growls of the dogs followed his course.

Faramir rolled away, immediately recoiling from the bounding motion he expected of the animals. He braced himself for their attack, but surprisingly, they appeared uninterested in him. Instead they eyed their master warily, fangs gleaming. Faramir's chest heaved his exhausted breaths as he acknowledged what remained of the moment. In three quick vaults, the animals were upon the fallen body. Screams punctuated the air and he grimaced at the sight of the large man being devoured alive by the feral hounds. Though only the few remained, their behavior was the mindset of a pack. They tore at the injured body, moving in to finish the work Faramir's borrowed knife had done.

But Faramir would not have it. Springing to his feet, he came down hard upon the animals, lashing back with fists and kicking feet. Gordash might have been guilty of wishing Faramir's death, but Faramir could not foist such cruelty back. Watching the dogs kill with inbred ferocity was a sight too repulsive for even the Steward to contemplate and behold.

Unable to see or to make sense of any of the shadowy madness, he crowded the mass of bodies, leaping and twisting as they did. Fumbling with panic, he nearly lost his grip on his knife, but sweat-slicked fingers somehow managed to turn it outward, and as abruptly as the bites had come, with rapid-response thrusts, his blows landed into canine flesh. Screeching yelps erupted from the animals' throats, and the hounds jumped away. Faramir immediately stepped back, retrieving slick footing as the animals turned their eyes upon him. But he remained upright, and dodging aside with the grace of an acrobat, he stood before them, unyielding in his goal to take a guarded position for his own protection and the Romany's .

The rain continued to fall in tapering drops, and a thin river of blood was washed into a slow path near the downed body. Despite the lack of light, Faramir could see the crimson glory spilling into water-washed earth, Gordash's sobs echoed in the space of the clearing, echoing into the treetops, as the dogs eyed Faramir with a lusty desire. The depleting soul was being swept away and the skies wept mournful tears. Sick grief washed over Faramir for his role in its passing.

Feral eyes stared at him out of the darkened shadows. They shimmered red in the absence of direct light and they were accompanied by a low droning rumble of snarling canine voices. Faramir dared not make another move, though he knew he could not stand complacent either.

One of the creatures crept forward, crouching legs touching tentatively into the merest of light. Its fangs were bared in case there was any doubt of the threat. Instinctively Faramir dipped his eyes so as not to challenge, but never quite gazing away either. Watching from the corner of his eyes, he saw the animal sniff at the air, licking its chops, its eyes directed hungrily at Faramir's torso.

The steward's eye followed the gaze. Reaching down to find what the animal saw, Faramir realized he was bleeding. Bringing his hand out to see, he found his fingers covered in sticky gore. At first he thought it must be remnants of the battle, Gordash's blood, that he wore. But a moment later he realized it was his own, as he suddenly felt the sting of pain at his side. He wondered at the profuse wound, for he had not realized it was so deep and he had barely noticed it prior. But the animal had sensed its severity, and that made Faramir's situation far graver than it had been before. Growling again with fangs ever more pronounced, the dog again sniffed the air, taking another step closer, drawn to the scent of blood.

A stumbled step took him backwards as the animal advanced. Yet the dog ceased in his progress after Faramir took but another step. The hound was looking at him, then at his companions. This was the leader, Faramir could sense, and the beast could rile the others into attack if he so chose. But the dog again was gazing at Faramir as if assessing him and deciding what it might do. And then the dog turned, silently giving command to the other two dogs to follow. In a split second, the animals bounded out of sight.

The dogs departure was confusing at first, and Faramir stood in wonder, fear, and awe. From a distance, the leader halted, turned and gazed. It was almost as if a message were passed. The dog would give Faramir the leeway needed for survival. But it would give only that. Truce was made, though the prince knew not why. Yet Faramir was also sure that despite the momentary reprieve, any attempt to route around the dogs would be met with an encounter for which he was not prepared. Guarding this way would be the beasts' last duty to their people. Or perhaps it was their own preservation the dogs guarded. Faramir only knew it was a question he could not answer, and pondering it would not bring him or his friends salvation.

Weakly he stepped back, sickened by the sight of the fallen foe. No longer did he observe the beasts in their retreat. The treatment of Gordashs injury lay before him, and he feared he had not the skills to make it right. He knelt before the large man curled on the ground, a bloody sight of pockmarked bites and gaping wounds. Warily, he took the man's knife and tucked it into his belt. Then undressing the man enough to see the wound, he stripped Gordash of his waist sash and fashioned a bandage from the brightly colored fabric. The wound was deep, sheering across the waistline at the mid-torso point. However, despite the gruesome appearance, it could have been worse. Had Faramir not checked his strike, the man would have been eviscerated. Given the choice between that or a debilitating wound, Faramir knew which prevailed. Mercifully, unconsciousness had fallen over the form as Faramir had ministered to the wounds..

Knowing no more could be done until he found them aid or shelter or fire, Faramir turned his attention to his own wound. It was bleeding profusely at the moment, and his garments, though sodden with rain, also clung to him blossoming a red stain that was blood. He felt light-headed and weak as he drew off his tunic to inspect the wound. Rain helped wash away the smear of blood, and he was able to clean the area enough to reveal a long gash in his side that was at least the length of his hand. The wound did not appear deep, at least not deep enough to hew through muscle and reach organs, but neither shallow enough to call it a mere scratch. This too would need attendance, for though there was not danger of internal damage, Faramir knew he might well bleed outright from the wound. He tore his tunic into strips and bound his own wound..

Gordash stirred, and Faramir pushed back his worry and distrust long enough that he might speak to the man. "Can you stand?" Faramir asked. The rain continued to shower lightly over their bloodied bodies, and Faramir wondered if the same question could be asked of himself. Dizziness worked over him, and he realized blood loss likely responsible for the change.

"You will allow me to live?" Gordash asked dazedly, blinking. His eyes carried the look of shock, as if he expected Faramir to deliver him unto death.

"I do not seek your end. Come," Faramir urged, pulling the man upright as he tried to gather his own weight beneath slipping feet.

Gordash put a hand to the prince's shoulder, as if he were asking for a moment of pause. "But where are we to go?"

Faramir looked back in the direction the dogs had taken, then sighed. He knew where he and Gordash must go, but it was not by choice that he went there. "I do not think the dogs will let us pass this way again, but we must travel in this direction if we are to reach the soldiers' camp."

"Soldiers' camp? No, say it is not true," the Romany said, both awed and apparently frightened.

Faramir stared at the man, weighing what he might reveal to one who had, up until this moment, been acting with enmity. Having Gordash with him was not something Faramir had aspired to, yet he could not desert the man when he was obviously incapable of fending for himself. Gordash's skin showed wanly under the dim light of the hooded moon. The fingers grasping Faramir's arm had little power within them, and he decided he had little choice but to share something of himself. Telling of their destination sacrificed little toward building trust.

"There is much you do not know of us. Your mother chose her victims with poor judgment." Then he swallowed, gazing off into the direction he would take them. "Aye, there is a soldiers' camp, but at the moment, with this rain, we cannot ford the river to reach it, nor do I think you have the strength should we take a wider berth to avoid the dogs' path. I would be a fool were I to deliver you back to your people, yet without attention you may die from the loss of blood you suffer. And I will not kill you to rid myself of your company. I see very little choice but to return us both to my place of origin ere I came to the cave."

Gordash gawked for a moment, disbelief clearly written over his features. Gulping, he seemed to be trying to accept this fate. At last he nodded and attempted to sit up. Once done, the large man allowed himself to be raised, and the pair of them made an awkward attempt at standing. Faramir could not believe his own weakness. He knew he would be shouldering a great burden in this undertaking, and he was not sure how he might do this given his own dwindling state. Yet he also dared not mention his own weakened state, for he did not feel confident in trusting the man.

Throwing the arm of the other over his shoulder, together they took their first step as a team. The Romany flinched, and then he appeared to find focus as he turned to Faramir and stared. In a whispering voice he asked, "Will there be soldiers at this camp?"

Faramir grimaced as the weight of the man fell heavily upon him, but he wrapped an arm firmly around Gordash, careful not to brush his hand near the wound. His own wound stung with the exertion and he clamped a hand tightly to his side in order to staunch the pain that began to throb there. Blood was dripping from his bandage, but it did not gush, and so Faramir regarded it as something minor. He thought now of what he might do upon his return to the secret hold he had shared with Kattica. For the moment, they would be safe in that place, and perhaps with a small amount of rest and aid, they might find their way to escape to the soldier's camp in the morn. And from there they would muster forces to bring freedom to Éowyn, Mattias and Legolas. They must.

He turned to the Romany man, their steps together slow and troubled. Yet Faramir knew he would not foresake the man. In his gaze, he saw that Gordash also wore a determined expression, resolute and grim with a strength of will. With a returned sidelong glance, the man nodded his assurance. Then raising a brow, as if it was a prod, Faramir realized the other's question still hung in the air. Faramir shook his head, as if to negate his worries, and he chose a new resolve. He smiled slightly in answer as he realized that truth could be made from the words. "Nay," he said, looking again into the eyes of Gordash, compassion rising for the others fears. "There are no soldiers where I will take you now. There are only friends."

And with that, the Romany nodded in understanding, and an unspoken agreement was held between them. The large man eased off from Faramir's shoulder, carrying a bit more of his own weight than he had prior, and Faramir could feel the large man offer balance to Faramir's own wobbling steps. No more words need be said between them. There was an alliance that had sprung up there. Together they would fight the evil of Bregus' sorcery. Together they would find a solution that all his people might too be saved.

"The moon is at its crest point. It is time to fulfill your promise."

Bregus choked on Curtik's words, silently wondering how he might know of her promises to Bäla. "Curtik . . . " she began, her head shaking her refusal.

He pushed away from her, an air of scorn about him. Reaching down, he retrieved the extinguished flame of the dead torch. He held it out to her, as if in the utmost of demands, and his voice was loud over the tumult of the roaring falls and the cries in the adjoining cave. "We are in the Protected Place. All the elements are present save this one: fire. Light the fire that we might be fully protected, Mother. Light the fire that we might now bring him back to us."

Bregus could feel her jaw tightening. The gall he showed in making his voice over as a demand sent her thoughts into furious revolt. Yet she had to wonder at the source of this order: was it Curtik who gave it or Bäla? Nay, not Bäla, she thought, for the spell of possession had not been cast, and he had said he could not reach her in this Protected Place without her granted admission. So why would Curtik make such a request? It was not in the interest of the tribe that Bäla be returned at this moment. In her estimation, only Bäla would charge such a directive. She searched the dark eyes of her son to find what stirred his mind, why he hastened to command her, but the depths of his soul could not be found in her glance.

However, he was right. She must seal off the cave from further intruders, and proceed to fight those within the shadowy places. A shiver shuddered her form as she realized she must fight her worst fears. The soldiers would not be easy with which to deal. But with this space wholly theirs, she would have magic to wield to the advantage of her people in fighting them. Fire would achieve this goal . Brushing aside her ire at her son's petty demand, she reasserted her control. With a whoosh, the torch self-ignited as her thoughts sparked the flame.

She pulled her eyes away. A jolt of magnificent ecstasy filled her. She had sparked fire with her mind. The cave reflected the light, and to her it was if all the forces of nature came together with more vitality than she could ever have imagined. The cave captured mystic energies and made her feel more keen within herself. She felt powerful here. She felt more alive. The cave instilled her with composure.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, her power was put to use. Instantly, she felt her grip on the tribe restored. The whirlwind of crying in the adjoining cave came to an abrupt end. It was miraculously strong, her gain over them, as if all her power had somehow been doubled in the instant since the flare had been lit.

Blinking back the overwhelming sensation, she glanced again at her son. Curtik barely turned his eyes to acknowledge the light held at his arms length. His eyes coldly remained fixed upon hers. There was a strange brooding from within them, something of envy and glee, though she did not recognize the expression of something her son might bear. Everything about his current demeanor was foreign. This person before her reminded her nothing of Curtik. He was a stranger. He was dangerous. His demeanor should have changed once she had asserted herself, her control over his actions regained. Yet his eyes remained poised, not averted as she would expect, and it seemed there was nothing of awe to behold within him. He held nothing for her but cold apathy.

Fury edged over her thoughts, but she ignored it, realizing other actions remained to be done first.This madness of her son could be dealt with when other hazards had been removed. She might need to focus her attentions and her magic on him more fully. But the moment was not his. It was the tribes'. It had been only a minute since the battle had ceased and her son had overcome the female. But a minute locked in battle could be a long while, and she feared for her people, held, she was sure, as prisoners in the next room over. The guards would have arrived by now, and the shrieks she had quelled were no doubt evidence of the prison status that had befallen them. She must act.

As Curtik rose, she glanced upon the unconscious woman lying on the stone floor, golden hair halloed about the ethereal face. The screams for aid this woman had cried still reverberated in Bregus' mind and a small tremble shook her before she steadied her nerves. She had to act for her people now, thanks to this woman's charge. That one would be heartily punished in the end. She shed no pity for the woman's plight.

Without looking again at Curtik, she snatched away the torch and abruptly turned, only sparing a quick glance at the other fallen forms. Satisfied by their lack of motion, she moved away to the curtained wall. Earlier, she had not noticed the woman pulling it shut. The disorder had been great at that time. However, now that she had her skills honed, there was no reason to allow such chaos to live further. Flashes of lightening again pierced the space, but with the newly lit torch, they only added to the light of the room. An errant breeze traveled the cave and a chill ran through the witch's body as she reached out her hand to the folds of the curtain. The battle with the soldiers in the next room was about to transpire.

Except there are none.

The premonition filled her mind as she pulled back on the curtain and entered. Her eyes went wide as she surveyed what had been complete pitch. She wondered for a moment at the gasped reactions of her people as she entered, but then realized they turned away, because they did not know the mystery of the one who held the torch. Blind in the dark, she realized they had only seen her silhouette and the flame. They had thought her a stranger. They had thought her a threat. Her mind reached out to console them, to assure them, and she felt their tensions slip away as she moved among them, strengthened in their presence.

Indeed, there were no soldiers here. She had not trusted her instinct for the premonition, but now seeing it fulfilled, she realized her touch upon the face of the Other World gave quick answer to her queries. She recognized too that the woman's lure had all been a falsehood. There were no soldiers here, and the cavern was comprised solely of this hold and the anteroom. No tunnels snaked ahead. No barracks lay in keeping beyond the flickering light of her torch. This room, with its blanket walls, and tussled bedrolls and cots, its strewn finery and personal effects of merely a few people was all that might be found. The captive woman had used Bregus' fears to set all into disruption. It had been a trick.

Black hatred filled her for the deception. She had expected some kind of ruse, but this had been too grand. Bregus scowled, angered at how easily she had been conquered by her fears. Bäla had been right. There had been nothing worthy of her terror in the space of the cave.

"He told you there would be no soldiers here."

The words stung, their taunt freshly undoing the control she kept over her wrath. Her nostrils flared and anger bit at her thoughts. She whipped her head about, finding the source of the speaking voice and settled her eyes again upon her son. His eyes did not look at her now. Instead they stared into the fringes of darkness that landed beyond the circle of light. His glances revealed nothing of his thoughts.

She answered, her voice edgy with her own defense, her attempt at calm failing miserably, though she had enough control to wonder that he should even know of the conversation she had shared with Bäla. She felt heat mixed with her words, and said with a biting tongue, "He did not know for certain. He said he could not see ahead into this space."

There was no pause in Curtik's words. It was as if he were purposely trying to agitate her. His tone was snide. "He suspected there was little to fear."

Her jaw tightened as her vexation grew. Her words were as scathingly said as his. "How could you know?"

He turned and walked away, his silhouette becoming dark as he reached the front room and the faint light of the window. He turned at the frame of the threshold, his face in shadows as he said, "It is time, Mother. Bäla awaits you."

He baited her. His words were a taunt. Her steps moved her quickly, racing to meet him. His goal was met in that she gave him her attention. But it was not a simple game he played. She would be done with his disrespect and snipes. Her desire to reassert herself into his mind was as great as the compulsion she felt to strike out. He would not speak this way to her again. She would see to it that he was compliant with her demands that he would never act the upstart to her. Behind her she set the others to task, her mind instructing them into cleaning the mess, settling themselves into the hold, and lighting further lamps that they might see. They scurried in answer, which pleased her. They, at least, acted with compliance.

She did not like this malevolent show. She warned him with the flinching snap of her eyes, sizing him up with a fire he could not have missed upon seeing her. "Be careful how you speak to me, boy! You may not be under the sway of my magic, but that does not mean I cannot still find ways of controlling you."

His smirk dropped minutely and his countenance faltered, the smug demeanor failing at last. This was more to her liking, the hope of gaining some power to control him having merit. His expression turned neutral and his eyes dipped when he next spoke. His voice was suddenly soft as he said, "He speaks to me at times, Mother. He comes to me in my dreams." Curtik gazed up at her then, the spark of the torchlight filling his eyes. "He wishes to live again, Mother, and I would wish it too."

This startled her for she did not know Curtik had been gifted in vision that he might speak to the Spirit World. Her emotions brewed swiftly past her hateful resentments. She felt pity for him then, for he looked as a lost child. No wonder his troubled actions. He does not understand, she thought, calming herself. He longs for his father without knowing what it is I will get if I allow Bäla's return before my own change. Alas, it is too soon to appease him, but can I make him understand my motivations? She could not give in, grieved though she was by his sad heart. Perhaps, she thought, I can give him the excuse that I would deem in other truths. The timing is not right. "It cannot happen tonight," she answered with soft words, her gaze growing kind. "The moonlight must be cast through the shower of water. It came to me that way in the vision. Did you not see it in yours?"

"Nay," said Curtik, his brow creased in the memories relived. "That was not how it was in my dream. The moon need only be ripe. That is all that is required."

"Who told you this, young one?" she asked, curious now as to what Bäla had said to coerce Curtik to battle.

"It was in my dream. Bäla only told me of the moon. The rest I saw on my own."

"But seeing that I am shuv'ni, the interpretation of the vision should follow my own dreams," she laughed without humor. "You may have interpreted your vision wrong. For that matter, you are wrong. Though the moon is in the sky in its ripest of states, it must fall into the cave as it was foreseen in my dreams. The summoning event may go astray if it is not so," she said, but she had difficulty finding reason to believe her own words. The fact that Bäla had visited Curtik in his dreams was telling of deception of the shade's motives. How long had he been speaking inside Curtik's head, she wondered.

"You fear the magic will not take effect?" Curtik asked her, hurt riding over his words. "What harm is there in trying?"

Her pity grew even greater in that moment, for she felt as if she were speaking to a child. He obviously was speaking from his heart, and not from knowledge, and she found herself relaxing, frightening as his confessions were. She realized he did not understand the full breadth of his query, but she dared not espouse to him the significance of holding Bäla at bay for yet another day. She only gave her son her half-truth answer. She did not know this for fact, and it was merely a guess. "His guise may falter if the spell is performed under the wrong circumstances."

His answer was quick, the response was not nearly as innocent as she had thought it might be. "What difference does it make if he appears in a different form?" he sneered, his sinister demeanor returned. "Given your plans to possess Mattias, I would think it mattered little who hosted Bäla's mind!"

Bregus gasped. The sudden appearance of a scowl on Curtik's face threw Bregus into confusion.

"No, Curtik, no!" She put out her hand to dissuade him, to comfort, but he dodged her, as if afraid of her touch. She noted his fear but went on all the same. "You do not understand. The host body has always been at Bäla's request, not mine. Bäla chose Mattias. Further, it is the powers for which I speak. Were I to restore Bäla now, with the moon hidden, his powers would be chaotic at best. Unstable. I might not know of the full of his abilities until they were gained, if ever. It would not be as he would wish it." This was truth that she spoke now. Bäla had chosen Mattias and the female witch did not know with certainty if Bäla would have powers with the moon as it was. It seemed only Curtik had seen the spell performed with the white orb obscured, and it frightened her that he was insistent the time must be now.

He looked away, eyes focused on the wall of water. She could see his jaw clenching as he considered this information. Then he turned back and regret filled his eyes. His voice was sad and lonely again, and she wondered that he was manipulating her with his mercurial emotions. "But why Mattias? Why was he chosen?"

She read something in Curtik that she did not like. Her brow furrowed in her attempt to detect it and her mouth went dry as she digested the meaning of his question. Flatly she spoke the truth, hoping it might dissuade Curtik of the desires she read. She sensed what was coming and she felt it best she contain it while she still could. "He looks as his father did. That is what Bäla wanted."

"Do I not look as my father did?" The words were piteously sad but she would not cater to them.

"He did not choose you. He chose Mattias," she answered coldly. She dreaded what came next, for this too she could see coming.

His voice was a whisper, "You will do it, Mother."

"No."

"You will take my body for Bäla's use."

"No, Curtik. It cannot be."

"IT WILL! YOU WILL!"

"I shall not allow it to pass. It was not in my vision."

"Why why would you hold me back from this? Have I not been loyal to you? Have I not proven my faith?"

"Mattias is the chosen one."

Tears spilled from his eyes in his rage. "He does not want it! Why should he be rewarded with this gift when it is I who has made all your plans succeed to this point? Only I have been loyal! It is not fair that I am passed over for this task. I want this!"

"No."

Fierce fingers grasped her arms, the tips of his fingers digging into her flesh. He pulled her forward, her head jerking back with the exertion of the move. His eyes were inches from hers, his breath rasping against her cheek. A lascivious smile crept over his mouth though she almost could not see it for the nearness of him. His voice was husky as he said in a slow drawl, "Do you think I would not make a fair lover? Is that what it is, Mother?"

She gasped in shock as his head lowered into the crook of her neck. Hot breath caressed her withered skin with the brush of his lips. She shrugged him away, repulsed. "No! Stop!"

But he did not cease. The resonance of his voice tickled against her ear. "Mattias would never want this of you. He would never willingly give. But I . . . I would love you, Mother. I would love you as Bäla would want to love you."

"NO!" She shoved him away, her eyes wide with horror. The leering smile did not leave his face.

"Isn't this what you wanted? A lover to accompany you through the ages?"

"NO! I will not do it, Curtik! Bäla did not choose you!"

The smile fell away. His menacing eyes beat upon her again, the threat in them indecipherable. "Then Bäla be damned! I CHOOSE ME! I WILL HAVE THIS!"

The air was drawing in and out of her nostrils in quick successions of breath. Her lips were pressed tight and she felt fear riding over her body as she trembled before him. She was torn in answer to his demand, but she knew she could not give in to him. She looked upon Mattias, still sprawled on the ground. He had not moved from his place in the entirety of the din shouts. She found voice, but it was small in comparison to the boom of his howling command. "Mattias is the one he selected. I will honor that."

She had read so much of what he would do or say in the last many minutes. Were it the power of the cave that did it, she could not say. But some powers are beyond the whims of magic and the touch of the Other World. Some things cannot be predicted, especially those that are governed by madness. She did not expect his next actions, for had she, she might have done something to stop them.

It was a nightmare. Slow and fast simultaneously.

The singing note of a blade rent the air, and in a blur she saw his figure turn. In the fleeting blink of an eye he was at his brother's side, and within a heartbeat more he had struck. He was stepping away, blood dripping from the knife, as a cry of pain burgeoned her heart, and then she saw Mattias' eyes wide with agony. He curled in upon himself, blood spilling from his side. Without thought, she was there, at his side, hands pressed to the wound in order to stop the endless blood. Blood. Blood. It was everywhere. "No!" she whispered, crying. "No!"

"Now there is no Mattias for you to choose. Transform me, Mother! Do it now!"

Her jaw fell open. She could not think. The rivers off blood spilling from Mattias' body were flowing away with the tilt of the floor. All she could think was that she must stop it before there was nothing left to be saved. She saw it drifting to the lip of the cliff, droplets of water mixing with the garnet-colored liquid as it spilled over the ledgeShe saw blood flow over her fingers with each weakening beat of her sons chest. She looked into Mattias' face, wincing as he gazed at her with pleading eyes. "Mattias . . . " she whispered, unable to comprehend anything beyond her need to protect him against the coming of death. She looked up at Curtik with tear-filled eyes. "Help me!" she sobbed.

"Matters of importance first. Transform me!" Curtik snarled.

"I must save him somehow . . . " she cried, twisting her shawl from her waist, pressing it into the wound.

"No more will I wait!" She glanced up to see Curtik's bloody knife poised over the Elf's chest. "Complete the spell, Mother, or the Elf will be next! Say nay to me once more, and I swear this knife will fall! Will you transform me, Mother? Will you do it? The moon is ripe and it is time, and I will not ask again!" he demanded. The slack face of the Eldar creature never moved under the dangerous proximity of the weapon There would be no resistance that might buy her a moment of thought. The sudden reality of what he would do was more certain to her than ever before. He would kill the Elf and destroy everything she had planned. The price of beauty, power, and immortality would be lost forever because of her refusal to bring Bäla forth at a time she did not deem right. Curtik would strike, and no doubt would he kill. All for the sake of giving rescue to Mattias first. Would she choose her eldest child over all that she now stood poised to lose? Or would she relinquish the small bit of her dream that required Bäla to wait, and Mattias to play host to her desires? Her eyes turned to the blade. The knife quivered over the Elf's fallen figure as a droplet of blood beaded at the tip of the point.

She looked deeply into the eyes of her youngest child and she saw joy dance in those orbs as the word left her lips. "Yes," she said with a whisper.

Then in the reverie of his moment, the knife quivered again in his hand. The droplet of blood that had precariously balanced on the thread of its own weight fell free. She watched as it meshed into the fabric of the immortal creature's garment, spreading like a ripple over water. Her eyes fixed on the crimson blossom, amused by the irony of the action. The scarlet circle was created in the place where she knew the Elf's heart to be. And it was laid there with the sanguine fluid of her first born child. Mattias' blood marked her target, and posed the focus of the Elf's final doom. Despite her misery, she could not help laughing for the irony of the moment.

Romany translation:

"Jukuri! Mà-nus keléka!" - "Dogs! Let no man pass!"