Fog lifted on a cold, gray morning, indifferent to what it revealed. Tents provided sparks of color on a field of churned mud stinking of blood and offal. One filthy, naked figure knelt in the muck, dew slick on his dirty skin. His hands moved repetitively behind his back, but the sentries some distance away didn't notice.

He'd tried pulling up the stake under the cover of darkness, but the Romans had driven it too deeply into the yielding ground. Failing that, he'd felt around him until he found a sharp-edged stone for the rope binding his wrists. He'd discovered it was sharp the old fashioned way, by slicing his swollen fingers on it. Getting it into the position he needed had cut him further. The dampness had swollen the rope, tightening its circle around his wrists, cutting off his circulation even worse. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, but he'd fallen into a trance of stroke stroke stroke of sharp stone against rope.

He would be free. His life was not his own to lose; he had too much to do.

Brann felt heat in his wounds and hoped they wouldn't get a chance to go too septic. Ribs ached where the invaders had kicked him as he'd knelt here, unable to spring back at them. They had no honor, no respect, these people. They must have seen the gold at his throat and realized what it meant, intending to make a hostage of him, but in his condition he might not make it alive. It shamed him to be so weak.

But his mind still worked, still held the sharpness of his best weapon. These barbarians, like ants, had strength in numbers, but they were often stupid and willfully blind. They thought him dumb and beaten. They spoke of their plans in front of him, not knowing he understood their tongue. They thought him a beast, and he could play one, knowing full well that vengeance could wait for later.

His stone continued to gnaw at the rope and his fingers.

******************************************************

"You have to see it, Quinton. If it doesn't bring you out of this brood you're deep in, nothing will," Ottavio said, his hand on my arm. I resisted the urge to pry it off. I had associated with him out of a need for companionship but chosen badly.

I had chosen everything badly.

I had thought Julius Caesar to be a good man persecuted by a corrupt system. I'd thought that going with him against invaders into the wilds would be a way to prove myself and serve the glory of Rome all at once. I would make my father proud, make my fortune, prove myself better than the wastrel brother who, despite any intentions of the original Republic, was intended for wealth and a political career.

In darker, more logical moments, I considered what I saw and thought that maybe he *would* fit in such a career better than I.

In any case, Caesar served only Caesar. This campaign served nothing but Caesar's lust: for glory, for plunder, for blood. His idea of "pacification" horrified me. Calling it "butchery" would be far more honest. These barbarians were no invaders, no threat to Rome. We meant little to them until we marched into their countryside and started to slaughter them. And how could I have been so naive as to not realize that the only way I could make my fortune here was by stealing it from the natives?

Ottavio stopped us in front of one of the prisoners and smirked at me. This one knelt alone, apparently beaten into submission, in the churned, fouled earth. Kept separate from the others, he must have been important. The gleam of gold against the filth caked on him confirmed it, since these people treasured gold as we did.

But as I made these dispassionate judgments, my gut turned at how this... man had been treated. I had been told that our enemies were mere beasts set in a vague semblance of humanity, incapable of thinking or feeling pain.

I would not treat a beast as this prisoner had been treated.

And I knew better. Could beasts strategize, as our enemies did? Fashion weapons and the gold chokers their high-clan members wore? If they truly were beasts, would my comrades be so quick to rape the women, who went into battle alongside their men? I'd made myself very unpopular stating such opinions, especially when I trapped those who insisted on the beast argument by asking them if they favored bestiality, then.

I think I'll end up murdered in my sleep one night.

My comrades would still have dealt with me better than they have with this man. He must have been left out all night in the damp, with his wounds untreated. I'd be surprised if it hadn't left him fevered. Dirt, bruises, and caked blood covered most of his naked body--which I refused to look at too long; why *did* they go to battle naked?--but I made out a few patches of pale skin, even a bit with a blue swirl of tattoo. His hair showed sun yellow where muck didn't cover it. If he stood, his long, whipcord body would no doubt be taller than mine, something I'd never faced before leaving Rome.

Then he looked up at me with veiled blue-green eyes, and I first thought, You're not as vanquished as you pretend to be. But then I couldn't think at all. I *knew* him. I didn't know how, but I did. *Knew* him.

I stepped back, realizing only then that I'd begun to reach my hand out to touch him. One of the sentries struck him across the face with a spear butt, perhaps for daring to look at me, but their cruelty was so casual, so thoughtless, that they must have been striking him for sport for some time without worry of reprisal.

And we called *these* people beasts.

"You're going to kill him. What use is a dead hostage?" I asked. Anything to try to improve his conditions. Whoever he was.

"It's strong. I think it could stand a little more discipline."

"It"? How dare they-- But I needed to be more careful. "Its life is Caesar's. How do you think he'll respond if you kill it before he makes his intended use of it?"

"If you're so worried for it, Celeres, maybe you should take care of it," my commander, Caecelius, said from behind me. I hadn't endeared myself to him either. "If it continues to survive, maybe you'll get a commendation. If it doesn't? Well....." He grinned nastily.

I knew what he meant. I also feared I would have comrades making attempts on our captive's life to insure my doom. But this gave me a chance to help him, to have him near.... "I would be honored, sir." Ottavio looked at me as if I'd gone mad, but I didn't care what he thought.

Caecelius looked unhappy that his command hadn't left me dispirited but went ahead. "Then we hand it over to your care."

"Sir, will this excuse me from sentry duty?"

"What?"

"This creature is to be my responsibility. I can hardly take it on duty with me."

Caecelius sounded amused. "You don't trust your fellow soldiers to care for it in your absence?"

Exactly. I trusted them to kill him, which would be my death warrant as well. "It is my responsibility."

"Then you're relieved from your usual duties, since you apparently lack the strength to discharge them all."

I swallowed rebellion down. I could stand a few undeserved public insults. "Thank you, sir."

The sentries pried the spike from the earth and looked disgusted as they helped the prisoner to his unsteady feet. I circled him for a good look and tried not to give the impression of a man deciding on a horse. To my horror, his clenched hands were swollen and discolored from having been tied together too tightly at the wrist. I took out my knife and moved in....

He went insane and tried to make an escape. One of the sentries clubbed him down, but he moved in odd ways once he hit the mud. Something about his hands.... Ottavio hauled him up before he could finish whatever he was doing.

"I suggest you knock him out before you untie him," Caecelius said.

"Yes, sir." It looked like keeping us both alive would be difficult.

******************************************************

In his mind, Brann cursed the Roman in every language he knew as he saw his chances for escape dwindling. He'd been singled out for attention by a lunatic who appeared to be hated by his own people. A lunatic who'd given his countrymen another reason to kill Brann and who would be keeping a close eye on him.

The thought that the Roman always had meant well, but his plans didn't always work out as he'd meant struck Brann, and he struck it back. His refusal to believe didn't negate that moment of recognition he'd felt that still vibrated through every moment he spent around this man. //It has to be impossible for one of us to be reborn as a Roman. Please let it be?//

Pride kept Brann walking even as his knees kept turning to water. He tried to ignore the hand clenched tightly on his arm, but it seemed to burn through him. //Fever talking.// The Roman's touch seemed to be trying so hard to look brisk and professional that it went to an extreme and bordered on cruel, though Brann could be reading too much into it.

Another Roman kept pace with them and looked disgusted. Brann's deranged "benefactor"--Celeres?-- turned to him and asked, "Ottavio, could you bring me a bucket of river water?

"What?"

"Water. I need to clean the savage up to keep it alive."

"It's a hostage; it's supposed to look filthy and abused. We're not supposed to be treating it like a guest."

"I've been ordered to keep it alive. I intend to do so. Since I have to drag it along, someone else must get me the water I need."

Ottavio left, flinging dirty looks behind him. Celeres didn't seem to notice. Brann struggled to contain his incredulity, though he could show his nervousness without arousing suspicions. //You're a fool to turn your back on that one and not expect to be stabbed. But I already know you're a fool. What I need to know is how I can turn that to my advantage, because, former life or no, you're going to get us killed.//

Brann heard something overhead and looked up. A raven, his namesake, glided above him in perfect circles. Battlefields drew ravens the way shining objects did, but this circling one seemed significant. A sign?

Celeres pushed him into a small tent, and Brann tried to make his unresponsive hands curl over the stone, hiding it from sight. A forceful palm on his shoulder sent him to his knees in the smooth dirt. Brann faked utter weakness and fell, managing to drop the stone.

"For the gods' sake--" Celeres said with some frustration.

Brann quickly twisted to face away from his captor. Where did it drop? Once he saw it, he tried to get the small stone on the tip of his tongue. Never knew when something sharp could come in handy. He got it just as Celeres pulled him up. He put his head down as he struggled to move it under his tongue, where it would be more difficult to see.

Fortunately, the other disgusted Roman came back with the water, distracting Celeres. Brann managed to get the rock under his tongue, but not without giving himself a few fresh, stinging slashes in his mouth. The stone tasted of sweat but mostly of new and old blood, all his own.

Celeres dismissed the other man, started a fire, and set the water in a pan over it to boil. As he gathered together a small pile of cloths, he said, "There are sentries set outside. If you get past me, they'd still get you." Then he sighed. "But you don't understand me anyway, do you? Maybe you can hear them; I'm told your... people have superior hearing."

Brann could hear them; like all these Romans, they moved far too loudly. It wasn't a matter of superior hearing, just of taking advantage of the way their city life changed their survival instincts. They intended to change this land to fit them instead of changing to fit the land. Adapt or die.

Sentries. Worse and worse. This escape would take inspiration and maybe some divine intervention as well.

That didn't make it impossible, though.

Celeres babbled. Nervously? "I'm Celeres. This is my tent, small as it may be, and you're my guest. Once the water comes to a boil, I'm going to untie you, retie you better, then clean you up. I won't hurt you unless you force me to."

//How comforting.// Brann tried not to sneer. He wasn't supposed to understand, just respond to the tone, which was probably supposed to be calming. But it would be good to be clean again.

Celeres set the water aside, then took out a knife. "I'm going to cut your bonds and put some fresh ones on. Remember, sentries wait aside to run you through the moment you try to escape."

Celeres had to saw at the tight, damp ropes, and Brann tried not to make a sound of protest at the pain. When they came free, he couldn't help grunting at the release of pressure, which announced itself with what felt like a thousand sharp, hot prickles in his hands.

"Gods, what did you do to rip your hands apart this way?"

//Wouldn't you love to know.// But Brann's bravado faded a little when Celeres brought his hands forward. His wrists looked like raw, savaged meat studded with rope fibers, while his swollen hands had turned purple under the slashes, blood, and filth.

Celeres put aside the concern of moments before to return to his former cruelly brisk and professional touches, which hurt as he started to wipe away dirt and blood with wet, heated cloths. To be fair, they would have hurt anyway, but they didn't have to be this bad. Brann couldn't watch as his captor plucked the fibers from the raw mess of flesh.

Celeres didn't retie Brann, though. This had possibilities, if Brann could find the strength to act.

Celeres continued to mutter under his breath; right now it sounded like encouragement in the form of some kind of moral tale about a Roman, an African, and a Carthaginian that involved hands. //He always talks too much. Oh, not again. I am not thinking this.// Brann hadn't heard this one in his travels before and soon realized why. It was utterly boring.

Brann tried to plan an escape, but exhaustion started to take its toll. Battle rush fled, leaving him just a man who'd fought hard the day before and struggled to free himself all night. The heat and the Roman's boring story conspired to put him to sleep. Even the pain failed to keep him anchored anymore. He could barely keep his eyes open.

Brann's wounds started to bleed anew as Celeres cleaned them, making Brann hope that would flush the poisons and filth out. Celeres muttered a "sorry" now and then as he accidentally poked a bruise, but an increasingly tired Brann found it harder and harder to care. He fought that but found himself losing. //I don't trust you. It doesn't matter that you might have been one of us before. I don't trust you. I can't.//

But, drifting, Brann thought that he had to get Celeres out of this pit, away from these Romans. Bring him home.

Brann started to wake up again as the brisk touch turned increasingly less so. It turned lighter and lingered longer. Now that the wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, only healthy flesh remained for the washing, and it took far too much interest in it. The touches felt too good. His breathing sped up from panic and arousal.

Celeres was a Roman, and the People had already seen how the Romans preferred to use them to slake their lust. Brann couldn't afford to believe that Celeres might be different, no matter how gentle and sensual he seemed at this moment.

Then, to Brann's relief, Celeres stopped. And stared with the open curiosity of a child. Brann realized that the Roman looked at the triskele tattooed on his chest. It symbolized the eternal universal cycle, rebirth, this time etched into his very flesh in blue curves. His eyes wide and fascinated, Celeres started to lightly trace it with his finger. //Oh. Gods.//

Brann had to stop this. Had to stop it now. But the words wouldn't come.

******************************************************

As I wiped the filth from his whipcord body, I wondered how anyone could be so pale. He was so white that he was blue-tinged in places, and not from cold. It reminded me of sculpture. So thin too, all bone and wiry muscle. Even weary, his body seemed to spark with energy, an animal vitality. My fellow soldiers had left him in an appalling condition.

Even half closed, his eyes gleamed with intelligence. But was it an intelligence like ours?

I tried to tend to his wounds in a trance, separate myself from any awareness of what he was. My mind alternately saw him as a man, an animal, a sculpture. I wasn't sure what view served me better. This close, the differences became more apparent. He was not one of us, and I couldn't help a rush of disdain at the sight of him in all his filth, even if it wasn't his fault.

Was I one of those people who talked a good game but turned out to be a hypocrite? I prayed not. In any case, not matter what I thought, I would *do* the right thing.

He was a man, silent only due to his lack of my language. I would remember that. Maybe a name would help me continue to see him as one. As his yellow hair became more and more apparent once freed of dirt and some other stiffening agent his people used, the name "Lucian" became inevitable, even if it lacked any originality. Clean, his long hair looks like tangled sunlight in my hands....

Unfortunately, seeing him as a man sharpened the low pulse of lust I felt for him. That had to be the only reason I felt connected to him.

With his skin nearly clean, Lucian's tattoos showed clearer. I was no provincial--I'd seen similar body art before--but never so closely. One in particular fascinated me. At first I thought it might be the sun for its overall impression of a circular shape, but a closer look at its intricate blue curves suggested three things linked together. My Roman eyes saw its abstraction as jarring; pictures were always representational. Yet I recognized this symbol too, somehow.

Would the skin feel the same above those blue swirls? I suddenly had to know for certain.

The skin felt subtly smoother beneath my finger than the rest did. I had my answer. Yet I couldn't help tracing the symbol over and over, lost, entranced. As his pulse thudded faster beneath my fingertip, I had to wonder in some terror if I'd fallen into some magical trap, but he looked as scared //and aroused// as I did.

Finally Lucian spoke some panicked words in his own tongue, no doubt asking me to cease. I could not. He tried again. Still no. Finally he said, "Stop!" in accented Latin.

That broke me loose. "Stop?" I asked. He said nothing further. Remembering the sentries, I whispered to him, "Somehow I find it hard to believe that only word of Latin you know happened to be the one you needed."

He still said nothing more, not that I could blame him. How much had we all spoken around him, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't understand? Well, also secure in the knowledge that he lacked the intelligence to understand anything. If anyone else knew, they would kill him on the spot.

I should report this.

So why won't I?

I shook my head at myself. Insanity. I had duty to consider.

Later.

Instead, I took out my other tunic and started to put it on him, to his silent but physical protests. "I will not have you sitting in my tent naked," I said. It would be safer this way. For the both of us. Once I retied and immobilized him, I would have to take care of his physical needs. Given my lack of self-control so far, it would be far better if the helpless object of my lust didn't sit so close to me in only his skin.

******************************************************

Ottavio gladly surrendered his post to the next shift. He had been too distracted and angered by what he was overhearing from the tent to be of much good anyway. He may have been a lesser son, but he didn't deserve to be treated this way by that prig Quinton, to be tossed aside for some savage.

Quinton had seemed to have such potential: lineage, looks, charisma.... He could be haughty and high-handed, but that was his right by noble birth. Unfortunately, the times and ways in which he was high-handed and haughty enraged people, and he seemed to take that as a badge of pride. Yet even that would not be quite so bad if he hadn't squandered every opportunity for greater wealth, power, and connections this campaign had presented. He selfishly refused to better himself, and thus Ottavio with him.

//I chose my lover badly. But it's not too late to fix matters.//

"Misenus, a word with you," Caecelius yelled as he walked forward.

"Yes, sir."

"You took a shift in guarding Celeres and his savage. I want a status report."

No, that wasn't what Caecelius wanted, but what he really wanted, Ottavio was more than willing to provide. "I'm afraid that creature has ensorcelled him, sir. I fear the worst."

"Then something must be done. This disease must be burned away for the safety of our troops."

"Yes, sir."

"This must be difficult for you, Misenus. I know he was your friend."

When Ottavio said, "There's nothing of my friend left in him now," it was in all honesty.

Caecelius smiled. "I commend you on knowing where your greater loyalties lie. You may find some opportunity for advancement in this."

"I'm happy to serve, sir."

******************************************************

I slept lightly, ever aware of Lucian's fits of nervous energy from where I'd tied and staked him down. I heard him moving restlessly, incessantly. I had to be wary of making the assumption that all his people possessed such animal vitality.

I had to be wary of letting myself feel and think the things he roused in me.

Someone entered the tent and stood over my bedroll. Half-asleep, half-awake, I assumed I was being woken for guard duty. A rush of *something* flew over me, then I heard a loud thump, followed by the sounds of a struggle. I quickly fumbled for my torch and firestarters. I got it lit in time to see and hear Lucian, looking utterly feral, snap the man's neck.

A hundred questions swamped my mind as I took in the scene in front of me, made more nightmarish by the gold-and-shadows flicker of torchlight. Lucian--clad in my tunic, belted at the waist but still hilariously overlarge on his slender frame--crouched over the body on the ground with a knife in his hand. The body. Ottavio. His head lolling on his obviously broken neck.

And it was my fault.

Setting the torch in its holder, I had my knife in my hand and prepared to try to address my deadly mistake in showing human kindness to this creature. But before I could move, Lucian looked up, took in the situation, and said, "Stand down! I just saved your life. This one was getting ready to kill you!"

Shock overwhelmed my grief and rage. I had been aware that he knew at least one word of my language, but hearing him speak Latin *well* knocked me back. It was as if one of the dogs had started to converse with me.

"Why should I believe you?" I asked as I tried to gather my wits.

"Nice thanks for saving your life. Look, next time I'll let him stab you and use that moment of his distraction to kill him."

"The knife you're holding now?"

"From where? From where did I get this knife to stab him? He had it in his hand as he stood over you. Though it is mine now that he's dead." Lucian examined Ottavio's clothing. "A shame he didn't have the decency to die neatly. No way to disguise this mess."

"What are you doing?"

"I killed him, so his belongings are mine. Hey, did he have a horse?" Before I could attempt to make an answer, Lucian put Ottavio's helmet on, and I was too stunned to stop him. Yellow hair spilled from it in places, making him mutter, "Now I see why you Romans butcher your hair."

I would kill him. "You'll take that off now."

"Or what?" He grinned darkly. "His things are now mine by right. It's law. Tradition?" He tried out the word. "It's the right thing. You seem to be very keen on doing the right, proper thing, so I don't want to hear about it." He put the red cape on, which didn't hang anywhere near low enough to look right.

"You're too tall to pass for a centurion!"

"I'm only a little taller than you are."

"*I'm* nearly too tall to be a centurion."

"Why are your people so short anyway? You all look malnourished."

Desperately casual, I drew closer to him with his knife. "Different diet."

I didn't fool him for a second. He backed away. "Keep your hands away from your sides. In the front where I can see them. Look, Quinton--"

Somehow that struck me as the worst of all outrages. The night's events must have rendered me deranged. "How do you know my first name?"

"I listen. You want to introduce yourself formally?"

Deranged. "Quinton Corbin Celeres," I said angrily.

"Did you just say that 'Corbin' is one of your names? Oh, that's funny. We share a namesake. You can call me Brann. Wonder if that means something.... All right. Ottavio came in to kill you. He had his knife drawn. If you don't want to believe that, then tell yourself that he came in to kill *me*, but that still would end with you dying since my life is your... your... responsibility? I think that's the word. And your war chief promised you execution if you didn't fill it. Haven't you noticed that the sentries aren't outside?"

He was right, and I knew what their absence meant, even if I didn't want to believe it. "There must be another explanation."

"They took you off sentry duty! He had no reason to wake you in the middle of the night."

"He had a reason."

He took on a wry expression. "In front of me, huh?"

I hoped he couldn't see my sudden, helpless blush in the flickering light.

Brann said, "I didn't know him, and *I* could see that you got him angry. But this too open for him, so I think he had orders."

"You know nothing about the man you killed. You saw him for only a few moments today!"

"I have instincts. Not listening to them always gets me in trouble, so when they speak, I listen." Lucian tried to adjust his hair to better fit the helmet. "You'll have to leave your people, you know. After what happened tonight, your life is forfeit."

"That can't be."

"No? You're not stupid. Think about it."

I did, seeing the chain of events and consequences. They *would* kill me. But deserting would be a worse shame. "I have a duty here."

"To this army? Caesar doesn't even have sanc-- doesn't even have your war chiefs' leave to be out here doing this. No official word. It's against the law. You have no duty here, only risk."

"How do you know that?"

"We travel; we trade. We heard about Caesar; we just didn't think it had anything to do with us."

"You trade?"

Lucian bristled. "Yes. How do you think I learned Latin? I know four languages. My people use coins. We have some of the greatest blacksmiths you could find anywhere. We even make roads, just not the kind that demolish the landscape like yours do. We have 'civilization,' you sanctimonious--"

"I see." Apparently, I was even farther from enlightened than I thought.

"Whatever. Stay here and get killed, then."

I felt a sudden panic at the thought of him disappearing. "Go with you?"

Something crossed his mobile face so quickly that I couldn't identify what emotion it could be. "Yes."

"Why would you want me with you?"

I saw the struggle in his face. I couldn't decide if it showed that he didn't want to tell me why or didn't know why himself. "Things once linked stay that way," he finally said.

That shouldn't have been enough, yet somehow it was. "Then I'll go. Let me pack."

"No time. You have most of what you need."

"I need to take down the tent."

"Are you insane? That'll call attention. We can sleep out as we were meant to: ground below, sky above. Or are you too city-bred for that?"

I heard a howling and clamor from outside. To my surprise, it made him smile. "What?"

"It's either the fays on the ride or my people doing a lightning raid. Now or never, Quinton." He took off the helmet to let his yellow hair show free, no doubt to avoid being killed by one of his own people.

I felt torn in two, but either way I had to go outside. I grabbed and packed some of my gear, then followed Lucian out into the night.

Into chaos. Tents and torches blazed. Men--and some of Lucian's tribe's women--fought in confused knots. Lucian effortlessly cut through the throng on sure, graceful feet, and I followed him, both of us trying to avoid the fighting.

"You're not going to stay and fight?" I asked.

"I have important information that I can't let die with me. Don't worry, I'm sure we'll get plenty of opportunities to die bravely later." Then he grabbed one of his naked, howling kinsmen. "Teaghue!" he shouted, following it with a liquid run of his own language.

They chattered at one another, seeming to forget me utterly. I started to back away, but one of Lucian's long-fingered hands shot out and took hold of my arm. He hadn't even looked. I found it reassuring and terrifying all at once

His friend kept giving me hostile and incredulous looks. I simply looked threatening back. It seemed that I had no future with these people either, no matter what Lucian might tell me.

Lucian sent his friend off, then asked, "Where are the horses?"

I had no future, but I could still keep him alive. "Follow me."

Once we got to the pen, which was no longer guarded, Lucian asked, "Which one is Ottavio's?"

My gorge rose, but I said, "There." Ottavio may not have been a very good person, but I grieved for him. Even if Lucian was right, and he'd tried to kill me.

I took my own horse with no qualms. I'd brought Errol with me when I enlisted. He was a high-strung, even occasionally annoying, creature, but I trusted none other to carry me. He'd saved my life many times over.

"I can't live with your people, Lucian," I said evenly, trying not to feel too sorry for myself.

"Lucian?"

I hadn't meant to let that slip. "I'm sorry. That's what I've been calling you."

Even in the dark, I could see him grin. "'Shining.' That's sweet."

"I'm sorry. Brann?"

"Right. But even I'm not staying with my people."

"I don't understand."

"We didn't realize how much of a force would be mustered against us, so that's what I'll be doing."

"Could you explain that better?"

"Sure. Look, I'm an unwanted son. Wait, that's not right. Unneeded? Su-- superfluous. Yes. My older brothers and sisters have most of the family things to do, while I get to wander everywhere, which is how I learned your language. Once I give my report of your troops to my elders, I'll be going on ahead to warn the other tribes."

"Report?"

"Even the smallest children of my tribe can recite their families' ancestors back to the Dawntime. Being bard-trained, I can recite the ancestors of every member of my tribe. You'd be surprised by my memory." He looked down. "I could use help. Someone to share watches. Company."

Despite my panic at the thought of deserting of everything I'd ever known, I couldn't help a flutter of excitement at the thought of exploring, seeing places none of my people had ever seen before. Adventure. Selfish of me, but I couldn't help it. If we could try to lessen the slaughter, all the better. I felt a bit better.

And maybe over time I could understand what it was I felt for Brann aside from knowing it as a confused feeling of connection he seemed to share.

We mounted our horses and prepared to go. I didn't look forward to cutting through the battle to get away, but with Errol and Brann involved, I think we would make it. We watched the knots of armored Romans and nude tribespeople for an opening.

"Brann?"

"Yes?"

"Why *do* your people go to war naked?"

He laughed. "To intimidate our enemies with the size of our weapons." He accompanied his words with a gesture that easily crossed languages.

I spluttered but retorted, "Surely shrinkage is a problem in these cold climes."

"We're so big it doesn't make much of a difference. How 'bout we ride?"

I felt so stupidly fond of him in that moment that it almost drowned out the muddle of other, less pleasant emotions. "Yes." It may have been stupid, but despite all the things I lost tonight, I felt like I'd gained something infinitely precious.

Seeing an opening, we rode off together into the uncertain night.

**********************THE END***********************
"Forever in this half light of desire
The ashes and the fire
Turn in this night inside
And the light from you...."
- "This Big Hush" by Shriekback

More Viridian5 stories can be found in The Green Room at http://members.tripod.com/~drovar/viridian/