Rising

   Chapter Eight



   For weeks the days crawled by, growing progressively more uncomfortable
and frigid.  They were hard days, harder even than those of the last storm.
Their supplies dwindled.  They sat miserable and cold.  Soon the rationing
of their meals and the cold had driven both of them into sickness. 
Methaniel developed a wracking cough and Ahma was always shaking violently.
Her lips held a near constantly light shading of blue.  Neither of them
left the shelter of their blankets and skins and the body heat they shared
unless absolutely necessary, which was thankfully rare.  Icicles had formed
on the ceiling.

   Though they'd gathered as much fire wood as possible, both were aware it
was a finite supply, and there was no certain way of knowing how long the
storm would last.  Their fire was as small as it could be while still
providing enough warmth to prevent them from freezing.  Though it was
enough, they were still desperately cold, and every day their wood supply
slowly but steadily shrank.

   Still, despite the brutal conditions and their dampening spirits, the
cramped cave, and their declining health, it was far better than being
trapped outside to die in the violent storm.

   So they spent their days huddled together, the heat of Methaniel's body
warming the Wingling girl as they spoke softly and pleasantly about this
and that.  A comfortable bond formed between them.  The more he grew to
know her, the more he appreciated her wit, her intelligence, and her
uniquely insightful thinking.  Her gentle and kind ways and innocent
disposition grew on him, and they became closer.

   For Ahma's part, Methaniel showed himself to be a surprisingly
warm-hearted and open minded man, especially for a Noble.  She had always
thought him different, generous and kind, but now she saw just how unusual
he was.  His heart was good, honest, and he had a calm and warmth about him
that she would not have expected from a man so steeped in war and violence.
And while he was often times serious and focused to the point of severity,
he also showed a light, humorous side that brought out a twinkling gleam in
his eyes.

   Still, things weren't looking good.  The storm raged on day after day
with no end in sight.  They were malnourished and bordering on outright
starving, and the clutching cold paralyzed their bodies and sapped away
what little energy they had.  Their fear that they would die sitting in the
cramped little cave grew by the day.  The storm had been raging on for what
seemed like an eternity; it was difficult to judge time in the dark cave.
This only added to their frustration and fears.  The only thing they had to
calculate time passing by was their dwindling supplies, which only served
to drag their spirits down all the more.  Weeks passed, and soon they sat
together in a cave faced with their supplies looking pitiful indeed.  In
another day or so, they would be gone entirely.

   Soon the storm raging outside and the assassins hunting them wouldn't
matter anymore.





   ***





   Ahma woke one day to find the constant noise from the screaming wind
that buffeted the mountains had been replaced by silence.  She rubbed the
sleep from her eyes and sat up, pushing the suddenly too warm blankets
away. It took her several moments to realize that the world was quiet
around them.

   She looked wide-eyed around the cave and was further startled to find
that there was sunlight filling it.  She gazed uncomprehendingly at the
previously snow-plugged and blocked cave mouth.  Now empty, she was able to
see out into the mountains.  It was covered in white, true, but the snow
seemed much lower than it ought to be, barely up to her shins most likely.
The world outside was calm and peaceful, with hardly any sign of the storm
that had been raging for weeks, nor of the storm before that which had
initially pinned them down into the cave.  It was as if neither had ever
happened.

   "Master Merie!" she shouted as she sprang up to her feet, her wings
fluttering wildly with excitement.  She started as she noticed the shape of
a large, brilliantly white snow owl perched on a rocky lip in the wall.  It
flapped its wings several times and its feathers bristled outward, making
it seem even larger than it was.  She watched it watching her, gazing at
her with round amber eyes, before it suddenly took wing out of the cave and
rose into the sky outside.

   Methaniel sprang up, surprising Ahma as he came to his feet with a
dagger in his hand and began to lunge for where his sword was propped
against the wall.  As he glanced around and realized there was no danger he
shot her a puzzled look.  Then the changes to their little cave dawned on
him as he glanced around.

   He slid the dagger back into its sheath at his waist and stepped around
her into the cave mouth.  He gazed out over the mountains, eyeing
everything around them.  He shook his head, causing his long, tangled hair
to whip about.

   "This is impossible," he stated.  "The snow should be up to my
shoulders, at least!  How can this be?"

   "I don't know," Ahma said as she stepped out onto the mountain path
beside him.  "But I can only think it must be a blessing from the gods. 
Any longer in there and we would've been done for."

   "Indeed," Methaniel nodded.  "We had another days worth of food
left...two, perhaps, if we stretched the rations even thinner."

   "I know," Ahma said softly.  They hadn't talked about the direness of
their supply situation, even when things had become abysmal.  She simply
had no wish to dwell on something they couldn't fix, and she was sure he
felt much the same.

   "This makes no sense," Methaniel shook his head again.  Then he sighed,
shrugged, and decided it was best not to question this bizarre turn of
fortune for now.  He stretched his long limbs.  It was good to be outside,
and it was considerably warmer as well.  He took a deep breath of the crisp
mountain air, then coughed thickly.  He hoped they would both recover from
their fatigue and illness soon.  Though they were both badly drained and
they felt horrible, were partially malnourished and on the edge of
hypothermia, all things considered they were in comparatively good health.

   "We should be thankful, I suppose," Methaniel murmured.  "We'll have
more time to decide what's happened here later.  For now, we need to move.
No telling how much closer pursuit has been able to get while we were
pinned by that storm.

   "Do you think they've chased us up here?" Ahma asked worriedly.

   "I don't know," Methaniel shrugged.  "I hope not, but I can't be sure.
If they have, they're probably much closer now than we'd like.  We have to
go."

   "Where's Lanion?" Ahma asked.

   Methaniel's brown furrowed as he too noticed his horse's absence.  He
glanced back into the cave, then swept his eyes up and down the trail.

   "Oh hell," he muttered, then pressed his thumb and index finger to his
lips and whistled shrilly.

   After several moments, Lanion came trotting half-heartedly around a
curve in the path ahead, making his way toward them.

   Methaniel smirked as the horse reached them.  He patted the horse's
muzzle affectionately.  "Looks like you're not wasting any time, huh?  Go
on then, go get yourself some food."

   Lanion looked at his master as if to say he'd been doing that very thing
before he was interrupted, then turned and walked down the path.

   "We have a few weeks reprieve," Methaniel announced after surveying the
sky, watching the movement and formation of the clouds and judging them
against his knowledge of this point in the season.  He glanced down at
Ahma. She stood serenely at his side, her lips curved in a lovely,
distracted smile as she gazed over the land below them where the mountain
sloped ever lower.  Methaniel smiled softly.

   "Time to leave?" Ahma asked after several peaceful, quiet moments.  She
was somehow, in a strange way, sad to see their stay end.  It had been a
miserable little place, and the weather and idleness had been taxing in the
extreme.  In a matter of days, they would have likely died from the
hypothermia that had been gradually closing in on them, or from sickness,
or starvation.  But in its own way it had been the closest thing to a home
they'd had since the manor was destroyed.  While suffering had touched
them, it had been a good time in other ways, a time of closeness and some
intimacy with the Master being so near to her.

   "I'm hoping to get out of the mountains before the next major storm,"
Methaniel stated as they turned back into their cave and began to gather
their things up.  "It's hard to judge exactly what the weather will do up
here in the mountains, but I think everything will be clear for a bit.  If
we move fast, we can get through the pass before the last storms of the
season begin to hit.  Lanion will work hard to take us into Rojinla."

   "And then?" Ahma asked as she pulled her thick cloak closer and gathered
some of the furs together.  She folded them and pushing them together,
trying to generally make them easier to carry for when they would leave.

   "We cross the flatlands till we find a village or town of some kind. 
I'm vaguely familiar with Rojinla geography, and should be able to locate
one.  From there, we'll see what happens."

   And so they set out, leaving the cave after nearly two months all told
trapped inside.  They pressed hard, the powerful war-horse carrying them
carefully through the treacherous mountain paths and trails.  Snow drifted
down gently, tickling Methaniel's head as it piled softly in his hair.  He
scowled half-heartedly and shook it from his thick shag of coppery, tangled
locks.  Ahma giggled and smiled cheerfully at him.

   He hunted on the move, stalking prey even as Lanion walked on and they
made their way forward through the mountains.  He felled small game every
few days to supply their meals.  They had precious little salt left, and
Methaniel insisted they save it for leaner times, when their need for
drying rations may become greater.  Ahma was glad for it, as food freshly
roasted over the fire seemed heavenly after going so long on dried strips
of meat.

   Their nights were spent close, settled peaceably around a small
crackling fire.  Lanion sometimes spent those times settled beside them,
quietly eating at pieces of bark he'd stripped from nearby trees and the
slender branches from naked shrubs.  Other times he wandered around their
surroundings, walking in and out from the flame's light before wandering
off again.  Sometimes a breeze would whip through their hair as the horse
would go cantering and rushing by at random moments, a wild and strange
look in his eyes.

   "He knows what's expected of him," Methaniel said in reply to Ahma's
questioning look.  "He'll get enough rest, don't worry.  He's been cramped
in for weeks.  He needs to get some exercise."

   The fire was warm, comforting, the night cold and frigid but far less so
than it had been.  The sky was clear and blue.  The stars shone down at
them, bathing them in silver light.  It was an all together welcome change
from the numbing storms and weather that had plagued them their entire
journey before now, and they reveled in those peaceful moments where old
miseries seemed forgotten.

   Methaniel sat close to Ahma, an arm draped over her shoulders as had
become his habit.  He smiled down at her from time to time, and he was glad
for her closeness, for her companionship and company, and the pleasantness
of their conversation.  She displayed a playful, sometimes teasing wit when
she allowed herself to speak her mind.  It was a refreshing change,
different from the gruff, simple companionship he was used to with his
fellow soldiers.  At the same time the Wingling offered a substance and
intelligence that he found lacking in any relationship he'd had with a
woman before.  The only real time he had ever spent with a woman was his
short stays at court.  Those experiences had left a sour taste in him as
far as women went; most Noble ladies were simple, shallow, uninformed, and
thoroughly uninteresting.

   But Ahma had a certain spark of life in her that fascinated him. 
Servant women, in his experience, had lost much in the way of life and
vividness, their spirits having been trampled and crushed under the weight
of their hard, work filled existence.  Yet Ladies had so little real
personalities or valid, intelligent idea's that the effect was nearly the
same in his eyes.

   Ahma was different.  She was bright, original, spirited, and
surprisingly cheerful and lighthearted given the circumstances that she had
gone through in the last months.  He knew that sadness and distress
lingered still, for he often observed her in moments of gloom and
heartache, moments she clearly tried to keep hidden.  But through all of
it, she somehow kept her strong will and cheerful spirit.  At first he had
thought she perhaps put a front up for him, maybe in some misguided notion
to spare him her feelings, but as time went on, he came to understand it
was simply her uncrushed and innocent heart and spirit that shone through
the dirty world around her.  It was a quality he found curious and foreign
in the harsh reality that life held, but something he secretly felt to be
more precious and valuable than any trait he had ever seen.

   Their days began to slowly change.  Most of them were spent on
horseback, trodding through the mountains toward the flatlands of Rojinla.
However, as they drew closer to the pass's end and the skies over the
mountains remained clear and the air cool and crisp, the threat of a
rushing onslaught of violent, rending storms abated.  They began to stop
their forward ride early, while a bit of daylight still lingered, and often
times Methaniel would leave Ahma to set up and prepare camp and feed Lanion
while he took bow in hand and hunted for the days meal, most often
returning with one or two conies or raccoons, a plentiful and filling
dinner that stopped before it became wasteful or left over.

   Ahma's training began.  She was nervous about it, uncertain and shy and
a bit apprehensive, but she reminded herself that it was necessary, that
her old life as a servant had changed; while she may still remain and serve
her Master, things were different, and being able to defend herself was
going to be a concern.  Also, she came to think that perhaps, if she tried
hard and gave it her all, absorbing everything that such a skilled and able
teacher gave her, she may even be able to become somewhat adept in combat,
perhaps even enough so that she could be of some use to her Master should
the situation arise.

   "We won't be able to put you into full battle training right now,"
Methaniel explained as they began one crisp and chilly late afternoon.

   "There is too much motion involved in combat, and you will need to wear
a skirt with deep leg slits, or likely britches, before any reasonable
movement can be made on your part.  This dress just isn't going to do. 
Also..."

   The Master shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat roughly, looking
slightly pained.

   "What is it, Master Merie?" she asked, trying to be helpful.  A
sincerely confusion painted over her flawless face.

   "You have...uh....well, you're...you've a large bosom," Methaniel
stammered.  He shook his head as he heard how awkward and stupid he
sounded. "We won't be able to try you in a realistic sparing situation
until you are able to bind your breasts and secure them firmly."

   Ahma glanced down at her enormous chest and smiled even as a light blush
crept into her cheeks.  She tried to keep from giggling.  "Okay.  What can
we do then?"

   Methaniel sighed, grateful to be moving on from the awkward topic. 
"Well, as I said, we can't do any real working with battle movement and
strategy, but I can give you some pointers, tell you some things that you
will need to remember, and I can show you some basic handwork with your
dagger.  You never want to go into battle with only a dagger, but you never
want to go in without one, either.  A dagger is an invaluable asset and
tool in a battle, one that is often overlooked, and every warrior should be
adept...more than adept...in wielding one."

   Ahma tried her best to remember all that he told her.  His lessons were
hard and blunt, and had she been a softer woman and less focused upon
absorbing everything she would have probably thought him harsh.  But she
understood he was being practical and straightforward with her, and making
sure things sunk in to maximum effect.

   "Don't ever shy away from a blow," he told her.  "Go into every fight
knowing that you are going to get hit, and you are going to get hurt. 
Sometimes you get lucky.  Sometimes you get through your battles in one
piece, but that takes luck and skill, and a lot more of the former than the
latter.  Know you're going to get hit, and prepare for it.  Tuck your chin
and tighten your muscles.  Otherwise, grit your teeth, and be ready for it,
because it's coming."

   It took Ahma some time to get this concept into her mind, having seen
Methaniel so easily and skillfully defend himself.  During the battle at
the mansion, he'd not taken a single hit, despite seven men being pitted
against him.  The more she thought about it, she reasoned that he was an
above average fighter, a man who was hailed by the Commander of the Durinum
forces as the most marvelous fighter ever seen.  And her mind recalled the
massive, wicked scar crossing his body.  She'd come to realize during the
days inside the cave, where he had barred his chest often to allow the heat
of his body to fully seep into her, that it was one of many.

   "When you understand this, you will understand that the best thing to do
is to put energy into making a hit lighter than to try and escape it
completely.  If something gets in past your guard, you can't stop it.  But
you can move it, adjust it and push it away from vital organs.  In this
way, you can make a mortal blow a grazing blow.  This is a key to surviving
battles.  If you are hit with something you can walk away from, then you've
foiled that attack, no matter what anyone tells you.

   "Pacing," he continued, "Every battle has its pace.  If you are in a
war, then things are going to be happening very fast.  Death will be all
around you, and it will be hard to focus.  The best thing you can do is
keep your wits about you, and listen to the orders being given by your
commanders.  It's unlikely you'll find yourself in such a situation, but
it's good to always consider such things.  If you are in a duel, or a more
personal battle where you know what you face and can deal with things on a
collected and calm scale, then the pacing is in your hands.  If you come
against an opponent that is over your head, then you can even things out by
biding your time, focusing on defense and keeping yourself alive, and wait
for your opponent to tire.  The most common and crippling mistake warriors
often make is to rush.  Most think that a battle should be over in moments.
Use this to your advantage, keep them coming at you with all their might,
and as long as you defend yourself intelligently, soon they will tire and
holes will begin to open, holes you can slip through with ease."

   He told her much more, working over the basic concepts of battle, the
subtle and often overlooked tricks and nuances of a fight that would give
her a clear edge over most enemies.  She absorbed it all, finding herself
oddly fascinated and enraptured by his words.  She would never have
pictured herself as one for battle, and deep down, the thought of taking a
life made her shaky inside.  But still, a subtle excitement filled her as
this new, strange world of knowledge opened to her.

   They went over the basic handling and workings of her small, curving
dagger.  He showed her how to grip the blade, how to turn it and twist it,
how to adjust it in her tiny hands to get the best angle for a slash or a
stab, how to make a quick cut or a deep thrust.  They had no time to get
into the more advanced aspects of knife handling.  But by the time her
first lesson was over she felt less afraid of the weapon.  Before that day,
she had thought of a dagger or knife as a tool, a means to cut, skin, or
slice food, rope, and a myriad of other simple tasks and functions.  When
it was used in battle, it would always be held by a man's hand, she
thought. Now she wondered.  Could she find the kind of comfort and ease
that Methaniel displayed with a blade?  Would her hands ever adjust to such
work?  By the end of the day, after practicing for hours, even as they
rode, with the handling and gripping and maneuvering of the dagger, she had
a myriad of blisters on her palms and slender fingers.

   "It will take time," Methaniel explained, rubbing softly at her hands
with his and slowly massaging in a thin balm that she had never noticed he
had brought with him.  Whether he had brought it from the Manor or bought
it at Ertil she did not know, and she didn't bother to ask.  The balm felt
cool and fresh, and it soothed the ache in her skin and the joints of her
fingers

   "You see my hands.  You feel them.  Their callousness, the thick ridges
of roughness.  Yours may not become so roughened; I've had years for them
to become this way, and I would hazard to say I've drilled more religiously
and strenuously with blade and fist than most.  I also handle a heavier and
rougher weapon than you likely will.  But still, in time your hands will
have some toughness, and weapon work will no longer make them tender or
sore."

   Thus did Ahma begin her journey into the world of combat; unable to do
any overall body movement, instead beginning on the finesse and more subtle
skills of dagger work.  It suited her, the Master commented a week later,
and he smiled down at her and told her she was doing well and that her
progress was pleasing and quick.  It was the highest praise he had given
her, and probably the highest he would give her for some time, but she knew
that such words were sincere, and she understood that for him, at least in
the realm of battle craft, such praise was rare and precious.

   Her blood warmed with pride at his words.

   Nearly four months had passed after their initial departure from Durinum
by the time they came down from the mountainous passes and into the
flatlands of Rojinla.  Their old life seemed worlds away.  To Ahma, it
seemed unreal, those days of seemingly long ago and the hard yet infinitely
pleasant days they marched through now.  She had grown more accustomed to
the road, and to the outdoors, and her body no longer felt such sore
stiffness from the hours on Lanions back, nor were her feet raw and swollen
from walking at Methaniel's side.

   The day was crisp and moderate, and the sky clearer and bluer than it
had been in months.  It was a lovely and peaceful day by all accounts, and
not nearly as cold as it had been a week ago, or a week before that.  While
it was still frigid and biting this far north, with winters grasp far from
weakened, they had left the higher and colder walks of the mountains behind
and had worked their way several miles southeast through the flatlands.

   Ahma beamed brightly with joy as she shifted through the sky, her wings
beating powerfully and carrying her a touch higher.  It was cold this high,
but she didn't care; it was the first time she'd truly, fully taken flight
since the Steward had ordered her wings bound almost a year ago.  The wind
whistled in her ears, caressing her face and shifting through her hair as
she reveled in the flight.  Her body felt light and her wings stronger than
they ever had, extended outward to glide through the licking breeze.  Her
feathers felt wonderful, and for a time, everything seemed right with the
world.

   The land below was still painted white, the drifts of snow breaking into
each other without a hint of green.  While they were enjoying the let up in
the cold and snow, greenery would still be extremely sparse and thin in the
northern reaches of Rojinla.  Methaniel had promised her that once they
made their way into the south most reaches of the city-states that green
and life and vital trees and plants would surround them.  Ahma, who had
only seen the greens of the brief thaw season in Durinum and never the
sprawling rich forests and grasslands of the south, could hardly conceive
the tales he told her.

   Her hair swished at her neck, bound up on the back of her head to
prevent it from getting further dirtied and tangled.  She still had only
had short bathes or scrubbings, always in cold and frigid waters, always
without soap, and always without wetting her hair fully for fear that it
would freeze in the chill air.  She had not re-braided her hair since she
had taken it down, vowing she would only do so once she had had a proper
chance to cleanse her hair.

   She gazed once more at the ground spread beneath her and spied Methaniel
astride Lanion, the horse gleefully leaping in and out of a canter whenever
the snow was thin enough to allow.  The flatlands rolled along under his
hooves.  She smiled fondly down at them, then glanced back to the horizon.
While they were in the mountains the sky had been always overcast or
clouded.  Now it was a beautiful blue, wide and open around her and dotted
with soft, cottony clouds that were slowly dissolving into trails of hazy
white.  Ahma was happy, truly happy.  She hadn't realized just how badly
she'd missed flying until she'd finally been able to fully take to the
skies again.  It was as if a part of her very being had been taken and then
returned.

   Ahma flew the skies more and more often the following days, scouting and
searching, helping to guide them through the land and looking out for any
settlements or villages they could make their way toward.  Thus far the
land was still bare and featureless, but their pace was slow and easy at
the moment, and she was not altogether worried about it.  In the evenings
they halted and she came down to the land to spend the rest with the
Master, continuing through whatever exercise, training, and knife practice
they could with her unprepared state of dress.  Though they could do no
running or quick, athletic exercises, he began to take her through strength
building training, and work with building her hand-eye coordination,
reflexes, and awareness.  She grew and progressed steadily.  Her body ached
badly from all the work, but she never complained, and Methaniel cared for
her and helped her to adjust the best he could.

   "You do well," Methaniel told her, and smiled down at her as he watched
her manipulate the deadly edge of her dagger, twisting and turning it in
her hands, switching hands and working it in an increasingly deadly, if
somewhat untried, dance.  Sincere admiration and approval danced in his
eyes.  "If you take to the sword or any other weapons as well as you do a
dagger you might just begin to show up many of the men in my old unit."

   He fell silent as the words passed his lips, old memories, some good,
some bad, filtering through his mind.

   Through it all, he never ceased to be impressed by her progress.  At
times it seemed she was a born fighter, and he watched as the blade became
more and more comfortable in her hands and her confidence grew.  The real
test lay ahead, however.  Whether she could hold up so well once the day
came for her to apply her basic skills against him.  He would hold back, of
course, but never would he give her the delusion of being skilled beyond
what she was.  She would know there wasn't any level of ease in a real
battle.  To do otherwise, he felt, would only endanger her in the end, and
make her feel security where none existed.

   The Nobleman glanced up at her as she glided smoothly, small and high in
the sky, and his mouth curved into a faint smile.  She was lovely as ever,
more so when she was aloft and circling about in the sky, her proud and
lovely wings extended in joyous flight.  Her grace and elegance was
breathtaking.  Her form and the curving sweeps her body took as her wings
extended and tucked, dipped and thrust seemed to be that of a timeless and
infinitely pleasing art.  His blood coursed as he watched her.

   She had come close, closer than he had ever allowed anyone to come
before.  He wondered at that.  He saw much in her; her brothers, a touch of
his father, and her own brilliant and shining beauty, both inner and
surface.  It had ingrained itself keenly upon him.  She was ever in his
thoughts, he admitted to himself.  Never had anyone occupied so much space
within him, not even his father.  He felt good when she was near, and in a
way, that disquieted him, for it was something he had never considered
before.

   A military man did not waste time on attachments.

   He mulled over an absent thought for a moment before putting it aside
for another time and reaching down with a grin to roughly pat Lanion's
neck. The horse shook his head, snorting softly and tossing his mane in
feigned indignance.  Methaniel laughed.

   "Run, my friend!  The girl is starting to escape us!"

   The horse needed no further encouragement, and with a wild neigh,
plunged forward, cantering through the thin film of snow and clipping along
rapidly, the land blurring into white field around them.

   ***

   Ahma woke with a start, nearly sitting up.  She let out a deep breath
and sank back, letting the tension melt from her body as she stared up into
the stars above.

   She had that dream again.

   Methaniel shifted slightly under their shared pile of blankets, his arm
grazing her shoulder.  He was so warm, his body radiating its usual
comforting, soothing heat.

   She sighed and shifted slightly, rolling her hips to the left and moving
her wings into a more comfortable position.  How many times had she had
this dream?  At least four or five...likely more.  Not that it was always
identical, but the dream always resulted in more-less the same thing.

   It always began the same, with Methaniel in the tub gleaming silver tub
in his room at the Manor.  Ahma would kneel at his side and wash him,
running a rag along his chest or washing his hair with water and scented
oils.  She wore a short, simple serving dress that never seemed to have any
particularly noteworthy color or features.

   Then suddenly Methaniel would reach down, putting his enormous, muscled
arms around her and lifting her from the floor.  Her dress would be gone,
somehow, without explanation, and she would be revealed naked before him.
He put her in the tub with him, laying her body along his.  Somehow he
always felt warm, even warmer than the hot bath water.

   His arms encircled her waist, pulling her gently upward until her face
was nearly even with his.  His muscles rippled and bunched under her
stomach and against her breasts.  The generous, full orbs sparkled wetly
with droplets of water, and her nipples were throbbingly erect, standing
out from the curvature of her breast and pushing against his skin.  She
blushed at this, partly embarrassed, but mostly excited.  She put her arms
on his chest and propped her chin on her forearms.

   She studied his face.  He was calm, but obviously pleased.  Desire
danced in his eyes, changing his face to a softer expression as he smiled
down at her.

   For the last several cycles of this dream, he entered her.  She wasn't
entirely sure how this happened, but her legs would part and slide around
his sides.  Ahma didn't really know how a cock felt in such a place; the
Steward had never made use of anything but her mouth.  But in her dreams,
it felt wonderful, an amazing sensation that drove her into ecstasy.  Her
body cried out with longing and joy when he filled her, and it was never
long before she came awake, gasping and startled by the vividness of her
dream.

   Ahma sighed softly, annoyed at having woken up, like usual.  It was such
a good dream...

   She closed her eyes and pressed her body to him, shivering as his arm
instinctively pulled her closer to his muscled form.

   It was going to be hard to get back to sleep.

   ***



   Methaniel and Lanion stopped below for a brief rest.  Lanion began to
nose at the ground, searching for some food in the still snow covered soil.
Ahma circled, fluttering through the cold afternoon air as she hummed
softly to herself.  Her wings danced along the breeze's edge, propelling
her along at a slow, relaxed pace.  She glanced down every now and then to
watch Master Methaniel.  He waved up at her at one point, and she waved
back, smiling softly.

   If Methaniel's impression of the area's geography was accurate, they
should be coming upon a town soon.  Ahma couldn't wait to have a proper
bath.  She'd recently bathed, as was her custom, during a brief, thin rain
while the temperature had dipped low enough to keep her from freezing but
it was hardly more than a drizzle.  And while she preferred such bathing
over the human's more thorough cleansings in a tub, the long weeks without
regular bathing left her feeling the need for a meticulous scrubbing over
with a good deal of soap.  She could hardly stand the state her hair and
wings were in.

   And a real meal...with bread!  And perhaps some stew.  She'd been living
on roasted meat and roots scavenged from the land that she hardly
remembered what it was like to eat something other than what could be found
on hand.

   Despite how she looked forward to these things, part of her hoped they
wandered through unending wilderness and never saw another person again. 
Once they reached a reasonable settlement, Methaniel planned to find her a
place to work and live.  She knew going with him on his path of vengeance
wasn't wise; despite his instruction, she had few fighting skills.  She
required extra provisions, and she knew he wasn't able to travel as fast as
he normally would while she was along.  She was only going to slow him
down.

   Though she knew this to be the case she still did not like the notion of
their eventual separation.  Ahma had a deep fear that she would never see
Methaniel again.  He could be slain, or detained somehow, and she would
never know if she was left to a new life.  If he found those responsible
and avenged those they'd hurt, he would probably come to see her...or at
least, she prayed he would.  But maybe by that point, she would be gone
from his thoughts, and he wouldn't consider her.

   He would probably marry someday, as was the Human way, for love or for
power.  He would never even consider her.

   That thought gave her pause.  Did she want to be with Master Merie?  To
`wed' him?  Winglings didn't `marry' in the Human sense of the word, she
knew.  They mated for life, with obvious exceptions for early widows or
widowers, and the rare case of violent and abusive partners.  With an
average life-span of three hundred years or more, Wingling couples spent
centuries together.  The bond was different from that of Human marriages,
in many ways far deeper and more meaningful.  Could a Human ever hope to
understand such a bond?  Or establish one, for that matter?

   Not that it mattered.  Beyond her Father and brothers, Ahma had never
met a male of her kind.  Hannah had spoken of a few that had lived in
Durinum at once point or another, all either actively involved in the war
or long dead by it.  Ahma figured her chances of mating with another
Wingling, especially an eligible one she would find agreeable, were rare.

   Ahma hadn't given much thought to finding a mate...with her position as
a servant and the constant work it involved, she hadn't had much time to
dwell on such things.  But now that she did think of it, a Human mate
didn't seem such an unagreeable thing...true, her only experience at the
hands of a Human male-or any male, for that matter- had been a horrid,
revolting thing, but she was hardly prepared to judge all Human men by the
actions of the Steward...especially when one such as Methaniel proved every
day that not all Humans were so...abrasive.

   Methaniel motioned toward her as he mounted back up and Lanion cantered
forward along the flatlands.  She followed slowly, drifting along the
thermals as her thoughts wildly spun in circles...she knew she had feelings
for him, but what did that mean?  What could it mean, in the end?  She
didn't want to dwell on it overmuch...she was unsure about how he felt, for
one thing.  At times, he seemed so kind, so gentle and warm...but she
wondered if that was simply his way, or if he behaved in such a manner
because of some specific affection for her?  And what would it matter,
anyway?  Affection or not, could there ever be something between two people
as different and separated as they were?

   In the end, she thought, it would come down to whether or not he would
ever come back to her.  That would decide it.  If he returned after his
mission of vengeance was through, then perhaps there could be something
between them.

   And if not...

   Ahma snapped from her daze as she spotted the shape of small huts and
buildings coming into view over the lip of the horizon.  Her deep thoughts
faded and for a moment, at least, the twinge of sadness from the thought of
their parting was gone.

   "Master Merie!" she called as she swooped down into hearing range.  She
laughed melodically in excitement.

   Methaniel glanced up at her and smiled as he saw her excitedly motioning
toward the horizon.

   "A village!  I see buildings ahead!" she exclaimed.  She smiled widely
and her wings gave an extra hard flap as she launched upward again.

   Methaniel grinned and squeezed Lanion's flanks with his legs.  "Let's
go, Lanion!  Finally, we'll be able to sleep under a roof for a night."

   The horse seemed less than enthused at the notion of leaving the
sweeping, open plains and being stuck into a pen again.

   "Oats, Lanion," Methaniel whispered slyly into his mount's ear.  "Fresh,
crisp oats."

   Ahma watched curiously as the war-horse went speeding past below her,
kicking up a huge cloud of dust and soil in his wake.

   It was evening by the time they reached the village, and the sun had
began to dip toward the rim of the world.  The settlement was a medium
size, too large to be called a village, too settled and well built, but
only large enough to be considered the very smallest of towns.

   It was a simple place with wooden huts and mortar buildings.  Homes were
scattered on small plots of land on the outskirts.  The buildings grew
larger and higher quality closer to the center of the settlement, some
sporting windows of crisp glass and fresh coats of paint in white and
blues, and darkly stained wooden panels.  Portions of the road had even
been cobbled, though they appeared somewhat old and out of regular repair.

   The town square functioned as a small, lively market.  Even in the
evening hours the market remained open.  As the day waned, candles,
lanterns, and small torches replaced the dwindling sunlight.  Several small
shops and public establishments were scattered about the edges of the
square, ranging from a bakery, a grocer, a cobbler and tailor shop, a
blacksmith, a furnishing goods store, a tavern that was being slowly filled
by the townfolk, and even a small inn.  Though Methaniel couldn't recall
which town this was, he knew it lay along one of Rojinla's busy main roads,
which explained the thriving trade and shops, especially considering the
relatively small size of the town.

   The people were a short, busy folk.  Many were occupied fully with their
day to day lives, pursuing their own affairs and interests.  Most appeared
to be a rougher sort, and looked upon them coldly as they passed through.
The majority of the people out walking the settlement were obviously
travelers, and they looked around with sour faces.  Methaniel kept one hand
resting near the hilt of his sword; he didn't think there would be much
trouble in a small settlement such as this, but he knew well Rojinla's
reputation for lawlessness and unpleasant situations.  The population
seemed to mostly consist of humans, though an occasional Hobbit could be
seen, as well as a Dwarf.

   "Let me speak if anyone approaches us," Methaniel whispered to Ahma as
they walked slowly into the center of town.  They were drawing stares, some
of them centered on Ahma, but most were gazing at Lanion's impressive form
and the large variety of furs piled on top of him.  Whispers of admiration
for both followed them down the wide street.

   "Take Lanion to the inn's stables.  If they ask about payment, tell them
your Master will pay at the counter when he pays for the rooms," Methaniel
instructed, then he lifted the thick pile of furs and skins into his arms.

   "The trade post still seems to be open...I'll get some funds for our
travels.  After you get Lanion put up in the stables, wait for me in the
inn.  They should have a tavern or a dining room; wait for me there."

   He leaned forward and squeezed her hand briefly at the apprehensive look
she gave him.  "Don't worry, you'll be fine.  Just try not to be
conspicuous."

   Ahma tried to force the worry from her face.  She dragged Lanion away
from their Master and headed toward the stables.  The horse snorted two or
three times until Ahma turned to the towering horse and rubbed her slender
fingers along his neck.  "Come on, I'm more scared than you are."

   Lanion watched her closely for a moment before following peaceably along
up to the stables.  A gruff, squat man stepped up to bar their way,
crossing his arms over his chest.  A long scar ran across the bridge of his
nose, and his hair was matted down to his scalp.  He wore a patch over his
right eye.

   "What d'ya want?" He asked shortly.

   Ahma swallowed softly.  For a moment, her nerves overwhelmed her.  Then
she steeled herself.  She rested one hand along Lanion's flank and gazed up
into the man's eyes.  "My Master would like lodging from this inn.  He'll
be here shortly to settle his bill and register."

   "Who's yer Master?" he asked.

   "He's not from around here.  He'll be the tall man with the copper hair
and beard.  He wears a blade at his hip.  He's hard to miss."

   "And you're?"

   "His personal attendant," Ahma replied.

   The stable hand raised an eyebrow.  Ahma suddenly realized that probably
hadn't been the best answer, especially judging by the way the man's single
good eye roved along her body, pausing offensively long on her bosom.

   "He don't pay, the horse is ours."

   Good luck, Ahma thought.  "Of course," she said tightly.

   "I'll take `im now," the stable hand told her.

   Lanion shifted, tossing his mane and stamping one thick hoof.  Ahma set
her hand firmly to the horse's neck.  "He doesn't like other people."

   "No one `cept the stable hands allowed in the stable," he scowled.

   "I have to make sure your stables are large enough for him.  And clean,"
Ahma insisted firmly.  "Otherwise, we'll take our business elsewhere."

   The stable hand glared darkly at her, then spat on the ground.  "Fine.
Follow."





   ***





   By the time Ahma had finally gotten Lanion put up in a decent sized pen
(the stable hand tried repeatedly to stuff the war-horse into a too-small
enclosure.  He finally began taking Ahma's protests more seriously when he
narrowly missed a vicious kick from Lanion), her nerves were rough edged
and she began to worry about how she was going to manage in a town like
this without Methaniel there to support her.  She'd been firm and sure of
herself, yes, but she got the distinct feeling that she wasn't being taken
seriously.  She supposed she would learn as time went by how to deal with
these folk.

   Ahma had rarely left the estate once her brothers left her there.  She
had never been inside an inn, or a tavern such as this one featured.

   She stopped by the front desk and cleared her throat softly.  The
Wingling clasped her hands to her stomach to hide their shaking.  A plump,
dark haired woman was distractedly checking over an account of the rooms.
Her face registering surprise at the Wingling's presence once she noticed
her standing there.

   "Evenin', Miss.  Can I get you anything?" she greeted her in a cheerful
tone that didn't quite reach her eyes.

   "My Master wishes to stay the night," Ahma explained.  She took a deep
breath to calm her nerves.  "He's selling some furs at one of the shops
right now.  He should be in after a moment."

   "Right," the woman said, her pleasant tone gone.  She pointed to a
small, worn out old stool in the corner.  "You sit there."

   "He instructed me to wait for him in the tavern," Ahma stated.

   "You can sit there or get out," the woman snapped.

   Ahma stared at the woman for several moments before she sighed softly
and walked to the stool in the corner.  A small sign beside it read
`attendants'.  The stool was nearly blocked from view by a large, leafy
plant.

   This place was strange, Ahma decided.  The people were very rude, and
she felt quite uncomfortable around them.  Her mind wandered as she
attempted not to focus on the negative thought.  Hopefully the furs would
sell for a reasonable price.  She was ready for a bath, and maybe a chance
to eat some bread again.  She sat, hands folded in her lap and wings
jerking ever so slightly from nervousness.  She tried not to fidget under
the hostile look the serving woman shot her.

   Methaniel entered several moments later, a large, swollen purse jingling
at his hip.  The obviously full coin purse would have likely attracted much
undue attention if not for his intimidating appearance.

   He glanced around the desk area several times before finally spotting
the winged girl sitting in the corner by the plant.  He walked to her,
giving her a puzzled look.  Then his eyes glinted hard as he spotted the
sign addressed to attendants.

   The Nobleman spun and walked quickly to the desk.  He smacked a large
fist onto the counter top, causing the distracted woman behind it to jump.

   "Sir?"

   "My servant was detained," he said, his eyes glinting dangerously.

   "Sorry, sir.  That's our policy," she said uneasily.

   "Perhaps it would be best to embrace a new policy," he said grimly. 
Without another word he turned and nodded to Ahma.  She rose and quickly
walked to him.

   Methaniel turned to the woman, his face hard and determined.  "Show us
to a table...a clean table...and get two menus."

   The woman looked uncertainly at Ahma, incomprehension showing on her
face, but she nodded and walked into the tavern.

   "It's time for us to have some real food," Methaniel smiled to Ahma. 
They followed the woman into the tavern, and Methaniel handed her a silver
coin to pay for their room.

   Few patrons were frequenting the tavern this night; most had probably
congregated to the larger tavern across the street that was more heavily
focused on servant food and drink than the small inn was.  A handful of
customers sat at the bar and one couple occupied a table.  A bored looking
man stood behind a short oak bar, glaring darkly out over the room at
nothing in particular.  Several dirty glasses were scattered on the bar-top
in front of him, but he seemed to have intention of cleaning them.  He made
little effort to speak with his customers.

   Soon two flagons of ale were placed on the table.

   "I...don't like it here so very much," Ahma said softly as Methaniel
gave her a questioning gaze.  She knew that it was obvious she was upset,
and she knew it would do her little good to deny it.

   "We won't be staying long," Methaniel assured her.  He sipped at his
drink; it tasted like pig swill, but after months spent in the wilderness
with nothing to drink but melted snow, it tasted better than the finest
wine he'd ever sampled during his days at court.

   The bar maid came out, all smiles and smothering friendliness.  Her face
was painted cheaply, and her top was cut so low that the tops of her areola
were exposed.  She took their order and wandered back to the kitchens.

   "Perhaps when we find a larger town we can find a more suitable
environment for you to stay in for awhile.  Either way, we need supplies
and time to rest, so we'll be here for a day or so.  No longer than needed,
though."

   As a look of uncertainty crossed Ahma's face, he gently told her, "I
will be sure you are well treated, and we'll be on our way as soon as we
are able.  I like this no more than you, but it's necessary.  I promise I
will protect you."

   Ahma nodded, taking a measure of comfort from her Master's words.  Their
food arrived, a generous serving of fresh breads and juicy fruits, sweet,
seasoned meats and crisp vegetables, and even a mellow, rich stew.  They
ate in comfortable silence, ignoring the occasional stare and strange look
from the few other patrons.  Many seemed surprised that the apparent
servant woman was dining on equal and companionable footing with her
Master. Eyes were upon the alluring and rarely seen Wingling girl, but few
of them stayed on her face.

   They continued to eat, the comfortable silence of the meal punctuated
every few moments by a sprinkling of pleasant, lighthearted conversation.
Methaniel ate heartily, devouring his food quickly and efficiently.  Ahma
watched in mild amusement as she kept to a more leisurely pace.  He always
ate in such a manor, Ahma had noticed, and she assumed it was a habit of
having little to no time for meals on a battlefront.

   The bar wench returned several times, hanging about Methaniel and asking
him annoying and pointless questions while she pointed ignored Ahma.  The
wench flirted and flaunted shamelessly, and at one point would have
practically buried the Master's face in her displayed bosom had he not
hastily scooted back.  He payed little attention to the woman, ignoring her
bold and blatant sexual advances.  Ahma, more than a little bit upset by
the woman's attitude, wondered if he was simply feigning ignorance or if he
perhaps had that thick of a head when it came to the matter of women.

   He was, after all, a military man.

   Their meal complete, they rose, leaving a few coin upon the table-top.
After all, their service had been excellent.  Too much so, in Ahma's
opinion.  The sun had gone down by then, leaving only the lighting of the
many lanterns and candles in the small inn to light their way.  After a
brief exchange with the woman handling the front desk of the inn, she
handed Methaniel a key.

   Their room was small and featureless, though in better upkeep and
condition than the dilapidated common rooms.  It would have been cheaper to
get such a run-down room, but Methaniel had decided, despite his concern
for being conscious with their funds, that after such a long time in the
wilderness a nice and comfortable bed would do them much better than the
tattered and flayed mattresses of a common room.

   The bed was probably the nicest feature of all the room, large and
padded heavily with thick and clean blankets.  A small hearth was set in
the wall across from the bed, and firewood was piled beside it, ready for
burning.  A small table sat in a corner, round and pitiful, with a vase
that held a single daisy.  There was a small, squat chest at the foot of
the bed.  It was empty, most likely for putting possessions and items away
if one were to rent out the room for some time.

   Master Methaniel walked to the hearth, tossing several logs into the
fireplace and fishing out his flint.  He had a fire going soon, small but
powerful and warm.  It filled the room with a soft orange illumination. 
Methaniel stood and glanced about the room, his brows furrowing as he
noticed that there was only one bed.  He glanced at the Wingling girl, who
had noticed his confusion, and blushed slightly.

   "Ahma...what did you tell them when you informed them we needed rooms?"
he asked slowly.

   Ahma's eyes flew wide and she felt her cheeks grow hot with a deep
blush. "Nothing of that sort Master Merie, I assure you!  I told them you
were my Master and I was your personal attendant."

   "I see," Methaniel muttered.  He tapped his bearded chin with one
finger. "I believe I know why this may be.  I found when I went to sell the
furs that this is Sefar, a trading post along the northwest Rojinla
highway. Sefar, like most of the cities in the Rojinla lands, has a slave
based economy.  They don't look well on servants and slaves, and do not
treat them well.  I did not know this."

   Ahma nodded slowly, looking crestfallen.  She reached for one of the
blankets and draped it down on the floor.  Methaniel's brows shot up and he
stepped to her, quickly gathering the blanket up.  Ahma gazed up at him,
surprised.

   "What are you doing?" he asked.

   Ahma blinked, uncertain and confused by the question.  "I was going to
get some blankets and settle on the floor.  Is that ok, Master Merie?"

   "It most certainly is not," Methaniel scoffed, and Ahma winced at the
tone in his voice.  She wilted noticeably.

   "You'll take the bed, the floor will be mine," Methaniel continued. 
Ahma jumped and looked up at him in astonishment.

   "N, no Master!  You can't do that!  I can't let you take the floor...you
are my Master!"

   Methaniel stared at her for a moment, disliking the panicked look etched
across her face.  "Very well then.  If that upsets you, we will share the
bed." He smiled at her as he grabbed the blankets she'd put on the floor
and placed them on the bed, then stretched his powerful limbs and rotating
his shoulders.  "It won't be all that different from how we usually sleep
on the ground.  And we're still likely to get rather cold tonight,
regardless of the blankets and fire.  May as well keep warm like we have
been."

   Ahma smiled brightly at him, though the blush still lingered in her
cheeks.  Somehow the thought of sleeping in the same bed with Master
Methaniel, even though they'd been so close throughout their travels, sent
a jolting thrill through her slender body.

   "It's late," Methaniel said, looking up at her and smiling softly, "And
I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted."

   He pulled his tattered and ripped woolen shirt from his body and smiled
at her.  Ahma, her own thick dress in heavy disrepair and ripping in
several places, climbed into the bed.

   "Tomorrow we will tend to more business.  We need some changes of
clothes for you and I both, and a bath." He chuckled at the glimmer that
crept into his Wingling companions eyes at the mention of a bath.

   "We will deal with other businesses soon enough.  I figure we can stay a
few days to rest and recover before we travel again."

   Ahma sighed softly as the Nobleman's warm body slid into bed beside her,
and suddenly all was warm and wonderful as he pulled her gently to him,
holding her close, his chest hard and warm under her face and his arms
tight and strong around her.



   ***



   The morning passed with little in the way of excitement.  They slept
late, and Ahma shivered in pleasure as she awoke from her intense, vivid
dreams to find herself nestled firmly in the powerful warm arms of the
Master.  A thrill coursed through her and she fought hard to push it down,
lest her feelings and desires should get the best of her and make her act
strangely.  He woke shortly after her and smiled down at her gently before
sliding out of bed and throwing his old shirt back on.  They walked down
the stairs, Ahma trailing closely to his heels, feeling oddly meek and
timid.  She had always, of course, been a properly respectful and still
girl, a necessity given her station in life, but through it all she had
kept to her spirit and energy.  Now though, in the midst of these people,
she felt oddly uncertain and bashful.

   They ate a small breakfast in the already open, but ultimately empty,
tavern before walking out into the streets.  The market was busy and
bustling, mostly travelers haggling for supplies or goods, or the goodwives
of the town, bartering for food to be served on that nights dinner table.
For a short time the pair wandered and walked leisurely about the market,
looking over the various goods, sometimes out of simple curiosity and
others to remember where to find the goods and supplies they would need
once they commenced their journey.

   Methaniel led them into a small tailor shop, and they began to search
through the clothes and garments already sewn and made, looking for some
suitable traveling clothing.  Methaniel gathered up a tunic, a new cloak,
two sleeved shirts, two trousers, and a heavy leather jerkin vest.

   The selection of dresses were limited.  Forced to act on practicality,
Ahma found a dress that was suited for travel after rifling through several
racks of clothing.  It had a double layer of fabric through the torso and
arms.  It was made of a course, tough material, the color an overall
boorish brown with a small beige pock pattern.

   Ahma abhorred the dress from the moment she laid eyes on it.  She wasn't
a particularly vain woman by any means, but the dress was plain and simply
hideous, with no aesthetic quality at all.  On top of this, it felt like a
canvas sack, and itched her terribly.

   Methaniel, for his part, was not completely ignorant of her woes.  "The
color is...terrible," he said sympathetically.  "Not you at all.  And I can
tell just by handling it that it must be very uncomfortable.  But it will
keep you warm, at least, and hold up to some road wear.  It will have to
do, I'm afraid..."

   Ahma sighed and stared at the dress.  "I won't have to worry about
staining it."

   Methaniel tried to laugh and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. 
"We'll find something better soon, I'm sure.  Wear this for now.  It may
help you blend in, too."

   Ahma knew he was right; it was practical and efficient.  It would keep
her warm and it would take some considerable wear and tear before it
deteriorated beyond use.

   They also bought a few pairs of leggings for her and two tunics,
allowing her to pick the colors and materials.  The merchant seemed puzzled
by this; most frowned upon women folk wearing anything but skirts or
dresses, and that a servant was being allowed to do so seemed passing
strange.  They also bought her a long cotton nightgown.  It had a modest
cut, and would be fairly warm at night.  It was soft and the material
breathed well; it would be nice to sleep in, she decided.  At least she
wouldn't have to wear her frumpy brown dress to sleep.

   As Methaniel watched her shifting through the clothing in search of
leggings, he noticed a great deal of white feathers spotting the blue ones
of the underside of her wings.  He suggested they buy some dye, if they
could find some, and it wasn't too terribly expensive.  Ahma's pleasure
with this suggestion was obvious from the smile lighting her face.

   They searched seven stores before deciding to wait until the next
village to try.  They simply weren't having any luck.

   "We'll find some dye soon enough," he told her with the glint of promise
in his eyes.

   "I'm certain we will, Master Merie," she agreed.  "What are we going to
do now?"

   Methaniel grinned at her.  "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a
bath."

   "That would be wonderful," she nodded.  She'd been looking forward to
just that all day.

   On their way back to the inn they noticed a small shop that appeared to
be a collection of odd, hard to find items.  Shrugging, they stepped inside
and were promptly greeted by an elderly gentleman.

   "Good day, Sir.  Can I help you today?"

   "Would you happen to carry...well, feather dye?" Methaniel asked.

   "Hmm," the old man murmured, stroking his beard thoughtfully.  "I do
have a few...just a small selection, you see...but you won't find even a
modest few such as these anywhere else in town."

   Methaniel nodded and glanced at Ahma.  "Let's see the selection."

   The old man brought out four bottles.  There was a white, as well as a
dark red, a brown, and a green.

   Methaniel turned to Ahma, his brow raised questioningly.  "Any of
these?"

   Ahma tired her best not to let her disappointment and worries show.  She
knew what the white dye was for, but buying that as well as a new shade
would be far too expensive.  If she bought one of the colored dyes alone,
it would mix with the brown already in her feathers and turn them a putrid
brown.  "The brown would be okay."

   Methaniel's face dropped in surprise.  "You really want the brown? 
It...doesn't seem like you."

   She shrugged.  He pattered her arm, "Ahma, what is it?"

   "This is the only color I can use.  The others will turn my wings brown
anyway."

   Methaniel glanced at they dyes and turned his attention to the elderly
shop owner.  "What does the white dye do?"

   "That is a special dye that strips color away.  Most of the winged folk
use it to change colors without making the colors mix," he replied.

   "Okay...I'll take one of those, and..." Methaniel glanced at Ahma, "A
green?"

   Ahma shook her face, her eyes wide with alarm.  "Oh no, both of those
together are far too expensive, Master Merie!  You've spent too much
already."

   "Nonsense," Methaniel smiled.  "Pick or I'll pick for you."

   Ahma felt her face growing hot, but her heart was melting.  Methaniel
was too kind to her, she thought.

   "The green will be fine," she smiled softly.

   They wandered about the market for a short while longer.  Methaniel took
note of the wares and quietly worked out their needs against their funds.
After spending a few more moments wandering about, they walked back to the
inn, arriving back just before sunset.  The heavy-set man at the desk
directed them to the communal bathing chambers.

   A small group was gathered there, lounging in the heated, steaming
pools. Most of them were elderly men trying to soak their sore, weary
bones. A large sign at the door read, `Master must accompany attendants!'

   Methaniel stripped to the waist.  Ahma gathered his discarded garb and
folded it neatly, then clutched it tightly to her generous chest.  The
Master looked at her curiously as he fiddled with the bindings of his
trousers.

   "Aren't you going to bathe?" the Nobleman asked.  "I imagine you're
eager to wash the toils and burdens of the roads away.  Not to mention the
muck."

   "I...I am Master Merie," Ahma stuttered.  She glanced about the bathing
chamber nervously.  With the exception of the old men, more intent on
soothing away sore joints, every male's eyes were trained intently upon
her. Their eyes were hungry and greedy.  She did not like them at all.

   "I'm not very comfortable...with these conditions."

   "I understand," he replied, catching her meaning immediately.

   Methaniel glanced around the room briefly, then nodded, motioning to a
second door set in the wall to their left.  "There's a side chamber," he
indicated.  "I will go speak with the bath keeper.  It is probably for
wives and mistresses of nobility, but they will make an exception for you."
His eyes glinted and he smiled at her.

   Ahma wasn't so sure, but stayed where she was as the Master walked away
to speak with the attendant.  She felt nervous and awkward there, but
couldn't really offer any alternatives.  She had to have a bath.  Even with
what scrubbings she had tried to manage along the road, she felt filthy and
caked in dirt, and her skin was slick with oil.  She hadn't realized just
how bad she had felt until just now.

   Apparently she was the only one who noticed her unkempt state.  Or at
least the only one who cared, in any case.

   "How much?" A gruff voice to her left growled.

   The Wingling girl flinched at the hard, husky tone, a low grating that
promised nothing but trouble.  She turned to see a short, stocky man, his
head shaved and a thick layer of dark stubble smearing his flat and
unfriendly face.  His eyes slid unabashed over her body, and his gaze made
her feel sick and somehow ashamed, though she had certainly not asked for
such attention.  The man made her uncomfortable with the way he devoured
her with those eyes.  The man had a towel wrapped about his waist.

   "What?" Ahma squeaked timidly.  She hoped the leering man would just go
away.

   Her luck seemed to be failing her at that moment.

   "How much?" The man repeated.  "For a full night of whatever I want. 
I'm willin' to pay top dollar.  Yer havin' enough bed-charms all about ya
to earn a high price, that's fer sure," the lewd man laughed at his own
words, and broke into a wide, broken toothed grin.  Ahma recoiled,
disgusted by him.

   "I am not for sale," she said firmly.  Her stomach turned as the man's
grin faded and his stubby brows drew together in a hard scowl.

   "Fine," he growled, a dangerous glint in his eyes.  His squat hand
reached out for her, grabbing at her.  Ahma gasped and jumped back.  The
man matched her, leaping forward, his hands shooting out to grab her.  "For
free then!"

   Before his dirty fingers could reach her a massive hand shot out and
wrapped around the man's hand, tightening into a fist.  The man glared up
at Methaniel and took a swing at him.  Methaniel stepped back, avoiding the
blow and yanking the man forward, unbalancing him.  The big Nobleman bent
the man's wrist back.  He twisted and pushed, manipulating the arm and
working it into an odd and unnatural angle.  He pushed back harder, and the
man cried out in pain.

   Methaniel's hand tightened, his gazer boring into the pathetic man, his
face blank as he brought the man to his knees.  His hand tightened further
and the man howled, two of his knuckles popping under the frightening
strength of the Master's grip.

   "I don't take well to men harassing my servants," he said, his voice
soft and deathly calm.  Ahma shivered at the sound of it.  She had
forgotten how imposing and powerful, how absolutely intimidating he could
be when he was forced to show that side of himself.

   "I didn't know, honest!" The man replied, gritting his teeth to block
the pain from his mind, determined not to lose face further.  Methaniel's
grip loosened and he promptly yanked his hand away and stood up, casting a
dangerous glare at the tall warrior before him.  He took a deep breath and
massaged his hand, trying to sooth his swollen knuckles.

   "M' offer still stands, though obviously it won't be her gettin'
payment," the little man said, once more showing his crooked and
gape-toothed grin.  Methaniel's eyes narrowed at him.

   "She's not for sale," he said firmly.

   " `course not!" the man laughed.  "If I owned such a supple and
delicious lass I'd never sell her neither!  I ain't askin' for that.  A
rental, s'all.  One night."

   The muscles of Methaniel's torso tightened dangerously, and his heated
gaze bore into the man.  A flicker of a dangerous, raging inferno showed
behind their silver gaze.  The stupid man seemed not to notice.

   "I told you, she's not for sale.  In any capacity."

   It was the harassing man's turn to narrow his eyes.  "She's for sale,"
he growled.  "You can either take a nice little profit from the wench's
body or ye can let it be passed about for free.  Yer choice.  Either way,
her flesh be for me tonight."

   Ahma shuddered in revulsion and slid behind her Master, keeping a few
feet away from him so as to not trip him up should the situation escalate
into violence.

   Which, of course, it did.

   "I said no.  Now leave us in peace, before I make you leave," Methaniel
replied.

   Without another word spoken the treacherous man reached into his towel
-drawing a sickened look from Methaniel- and yanked out a dagger.  He
pulled the blade free of its sheath then leapt forward wildly, screaming
like a madman, his dagger plunging in a vicious thrust at the Master's
belly.

   Methaniel sidestepped easily and struck out, his long arms extending as
he drove the back of his fist into the man's face.  The ragged man stumbled
back, blinking several times.  His vision was blurred and marred in the red
tones of the blood that leaked into one of his eyes from an abrasion on his
forehead.

   "Last chance, friend," Methaniel growled.

   "For you maybe, arrogant horses arse!" the man bellowed and leapt
forward again, this time slashing.  The wicked edge of the dagger gleamed
as he arced the blade back and forth in wild, aggressive slashes and cuts.

   Methaniel dodged and weaved, backstepping and keeping just out of reach
of every swipe, much to his attackers frustration.  The man suddenly
grinned as he saw his opportunity.  Methaniel lifted his foot to backstep
again, right into the dip of a step leading into the communal pool behind
him.  With a wild cry of abandon, the man dove forward, thrusting viciously
with his dagger, sure that his opponent would be unbalanced and unable to
avoid the blow.

   But Methaniel was a skilled and seasoned warrior and had known the step
was behind long before they reached it.  He had maneuvered the man into
making another careless mistake.  As the man came in, he reached a hand out
to grip the thrusting forearm of the man's armed hand.  Swiftly, Methaniel
struck out with his palm turned upward, and slammed his hand into the man's
crotch.  The wind left his attackers body as he locked up.  Methaniel
heaved, using the man's already wild momentum and pushing off of his groin,
lifting him over his head and through the air.

   The man smacked roughly into the far wall, a huge explosion of air
leaving his lungs as he toppled from the impact with the wall and into the
pool.

   "Someone fish him out," Methaniel said casually, reaching down to grab
the dagger the man had dropped.  He walked to the bath keeper, who's eyes
had flown ridiculously wide and who's jaw hung uselessly open.

   "Unless I'm mistaken, these aren't supposed to be allowed in your
establishment," Methaniel said mildly, the corner of his mouth quirked up.
The keeper gathered his wits and nodded heartily.  "Indeed!  Thank you sir,
we apologize deeply for this incident.  We thought the rules were being
complied with," the bath keeper gushed.  "Please, as a measure of our
thanks, tell us anything, anything we can do to make your stay more
enjoyable."

   Methaniel nodded, indicating the side door.  "My servant," he said, and
Ahma, still troubled over the unwanted attention and deeply grateful and
relieved at her Master's intervention, swallowed and smiled softly.  "Is in
need of a bath.  A real bath.  I do not wish any more attention like that
upon her, so I would ask that you let her bathe in the ladies chamber.

   "Alone," he added.  The keeper, by now flustered and red, glanced back
and forth between Ahma and Methaniel, struck dumb.

   "M'lord...I...I do not know..." he stuttered.  Methaniel's eyes grew
hard and sharp, and he folded his enormous arms across his broad, powerful
chest.  His face was blank as he gazed down at the man before him save the
slight, questioning arch of one brow.  The keeper quickly nodded his
agreement to the situation.

   "Go get nice and clean, and dye your wings," Methaniel instructed as he
turned and stepped closer to Ahma, who by this point was so stunned at what
he had done for her that she hardly comprehended his words.

   "Take your time," he continued, smiling at her and chuckling softly.  "I
know I am."

   "Th...Thank you Master Merie," she said, smiling wide as she gathered
his shirt and placed it in the small leather sack they had put all their
new clothes in.  She nodded once more, and tried not to stare as her Master
discarded his trousers.  She felt herself flush brightly as her eyes shot
unconsciously to his cock, taking it in with her eyes, imagining what it
would be like erect, how it would look and feel, and even taste...

   She diverted her eyes quickly.  Methaniel hadn't seemed to notice, and
already was wading into a deeper part of the pool.  He sank into the
steaming hot water, sighing slightly as he relaxed.  Already he began to
scrub and wash away the gunk and grime from the wilds with a small washrag.

   The keeper came back from checking on the female sideroom, and nodded at
her, unsure of what to make of her.  His lips formed a thin line and he
looked away.  "The room is empty.  Hurry up and finish with it; proper
ladies may be in shortly."

   Ahma, remembering her Masters words, decided that she rather preferred
his orders to this small bath keeper's, and promptly ignored him.

   "Master?" Ahma said softly.

   Methaniel opened his eyes to find her sitting on the side of the bath,
looking down at him.  "Yes?"

   "Before I go to my bath...may I bathe you?"

   Methaniel watched her for several moments, studying her face.  She
smiled softly at him, her cheeks infused with a touch of color as she
waited for his answer.

   "If you wish," he said at last, sitting up more fully in the wide
bathing pool.

   "Thank you, Master."

   Ahma spent a good deal of time washing her Master.  She massaged soap
into his hair, giving his scalp firm, soothing stimulation, working the
dirt and grime of the road out of his long, thick copper hair.  She
marveled at the way it glinted and gleamed in the light of the bath house,
as if it truly were made of that gleaming ore.  She took great care to rub
and massage at his tense, tight shoulders and chest.  Methaniel opened his
eyes as he relaxed.  He couldn't help but notice the jealous stares several
of the patrons shot his way.  Ahma appeared not to notice, too occupied
with bathing him, or too purposefully avoiding the men to pay attention to
their staring.

   By the time Ahma moved to massage and scrub his arms, his fingers were
pruned.  He grabbed up a hunk of soap and scrubbed at his torso and legs as
she moved to his back.  He rose a moment later and stepped from the tub. 
"I think I'm ready to finish.  Thank you, Ahma."

   "You're welcome, Master Merie," Ahma said softly.  She lowered her eyes,
trying to appear modest, though she snuck a peek at his naked form through
her eyelashes.

   Methaniel wrapped one of the bath house robes around his body and smiled
down at her.  "I imagine you're ready for your bath, aren't you?"

   She nodded, though the look she gave him was nervous.  He patted her
shoulder and smiled gently.

   "I'll stand outside the door, if that will help you fell better."

   "Thank you, Master," Ahma smiled softly.  "I promise I won't take long."

   "Take as long as you wish," Methaniel smiled comfortingly.  "I'll be
fine.  Please, take your time Ahma."

   Ahma smiled and stepped into the side room.  Methaniel sat down beside
the door, smiling softly to himself.  "Quite a woman," the bath keeper
commented off-hand.

   "Indeed," Methaniel replied absently, shutting his eyes and smiling the
wider.  Ahma's face danced behind his closed lids.  Her flawless skin,
sparkling eyes, her graceful wings.  While he'd never seen her body, one
couldn't miss the sensual curves and graceful figure she possessed.  Her
waist was slender and her hips wide and rounded.

   The feel of her hands on his flesh lingered in his memory, the tiny
fingers sliding across his tight muscle.  He shivered slightly and told
himself not to dwell on the pleasant thoughts she often invoked in him.

   Methaniel looked up and smiled again.  He wondered if she even had any
clue as to her own body's charms.  He doubted it, somehow.  She didn't show
it if she did.  For such a sensual, voluptuous, and stunningly beautiful
woman, Ahma carried herself with an air of innocent and purity.  Perhaps it
was such innocent and gentle traits behind her beautiful and alluring form
that he found so attractive and desirable about her.

   Ahma was most pleased to find the womans bath chamber filled with a
collection of sweet smelling soaps and lotions.  She stripped down to her
skin within a few seconds and grabbed a bottle of flowery soap.  She
scrubbed her entire body over and over with a sponge near the bath's edge.
No matter how often she scrubbed, something felt grimy.

   Untangling the mass of her hair took forever.  Ahma had to wash it
several times.  She rubbed lotion into it and soaked for a good while, then
she washed her hair again, hoping to keep some of the lotions moisture but
rid herself of the oil.

   She dyed her wings next, a tedious procedure when done alone.  As a
child, her mother always helped her, then Hannah afterwards.  Her parents
often dyed their wings together...they seemed to enjoy the experience,
spending the night at the stream together and dying each others feathers.
Fortunately, she was only dying the undersides of her wings; had she been
dying the backs, she would never have been able to do them alone.

   After she finished dying her wings, she groomed them meticulously,
carefully arranging her feathers and inspecting them.  She groomed the rest
of her body, applying lotion to her skin and wiping away the excess
moisture, checking to be sure she was free of dirt.  She brushed out her
long, luxurious hair, brushing and grooming it till it gleamed and fell
down her back, smooth and tangle-free.

   She realized she'd been in the bath for some time and hastily scrambled
out.  She pulled a robe on, struggling to get it to fit over her wings and
attempting to lay them as flat along her back as possible.

   She opened the door and blushed softly as she spotted Master Methaniel.
"I'm sorry I took so long."

   "No need to apologize.  Feeling better?"

   Methaniel stood, his legs already clad in a pair of his new trousers. 
His torso was bare and exposed, and slightly dotted with water droplets. 
His hair was brushed and untangled, and it looked like a bit had been cut
off the length.  It was gathered into a warriors tail, and the thick beard
that had graced his face for the last two months had been shaved clean. 
Her heart pounded, studying his handsome, smooth face and unconsciously
glancing over his muscled body.

   "Very much so, thank you Master Merie," she said, returning his soft
smile.  She quickly lowered her eyes.

   "Let's go to our room so we can dress, then we'll grab something to eat
before we retire for the night."

   Ahma's brow furrowed.  To bed so soon?  "How long was I in there?"

   "Probably close to two hours," he replied, and chuckled softly as her
eyes went wide.

   "Don't worry about it!" he insisted.  "Let's go get you changed.  I'm
famished."

   Ahma stepped into their room while Methaniel waited outside and shed her
robe.  She used the comb on Methaniel's stand to once more comb out her
hair, then fixed it into a tight, smooth braid, tying it off with a leather
thong.  She pulled on the ugly brown dress and carefully pulled her wings
through the slits they'd made in the back.

   She opened the door and Methaniel came in, nodding in her direction. 
"The dye is starting to look good."

   Indeed, as her feathers dried the dye began to turn a soft, pleasant,
vibrant emerald color.  It matched well with her white wing backs and her
pale skin.  She smiled happily, extending her wings for him to see.  "I
hope you don't mind that they're not a house color...but I do like it."

   "Good," Methaniel nodded and smiled.  "Are you ready?"

   "I have to get some of my feathers smoothed down," Ahma replied,
reaching over her shoulder and picking at her wings.

   "Let me help," Methaniel offered, and stepped forward.

   The moment his fingertips grazed the side of her wing, Ahma jumped away,
yelping softly.  Her actions had been purely instinct driven, but she
turned bright red the second she realized what she'd done.  A confused look
came over the Master's face.

   "What's wrong?" he asked gently.

   A terrible feeling came over Ahma.  She hung her head.  All the shame
she'd ever felt couldn't match this; she'd been a horrible servant and
acted quite out of line, she knew.

   "I'm sorry, Master," she whispered, her voice quivering.  "I didn't mean
to."

   Methaniel took her hand and squeezed it softly.  "Did I scare you,
Ahma?"

   "No, Master, I'm sorry.  I won't do it again," she said desperately, her
eyes trained on the floor.

   "Ahma," he said softly, cupping her chin and raising her eyes to his. 
"I think I did do something wrong.  Am I not supposed to touch your wings?"

   "No...I mean yes...Master, no," Ahma gasped.  She tried to settle
herself, taking a deep breath and continuing in a calmer tone.  "You may if
you wish."

   "I'm not supposed to," Methaniel decided.  He gave her a comforting
smile.  "Tell me why."

   "You can," she insisted, "I'm not going to..."

   He gave her a firm look.  "Ahma.  Tell me."

   She gazed at him, then nodded slowly.  "Yes, Master...for Winglings,
only close family members are supposed to purposefully touch the wings and
feathers with the hands...especially the feathers.  Usually only a mother
or father uses their hands to groom and clean their child's wings, and
usually only a mate touches an adults wings.  Because wings are so vital to
flight, only the people you are closest to should touch them.  If someone
were to pluck out a handful of the right feathers, I wouldn't even be able
to steer."

   She hesitated then added, "I...I trust you, Master, I'm sorry.  You can
touch them...I won't flinch, I promise."

   Methaniel could hear the agony in her voice.  This was something very
important to her, a part of her culture that she felt she was having to
struggle against.

   He smiled and crouched down, putting himself closer to her level.  He
took both her hands in his and squeezed them softly.  The warmth and
compassion in his eyes warmed her heart.

   "I understand what it means now, Ahma.  Forgive my ignorance, I did not
know.  Don't worry about it, okay?  Let's go have a nice dinner and put it
behind us."

   Ahma smiled shyly at him, her heart lifted and full.  "That would be
nice."

   ***



   Dinner went more-less as it did the night before.  The bar wench spent
most of her time shoving her bosom in Methaniel's face.  Ahma grew quickly
tired of her behavior.  The woman continually brought him flagons, ignoring
her empty one.

   Methaniel poured half his mug into hers, smirking with wry humor. 
"How's your dinner?"

   "I didn't order this," Ahma answered sourly.  Annoyment plagued her fair
brow.

   He glanced at her plate, shaking his head at the grizzly piece of meat
with mushy carrots on the side.

   "What did you want?" he asked.

   Ahma sighed and lifted her fork.  "It doesn't matter, I'll eat this."

   The serving wench returned, bending over the table to face the man. 
"How's everythin', darlin'?"

   "I'm fine, but could my companion have something else?"

   The woman sneered at Ahma.  "That's the slave food.  Don't worry, it's
cheap."

   Methaniel's jaw set solidly and he drove a dark look into her.  "She is
not a slave.  Bring her something else."

   The wench snatched the plate from the table, spilling mushy carrots
everywhere as she stomped off to the kitchen.

   Ahma looked over at Methaniel, sighing softly.  Her lip quirked into a
grim smile.  "Thank you, Master Merie.  I've never had the urge to harm a
woman before, but that's quickly changing."

   Methaniel laughed and smiled warmly at her, the hard, dangerous look
gone from his face.  The wench returned a few moments later and plopped
Ahma's food down in front of her.

   She leaned over Methaniel again, gazing at him through thickly applied,
gaudy makeup.  "I'm here if ya want a real woman tonight, instead of that
feathered freak."

   Methaniel matched her gaze, then roughly shoved his full mug into her
hand, sloshing foaming ale onto her.

   "Do your job.  Get me a refill, and stop being so careless.  That was
good mead you wasted."

   She scoffed at him disbelievingly and stomped off again.  Ahma leaned
forward, and stated, "I sometimes wish I was strong enough to carry an
adult with me when I flew.  I could find a nice cliff to fly that woman off
of."

   Methaniel grinned widely and gave her a sly wink.  "I don't know, I
think you'd have a better chance of lifting me than that heffer."

   Ahma giggled before straightening her face.  "Master Merrie, why does
she keep throwing herself at you?  Isn't that the behavior of, well, a
whore?"

   Methaniel chuckled softly and squeezed her small hand.  "Dear Ahma. 
That's because, more less, she is a whore."

   "Really?" Ahma gaped.

   Methaniel shrugged.  "Perhaps not by profession, but by action.  She
likely has an eye out for any travelers with a decent sized purse in hopes
that she may get money or gifts from them.  I mean, I certainly doubt she's
interested in my dashing good looks," he joked.

   "For what it's worth, you're far more attractive than her," Ahma
grinned.

   "That's not saying much," Methaniel rolled his eyes.

   "Far, far more."

   ***

   After the meal they headed back to their room.  Ahma changed into her
nightgown then Methaniel entered.  As he began to change, he spoke, "We're
leaving in the morning.  I may have to walk a few miles before Lanion gets
over being penned like this."

   Ahma smiled softly and nodded.  "I'm glad.  I don't like this place very
much."

   "There is something we need to discuss," Methaniel told her as he handed
her his shirt.  She neatly folded it.

   "Yes, Master?"

   "You'll have to stop calling me that," he instructed her.  Her eyes went
wide.  He added, "At the very least, in public.  I fear the treatment for
servants will grow worse the further we venture.  I do not want you
maltreated.  I will tell people I'm escorting you to visit your
grandfather...from now on, as far as others are concerned, at least, I will
be your bodyguard.  Understood?"

   "Yes, Master," she said, making a face.  "But then won't they treat you
as a servant?"

   "I'll be a hired guard," he explained, "Sort of a mercenary.  As long as
I cary money and a blade, I'll be considered more-less a free man."

   Methaniel looked away.  He took a pause, then said, "As we travel, I'll
be trying to find a suitable place for you to work."

   He didn't need to look up to know her face had fallen blank.  Already he
knew she feared a life in this slave community, without him.

   "Yes, Master," she said, choking on her words.

   Methaniel stepped across the room to envelop her in a tight hug, more
conscious than ever to avoid touching her wings with his hands "Don't be
sad, Ahma.  I won't leave you with anyone cruel, I swear it.  Perhaps you
could work in a shop, or a place of learning.  You were always good at such
things.  I'll find something decent for you, you have my word."

   Despite the cmfort of his arms and kind words, she felt no release from
the crush of despair this time.  It didn't matter where he left her; she
would be apart from him.  And she would probably never see him again.

   She sighed, a tear trickling down her cheek.  He held her and stroked
her soft, clean hair.  "I know you're afraid," he stated, "But I will find
someone good for you to stay with."

   Ahma nodded slightly against his chest.

   "Let's head to bed now.  We have a long day of Lanion being upset with
us to deal with tomorrow."

   Ahma curled in the plush bed next to him, his arm around her waist.  He
pulled the quilts over her, hiding all but the tip of her head.  She
nestled into his warm body as usual, but she felt cold.

   Everything was cold.

   End Ch.8
   


  
Rising Ch. 8