What is home?

The black velvet ears pricked forward when the dirt pathway was suddenly flanked by buildings. Beeston. Home. Was it still home? Mac searched inwardly, poking at the feelings that had lain dormant for nearly four months now. Four or was it Five? Time slipped upon itself until the days meshed together and she had truly forgotten the length. How long had she been gone? Back to the bigger question: Was this home? Once the small village near Beaufort in Scotland had been home, but she'd fled those hills nay over 2 years ago. "Home is where your heart is." The brief image of a crude tent thrown up in the middle of the forest passed through her mind. "Humph!" She mumbled shifting in the saddle, "if'n me heart were at home I wouldna have anything ta worry 'boot."

Beneath her Crusher's body shook as a deep neigh rumbled out of him, directed toward no particular person but at the small barn behind her bakery which loomed ahead. Ahh so it still stood. She'd seen several of the same shops, some with new owners, but there were very few familiar faces. Had the town changed so drastically since her departure. Cecily and Stone would be at home in Willows Bend but what of her other friends. CG? Flora? Would the tavern be full and bustling as usual? Briefly she thought to stop by the town hall and inquire about the new mayor then wander over to the Starving Lamb but Crusher decided their fate as his feet picked up pace and they moved quicker toward the barn.

"Aye, ye bonnie horse, ye'll 'ave yer way ta'night. First a good brushing then a nice big bucket o' oats." Heels into his side the large horse moved into an easy trot, carrying them quickly toward the place she'd once called home.

He stood in the tree line, watching. She had arrived just as he had know she would. Her scent was carried on the air, wafting through the fields around Beeston, tickling his nose even as he lay amongst the pine deep within the woodland. He spirit touched the weaving that held together the universe, plucking at it so that tremors rung along the tightly pulled cords and signaled to him that Mackenzie Gael was back in Beeston. Just as the day he had first met her Grave was enchanted by her beauty and poise. She sat within the saddle with a natural sway that spoke of a life on horseback. He had never known that comfort himself and now never would. He looked down at his bent and twisted leg, shattered when he had fallen from Anthem's back all of those months ago. He had lain within the ferns for how long...? Hours? Days? And only his own memories had come to find him.

Now he was a different man. Shorter by a hand perhaps, and dressed in a simple black robe. His scarred fingers grasped a stick hewed by his own labor from a naturally fallen tree.

Fairly take and fairly give...

His sharp blue eyes danced down the path to where she would surely end up. Her house, her bakery. He took a coin from his pocket and flipped it into the air. Catching it skilfully in the same hand he turned it over to reveal...

tails.

"Interesting." He murmured none but the birds and the beasts. "It seems that we are to meet again."

Limping into the half light, he headed down to the path. She had long since passed but he could still catch a whiff of her perfume upon the rapidly cooling air of the winter night. Soon it would be dark and he should be shivering in the wilds. Maybe tonight he would allow himself to know a fire... No, maybe tonight SHE would allow him to know a fire. His unsteady gait carried him down the trackway and he soon arrived at the doorway of the bakery. Raising his staff and realizing now how thin he had become, how dirty his skin was, he knocked upon the door. His voice, unaccustomed to being raised beyond a whisper these past three months, cracked. "Anybody home?"

With Crusher bedded down and happily munching on oats, Mac somberly made her way to the bakery and her apartment housed on the second floor above it. She dreaded opening the door and didn't quite know what to expect as she crossed the threshold and stood in the middle of the dusty room. She half expected things to be in disrepair with chairs overturned and baking pans strewn everywhere but aside from a thick caking of dust and a musty smell of disuse the bakery was just as she'd left it. Maybe it was she that had changed.

Beeston hadn't been a happy place when she left. Was it a happy place now? Had the town changed or was it still the central stop on the road North where people gathered to congregate in the taverns for a happy laugh and a sweet mug of ale. She hadn't heard the customary melody of laughter drifting from the Starving Lamb but also hadn't paused very long to observe it. Home had been on her mind and now that she stood in the bowels of its wooden frame, she wondered what it was she had come home to. Was he in town? Did he have another lover? Surely there'd been plenty lined up in the castle that day. "Och, Mac ye were a fool. But a fool nay more." Aye, she had been the one that had changed.

Moving across the floor toward a small mirror hung upon the wall, Mac took note of the extra gear she now effortlessly carried. It wasn't the new black leather boots, or the black trews and tunic that were significant, but the three foot blade swinging from her hips, the sgian dubh carefully strapped to her calf, as well as a small assortment of throwing daggers wedged into a pouch opposite the sword. Rubbing her arm over the mirror to wipe away the dust, Mac peered at herself in the faint light. Her hair had grown lighter from the sun, the soft yellowed streaks running through the copper and with the flyaway curls it seemed to have it's own life. Her cheeks were more hollow and the bone under her eyes more pronounced but her eyes were still the same; a sparkling green that shifted toward translucent shades of gray...

The knock on the door startled her. Hand automatically going to hip her body tensed and her eyes darted around frantically. "Settle down Mac." She thought, trying to ease the tension from her body, "Ye're hoome now, tis prolly just a neighbor come to welcome ye back." Stealthily she moved to the door and pulled it open.

"Good Afternoon." Her automatic response wafted through the air, followed by a sharp intake of breath as eyes and brain converged to form the one word that sent her body into an emotional meltdown. Grave. Shock transitioned into disbelief, then all the pain from the last six months washed over her and after lighting the fires burst into a tunnel of flames. How could love hurt so bad? Struggling to keep her emotions from spewing over the dam, Mac took a deep breath. Her head was light and her heart pounded a new fleeting rhythm within her chest. What should she say? What should she do. She wanted to kiss him and hit him all at the same time. To shove him away and then have him hold her in his strong arms.

The words that finally did escape were low and breathy. "Hello Grave."

As he stood there looking at her Grave realized that they were much of a height. She had changed much since he had last seen her. When had that been? Ah yes, when she had stormed from his Council office after finding all of the ladies outside. He shook his head at his own foolishness. Why had he ever believed that happiness could come in the form of pure physical pleasure? In truth physical pleasure was but a fleeting glimmer like the sun peering from behind the clouds on a rainy day. Real comfort and love was found in learning to enjoy both the sun and rain, to experience them until they ceased to matter in the slightest. Then to step beyond that and rejoice in it all.

His hand shook and he dropped his staff. "I-I am sorry my lady..." Goddess, how Mackenzie had changed. She was beautiful still, but that pure innocent girlishness that he had once known was tempered with an edge of pure steel now. He felt something wet upon his face. His dirty hand in his ragged sleeve went to his face and he knew then that he was crying. How long had he stood and stared at her like an idiot? His mouth was dry as though he had not tasted water for days. Once he had been addicted to wine but now he drank only from the pure clean streams. The taste of pine was deep within him.

"Hello Grave."

Grave. Yes, that was his name now. He remembered...

The sun slanting down through the trees. A cold mist boiling from the ground into the heavens above. A body in an open pit. He looked down at himself as he looked up at himself, seeing himself with twin ice blue eyes that reflected one another into nothingness. He lay there as he stood above himself and sneered. His face was serene, the face of an idiot or a fool brought to the court to entertain the King and paid in bread. Laughing as the tears ran down his face he picked up the shovel and felt the earth falling upon him and growing heavier. He covered himself until his face was no longer visible. Blue eyes could no longer see one another as the noble spirit lived within the ground and the base one above it.

For even the most pure of us has sinned.

"Lady Mac..." He reached out with his filthy hand with it's dirty fingernails and touched her face. Would she shiver? Would she pull away? Would she run him through with her sword? He recognized the steel blade and knew how it would feel to be run through with it. Grave fought no more and thought weapons to be foolish, unnecessary. They gave men false hope and brought short victory, but in the end they left behind only their legacy of pain. "Lady Mac..."

His lips cracked as he spoke her name. His body went limp and he fell to the floor... Passing out to know nothing more for several hours...

The man standing hunched before her resembled Grave in small bursts of imagination, but he seemed more the skeletal, filthy and stagnant twin to the vibrant man she knew. His cheeks were hollow and the skin of his face appeared to be stretched tightly over bones that looked old and tired. His eyes, even, lacked the luster and sparkle she remembered. Egads what had happened to the man? He seemed quite happy and content when she'd left town so many months ago. Hell he'd been titillatingly exuberant.

His hand, stained with the color of the earth, reached up and touched her face and Mac felt tears well instantly in her eyes. She closed them briefly and wished away the wetness. He'd hurt her. He'd left her. Surrounded by his clan of teeth gnashing wolves, Grave hadn't needed her anymore, instead he'd had his fill of beautiful young lasses to sink his teeth in. Dammit but she still loved him. He had a huge condo in the area of her heart that was reserved for love and passion. He was the only man she'd thought about the last six months, the only man she'd longed to touch and hold and curse him a hundred times for hurting her. But yet, the simple act of his fingers brushing her skin melted every bone in her body and forced her heart to thud erratically.

"Dammit Grave..." She began in a low whisper when suddenly his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped to the ground. Oh dear Jah! Mac thought as she frantically squatted and searched his neck and wrist for a pulse. Not finding the reassuring thud against skin, she leaned down further and placed her ear to his chest. A sigh of relief escaped her parted lips as she rocked back on her haunches and studied him. "Ye fool man. If'n ye'd eat mayhaps a' least once a week ye'd have t'e energy to walk." Reaching down she poked at his side and grimaced as her finger met mere bone. "I wish I knew what caused ye to give up and waste away so. Did they throw ye in the root cellar for flirting with too many lassies? Or did one o' em break yer heart? Humph! Serves ye right for breaking mine!"

Standing, Mac glanced down at him again with a shake of her head before pushing the door to the bakery all the way open. Glancing around she scurried to gather blankets and a bedroll to make a makeshift cot in one corner. She could drag him into the room but she'd never get him up the narrow staircase. Blasted man! "I bet ye havena had a bathe in months either have ye?" She called to the still form before moving to the large table in the corner and unloading her gear. One sword, two knives, and a collection of daggers sat with the bow and quiver on the table beside a large wooden bowl, primed and ready for bread. With another sigh Mac moved back to Grave's side, noting his steady breath before bending, slipping her arms under his and dragging him toward the makeshift cot. "Ye'd think living wi' nature ye'd smell like nature, but ye dinna smell like pine needles and rain. Ye need food, ye need a bathe and ye need a good hard kick in the arse."

Once he was settled she went back to the pack she'd dropped earlier and withdrew a paper wrapped slice of meat. "I'm gonna make ye a stew and yer bloody goin' ta eat it. Yer nay gonna waste away and yer nay gonna give up. Dammit Grave, I canna tell ye how bad ye hurt me if'n ye pass out. Och! I proobly wouldna tell ye anyway but ye still have ta eat." Biting her tongue, Mac turned back to the stew and began adding herbs and onions to the brothy mix.

He awoke to the snapping of flames and the scent of meat cooking in a pot. The world swam around him at the smell of the food. When had he last eaten? Two days ago? Three? Wait - there had been a handful of winter berries eaten that morning and a nice long drink from the stream. Grave pondered the thought and then remembered another night far away, with a bag of peanuts and a woman with a very warm smile. He thought that he had seen her before he passed out.

The world was dark now and he was not sure he would be able to open his eyes. He heard someone moving around the room. A small part of him told Grave to get on his feet and defend himself against possible attack. A far larger part of him reasoned that if this person had wanted to kill him they could have done so when he had decided to kiss the earth. Memories of his dream danced through his mind. There had been a warm bath and Mackenzie, the scent of lavender and warm water on the air, laughter and warm nights in a tavern, a thunderous look on her face and his own dark Judge's robes...

...Goddess, man, you've been a fool echoed through his head. The voice was soft, the language French, and he wondered vaguely why this person kept on speaking to him so. Licking his lips with a dry tongue in a dry mouth he tried to open his eyes only to find them glued shut. How long had he been asleep?

A stray scent of lavender caught upon a draft was wafted to his nose. He cursed the person who tantalized him so with her scent. The happy memories of their time together tripped through his mind and for a long time he lay there, wrapped in the blankets of the bedroll and memories.

He only had to breathe in the scent of her hair to know who it was. Grave did something very unusual then. He lay back on the sleeping pad he used and relaxed. She was cuddled in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest still, and he could hear the sound of her breathing. The rest of the room was so silent that he could hear the birds calling and playing outside. Somewhere a horse whickered, and he knew that Anthem would be annoyed with him today for not stabling him last night.


...

Rain tapped at the small window with the sound of nails tapping at a polished table top. The wind whistled around the eaves, howling like a wolf, grumbling like a bear, and all the pipe notes in between. A fire snapped in the room, and he had added a handful of incense - alder for water and fire; for traversing difficult emotional ground. He sought to kindle the fiery spirit within.



His fingers worked deftly and strongly but without training at her hair. He sought to braid it for her but had little knowledge of doing so. He had seen several ladies around the town of Beeston wear it this way and found the style attractive. Besides, the simple motion was fun and drew them closer. Binding her hair was like binding their souls.


Reluctantly he opened his eyes and saw a figure crouched by the small fire that burned so brightly. The light played tricks with his vision. He was so relaxed now, so warm and comfortable, that he could just fall back asleep. He allowed himself, like the fool he was, to believe that the figure by the fire was in fact Mackenzie; she had come back to Beeston and was cooking a meal for them over the open flames; she would forgive him in time and allow him back into her heart; she would see the new man he had become - without swords and wolves and death and ladies, but with wisdom and vision and the knowledge that life, no matter how transient, was the most important factor in the universe. He prayed upon the Goddess that it be so but knew that his love for her had fallen upon deaf ears.

This was not Mackenzie. It was not six months ago. The Scottish lass was gone from him now, forced away by his own actions and her damn stubborn pride. Whoever this woman was had a kind heart and a strong arm, to drag him so from the doorway over to this bedroll here.

Grave thanked the Goddess for her help. His eyes flickered to the window and she hung there, large, luminous, waxing to her full power. He lifted a weak arm and reached out for her, knowing that if he could not hold the one he loved then at least he could gaze on her one last time.

Looking back at the woman by the fire he tried to mouth words but instead found his voice came only in a harsh croak like that of the frog or the raven.

"Urrrr..." He said. "Urrrrk..."

His own hand floated before him, claw like, scarred, and so wasted that he would barely be able to lift the sword he had once swung so proudly. But swords were not what he was about now, rather words and deeds. "For a sword in battle can kill one man at a time; a mouth turned to wisdom can convert many to a cause and bring happiness to all."

He wondered who had spoken thus into the silence of the room, and watched the woman as she responded...

Intense pain leapt through her finger and charged right up her arm causing Mac to curse profanely as she jerked suddenly back. The tea kettle clashed back against the stone hearth but luckily no water escaped. She stood silently glaring at the kettle as she sucked on the ends of her fingers and prayed they would not blister. "Och, I guess I done lost me touch. Galoot tea kettle. Shouldnae 'ave stayed in all the inns but camped by the fire. Cursed bloody campfires."

Turning she lifted the kettle again, this time with a towel thick enough to ward off the heat, and placed it on the counter. From a small pouch she dropped several leaves into the water and stirred, glancing quickly at the makeshift bed in the corner of the room. Her heart swelled with worry that Grave hadn't awakened yet, but his tossing and turning avowed that his mind was busy and his dreams would be plentiful. What did she think? How did she feel?

For so long she had tried not to feel to not think about him that it actually felt strange to try and do so again. It was hard to trust. It always had been, especially when growing up you didn't know who was friend or foe, and your life could very well depend upon it. Living here in England, where there were no clan wars and neighbors were for the most part friendly, Mac had grown soft. She'd thrown caution to the wind and fallen for the dashing McMannanan, but he had walked away. "Nay, ye surely canna trust a man just cus' e's from Scotland." Then... meeting Grave... had been like their entire worlds had collided. He was the sun to her moon. They were perfectly matched; as though their mold were one and the same and it was simply life and experience that separated their beings. Aye she'd gladly, openly and willingly given herself over to him. She'd trusted him. Loved him. Still did love him. But for what? To be publicly humiliated at their first fight? To have him storm off and entertain half the women in Chester then completely ignore her? Hell he hadn't even cared when she left town.

As the emotions built inside her, Mac felt suddenly like she was going to explode. Quickly she reached out for the closest item and flung with all her might, watching almost in a trance as the dagger spun head over end and buried into the back of the door. What did he want now? What had happened to him? It was evident he'd met some mishap that had twisted his knee. Was he here to try and make amends? Would he apologize? Would she accept? The triple thud of her heartbeat told her brain that yes, she wanted him to and yes she wanted to forgive him; to feel his arms around her tightly, the warmth of their bodies and the beauty of their souls entwined. Sighing heavily she picked up a small tea cup and poured herself a dab. Ahh but only if it were that simple...

He watched in the darkness of the room as the dagger flickered end over end and embedded itself deeply in the wood of the door. The woman looked over at him and then away again. She sipped her tea. She had, Grave thought, no idea that he was awake. He wondered how long had passed since he had collapsed. An hour or two? A day? Maybe a week? Any which way he felt weak as he pushed himself upwards. First he levered himself onto an elbow, and the pushed upright.

The room span around him and he almost fell back again. Then he felt the urge to expel the contents of his stomach. It was suddenly very lucky that he had not eaten in days. Whoever this strange woman was he did not want to reward her generosity by throwing up on her... on Mac's... floor. He wondered how this stranger had gotten into Mac's bakery here. It was an odd circumstance. He remembered coming to the door and seeing a face - her face. He kept telling himself that this could not be Mackenzie Gael Frazer; the Mac he had known could never hold such anger within her body. She would never have known how to cast a knife thus, nor had such a strong snap to her wrist or the power to make the blade quiver so. She had been a woman of light and life and warmth. This was an entirely different woman indeed.

The dizziness calmed. Shifting his weight he lifted himself to his feet. His leg twinged under him. The woman, whoever she was, had her back to him. Once he would have used this very much to his own advantage. He would have swooped and held a dagger to her neck, forced the information from her, maybe killed her where she stood. Looking her up and down his practiced eye told him that he would have enjoyed that fight. It seemed this one would have given him a real challenge. Now, in his weakened state, death would come quickly on the sword she wore at her hip.

Grave shuffled to the door. He kept both eyes upon the dagger that had now ceased to quiver and lay still within the wood. A dead thing buried in a dead thing. Using all of his strength he plucked the blade from the door. Her turned to her and lifted it, his voice strange and rough to his own ears. "Did that help? Did it make you feel better? You embrace the rage that lives inside you, lady. You cast it without thinking. What if a young woman, a small child, a vibrant striding man had opened the door at that moment? Would you feel so good then? Imagine that life gone unfulfilled, that family without any way of making money, that life snuffed out all so easily to satisfy your rage. For certain this time that was unlikely. For here there is just me, and you, whoever you may be. The next time it may also be so. The time after that even. Then one day there will come a day when you will not be able to..."

The world swam around him. There was blood on his hands and running down his face. Blood in his hair and his nostrils. Blood tasting metallic in his mouth. He drew a breath and let it out slowly. A blood bubble burst at his lips.

"Where is this?" He thought to himself.

"Reims." A voice answered. "Just after the 'assassins' came for Agnes. We butchered them all, remember, old friend? Remember how good the woman was...? How she screamed and begged..."

Grave shook his head. The world faded back. "...not be able to stop yourself. You will kill an innocent. The time after that it will not seem so difficult. You can begin to take pleasure from such things.

"Yet you willingly embrace your rage." The room swam and he used the back of a nearby chair to hold himself upright. "It is not healthy." His eyes darted to where he knew the soft pulse of life was so easily extinguished, the jugular at the juncture of neck and chin. He was horrified to find himself thinking that way. For the words that came from his mouth were the Truth and the Darkness. The thoughts in his brain were the Lies and the Light. The dagger fell from his fingers and clanged on the flagstones. "Let it go."

To say she was lost in thought would have been a firm understatement. Mac felt as though her body and mind were waging a battle and shredding each other's fibers in the process. Would she come out whole? Her heart loved him; thudded for him. Her body longed for his embrace, for the love of the man he used to be and hopefully still was, but her head.... ahh her head argued with the other two until her temples throbbed.

The sound of bedsheets shifting caught her attention, causing every muscle in her body to quiver and tense ready for action. "Calm Mac." she thought, taking a deep breath and forcing her body to relax. He never physically hurt you and still would not. Anyway... he's weak. But you cannot trust weakness, for when pushed to the limit any strength harbored can be forced out. Slowly she turned toward the door where he now stood and took a deep breath, her eyes slowly scanning down his body as a knot forced up her chest and lodged in her throat. She forced back the sob or gasp, whichever it was she wasn't sure, at the form before her. He looked frail, beaten and... the glimmer in his eyes she couldn't put a name to. Then he spoke. Lady? Had he really called her lady? Did the fool not recognize her? Glancing down Mac took in her own clothing and body. She had not changed that much, not so much that he should not recognize her. Why other than a few more muscles and bruises she looked the same.

Then his words sunk through the clouded atmosphere in her brain and Mac narrowed her eyes, locking them with his. He'd been the one to cause her such pain, to make her ache and feel as though her heart had been ripped from her chest. It was his hands on another woman and his rejection that shattered her calm resolve, yet here he stood preaching to her about casting off this pent up energy. Her fists clenched at her sides as Mac took a deep breath. And now he acted like he didn't even know her name!?

"Did tha' help? Aye it did! It helped me shed the anger I've been building. To remove the negativity and hurt as it flowed from my fingers into the dagger." Her voice was steady but devoid of emotion. To allow anything to slip right now was far more dangerous than the lethal blade in his hand. "And who are ye to say I wasna thinking? The dagger was too high to kill a child and nay man nor woman or child for that matter would walk through the door as the latch is locked. 'Ave a look for yerself. I've lost plenty to the hasty slash of a blade. Believe ye me I know too well what it can take away."

In one fluid motion she moved from behind the counter and took a step toward him.
"An aye..." her eyes fluttered briefly closed as she took a deep breath. Maintain yer composure Mac. One word at a time. "aye.... tis nay rage I embrace but pain and heartache. Tis the only thing keeps me a'live and fight'n. The only thing to 'ave embraced me on the clear summer nights or chilly autumn morns while I was traveling. The only thing. For ye surely werena there."

Grave saw her then. Was this a figment of his imagination? It was a sign of his madness perhaps, for she could not really be here. He felt weak. The room span around him and, when it returned to it's fimilar physical pattern she stood there still.

"Mac?" His lips felt dry and his head was far too close to the ceiling for his own liking. Feelings old and new jumbled against one another as they emerged unbidded into the moonlight. What did he feel? Pain and anger at her betrayal. Love and passion at her closeness. A screaming discontinuity of emotions that broke pieces from one another so that the mix was unpleasant and sickening to the stomach. If one could hear an emotion as well as feel it in the pit of his stomach then now was the time for that. The pain caused him to dip his head. He raised his scarred, dirty hand and stepped toward her.

Grave knew that the look in his eyes was pleading. He sneered at himself. Take a grip of yourself, man. She betrayed you. The sneer emerged and he felt it flee across his face, replaced by a calm ness devoid of emotion. Everything that the Goddess had taught himself over the past couple of months schooled him against a reaction of passion. What did the past matter now? Well, we are shaped by our actions to become the people we are. Those who are strong in their beliefs can lay out their thoughts calmly and rationally, explain their actions even if there was no good reason for them. He had good reason for his.

He had listened to her speak and he turned the words over in his brain. Grave drew himself upright, ignoring the pain from his shattered leg. The words that emerged from his mouth were spoken calmly, and as he said them he felt that calm infuse his being like a cool bath. Yes, coolness and calmness. The Goddess had taught him that in his months in the wilderness. The human dramas that played out were unimportant in the wheel of the world. One could not change what one was by force but instead had to let everything go and allow the anvil of the world to hammer one into a new shape.

"Your anger saddens me my dear. Releasing anger into the world simply proliferates it. Anger is an emotion, unlike love, that can be destroyed by simply wishing it gone. We hold onto such things because we wish to, not because we have to. The height of the cast is not the issue but that one day you will do it without thinking. The best warriors make judgements calmly based upon facts and only facts. To allow emotions into oneself is to make oneself weak."

He stepped forward and rested his weight upon the table. They were close now, close enough that he could smell her scent. He felt the old mixture of love and lust arise and crushed it... or at least he tried to.

His eyes went to her blade. "I know perfectly well of pain and heartache. I loved a woman once who, at the first sign of anything difficult, cast aside the beliefs that she had pledged herself to and instead chose the easy path. At the first test of her loyalty to a cause we both claimed to hold dear I followed through and she stepped aside. At that moment she threw my love to the ground like a fragile vase and smashed it into a thousand pieces. I was so weak of morality at the time that, instead of challenging her to rebuild the pottery I ground it beneath my heel until it was no longer visible. Rather than coming to me and attempting to demonstrate any kind of love she ran away without saying a word. I knew not what happened to her. I saw her not."

He looked up at her again. To his own chargrin Grave felt a single tear rolling down his cheek. He crushed it from existence with the heel of his hand. "How could I... how could the part of me that was Sir Julian Delval ever trust you again? For as you swore devotion to a cause you swore your love to him. If you cast aside one so easily you would have cast aside the other.

"Your loneliness on the road was of your own making, Mac."

He picked up the sword, hefted it, and felt its weight in his hand. "I put aside you, put aside my sword, put aside my horse, and killed Julian Delval with a smile upon my face." He flipped the blade over so that the hilt was towards her and lay it upon the stained wood of the table. There was still a light dusting of flour from when this had been her bakery. His robe slipped off easily in his hands and he stood before her naked, defenseless. Putting his arms behind his back her met her eyes. "But you believe otherwise. Fine. Sate your rage once and for all. Kill me, for I would have no others hurt because of what I did."

"Kill me. Become what I once was. Take my place." He smiled at her, his face a skin of ice over cold waters. "Go ahead. Let your rage course through you. Make me your first glorious killing on the road to your own destruction. I shall watch from above and smile."

She stood before him now, silent and desperately trying to maintain the last thread of composure. Her eyes studied his face and watched in marvel at the many emotions that played over his features until they settled into a half upturned smile that was more sinister and satirizing than it was pleasant. It felt as though he'd hit her in the middle with a fist, an iron fist that forced her inside up through her throat. Do NOT step back Mac. She forced the words through her head, fighting the instantaneous feeling to move away and instead felt her hands clench in fists so tight that her nails dug into her palm.

When his voice carried through the small room she glanced sharply back up at his face, now contorted into a miraculous visage as cool as marble and brazenly raised an eyebrow. "Am I now to be devoid of emotion?" Mac forced her body to breath steadily, hoping that the one action would keep the dam of her emotions solid. "To be a mere dandy floating through life with flo'ers streaming down me hair and noothing bu love an' happiness upon me brain? Ta be so would made me daft. I am me because of those emotions... because I have anger and hurt, and also because I love with a deep passion. Releasing anger into the world does not make it grow except by those who hold onto it, who draw it into their body and thrive upon the negativity that they want. I RELEASE it so that I may live and move on. That is my choice and mine alone... to be human."

When he stepped forward and rested his hands upon the table, Mac knew her nostrils must have flared for her breath came quicker. The air around them seemed to crackle with the tension and oh the things her body did. She glanced at his hands pressing against the flat surface and was immediately assaulted with images; his hands moving softly through her dark hair, splayed across her back and pressing their bodies together, his long fingers entwined among her own. Mac squeezed her eyes shut and didn't notice the small moan that escaped her lips, so focused was she on trying to maintain composure. It surely was the hardest thing she'd ever done. Okay, perhaps not THE hardest.

His next set of words flowed over her, swam in her head like a fish maneuvering through a chasm of tunnels. Not until he paused did their meaning finally settle into the forefront of her thoughts. HE BLAMED HER?! Cast aside beliefs pledged to? What was he talking about? He thought of her as weak? As someone who ran from problems? Did he not see the betrayal from the opposite end? No of course not! How could he for she'd never had the chance to confide in him. That was what she'd been headed to tell him when...

Rolling her shoulders back Mac took a deep breath and pinned him with her eyes. "Grave..." She flexed her fingers, the joints having grown stiff as her voice continued in a stream of words that were both heart-wretching and emotional. They seemed to solve as many problems as they caused. ((yes this is where stuff was omitted))

Taking a deep breath, Mac felt the anger, the frustration and all other pent up emotions she had held on to so tightly drain from her body. They flowed through her booted feet and into the floorboards leaving her limp and frail. "Grave, I loved you... no... I do still love you with all that is in my being. I had faith in you. I had faith in us. What I did not have faith in were the establishment and organizations which we were involved. I do not, and will not be told what to do. My life is my own. ((yup, lots omitted here too))

Mac felt her knees wobble and the last thread of energy further drain from her body. When he shed his robe and held her sword to her, his words cut straight through her body like the sharpest claymore. Perhaps she should have stayed in Tarvie and justdied at the hands of the Grants. Twould have been much simpler. Much less painful.The sword toppled to the floor, clanging against a set of pots as her legs finally, shaking, gave way. Mac drew her knees to her chin and buried her face in her hands, her eyes squeezed shut. Her grandda's voice softly weaving through her head. Be strong Mac. Ye are strong lassie. Ye're a Fraser. Ye're stubborn an' hotheided but ye're stronger tha' the rest o' them. Keep yer chin up lassie.

Grave watched as she fell to the floor. His eyes blinked once, twice, three times, slowly. He wanted to stand there and be strong, to walk away and abandon her to her new life. Certainly it would have been the easiest for her and maybe for him also. A vision of lonely mountain glades and tumbling streams came unbidden to his mind. This was his future now shown to him upon the hands of his Goddess. She drew him across the fragrant grass and hard rocks. His Queen alone swam with him in the clear crisp waters. She laughed with him as he lay upon the sun heated rocks and watched the evening draw around him. He stood there calm and filled with peace... and so terribly lonely. The sound of the sword hitting the floor snatched him back to here and now.

Was that how long it had been? Only mere fractions of seconds? It had seemed like a lifetime. The pain and anguish on her face cut across his skin. It was like her blade had sliced him open and buried itself in his innards deeply. He felt the hot flow of blood across his skin and it crept into his limbs and head.

For the first time in many months Grave embraced an emotion. He reached out and grasped it, wrapped his arms around it, held it close, stroked his fingers across it's pretty face. Falling to his knees next to Mac he reached out his hands but dared not to touch her. There were tears chasing down his face now. They left tracks in the dirt on his cheeks and splashed onto his naked chest. He felt cold but made no move to cover his bent nakedness. "Your strength is all that it ever was, Mac, all that it ever was."

He drew a breath into his lungs. The air was filled with the scent of disappointment, stress, and broken dreams; of forest and glade and stream. It took all of his strength to remain here close to her. He reached for the bond between them and grasped it as a drowning man grabbed at a rope.

His hands caressed the air above her beautiful locks of hair but still he did not dare to touch. "You are intelligent, strong, caring... stubborn... proud. Your family bloodline is one of leaders and not followers. I wanted the two of us, Delval and Fraser to walk side by side. I was sure that you would trust me enough and step into the light with me."

He sighed, thinking back to that time, his French accent thick upon his lips. His cold eyes gleamed clearly in the low light. {{omitted text here}} "I was angry that I did not become Duke not because I wanted the position for power - but because I knew what the opposition would bring. Certainly they played their game out in the fashion I expected. All of the hard work that we sought to do to help the people of Chester was squashed with an iron boot. Committees were set up. Long discussions took place. Much paper was despoiled with writing. Yet the only people I saw grow more happy because of the administration were the quill makers in the marketplace, and those appointed to their positions of despotic power by the horrible events of that election.

"I was driven half mad in pain. To have the chance to help so many people snatched away from me. Though you had left I sought what was best for you. In my madness I thought you had betrayed me and simply vanished. Each night I heard your laughter ringing in my ears at having hung me up to dry... I could do nothing but hurt at the love I felt for you.

"Maybe I thought too much of our relationship. Maybe we were not as far along as I had thought." He pushed himself up now and used his bare foot to kick the hilt of the sword in anger at the situation. The metal skidded along the floor and disappeared into the shadows cast by the Moon. It clanged and rested out of site. He wanted to take the poor kneeling woman in his arms and hold her. To lay on the bed in the corner with her against his chest, her breath upon his skin, to caress her back and shoulders and hair. To lose himself in her...

"How you have changed. How different you are from the woman I thought I knew. That I know I love. I miss you Mac. Maybe you aren't the person I thought you were and maybe I am not the person you thought I was." He knelt next to her again now. His hand rested on the top of her head tentatively, as a man touching a warhorse for the first time. His touch asked for acceptance, for love. "I just know that there is a gap in my soul that yearns for you to be near and will never be filled without you."

The heated warmth of anger was gone, having fled her body with such speed that it left her weak and hollow. As Grave's voice filled the room an ironclad hand reached up from the wooden floor and choked her heart, squeezing until she felt she could not breath. How was it she could stand like a rock before the razor sharp blade of the enemy but now sat huddled on the floor. "Love is the strongest of all Mac..." a voice whispered softly in her ear, it's tone that of silk, "It defies the boundaries of time, the restricting confines of mortality, and can make the strongest man as weak as a kitten. Give in to it my child, for love is your world, your life." The voice drifted from one ear to the other, "And don't you see, without him your life is naught but a gray lifeless canvas." It dropped an octave now, a barely audible whisper that only lovers in the dark of night know. "Give yourself to this man before you... all of yourself... together become a whole and he will be eternally yours."

Mac took a deep breath, and then another. While the warriors fist still clutched her heart, squeezing the blood from it, she could feel the spark ignite in her belly and embraced the tiny flame. Aye, she still felt the hurt and betrayal... the pain of rejection, but his words now swam around in her head, teasing the corners of her brain with life and punching at the mooshy sides that refused to give. He was right, she'd never be a follower. A brief image darted in her head of her brothers and herself running through the Highland moors like wild barbarian children. If they went right she took a left. If they told her to stay put, she'd sneak out and followed them. If Korna tried to boss her around and tell her what to do, why she'd done right the opposite.

Her forehead pressed into the bone of her knee as her eyes clenched shut, forcing the images away. His words. Focus on his words. He didn't understand that she'd felt backed into a corner... but maybe he did understand. He'd stood up for her against those who were his family. Put his life, his future and past on the line for her... all for her. For the things he had lost... she felt regret.

Slowly, as if awakening from a very long slumber, Mac raised her head. Her balled fists roughly wiped at the tears in her eyes and when she could finally see again they locked with his. "Grave..." her voice sounded not like her own, but course and low like a cask of fine aged wine, "I love you." A deep breath settled her and added fuel to the fire that was slowly giving her strength. "To some love is nay but a passing glimpse, a fiery candle that once melted is tossed aside and forgotten. To me, when I say I love ye, I mean I love ye now, I'll love ye tomorrow, and I'll love ye until my very being nay longer exists." She wet her lips, trying to put words to the feelings that had consumed her for way too long. How was it so hard when day after day she felt the void in her life, in her heart and soul. "I...." Damn the tears that pressed against her eyes!! Damn the longing for him to wrap his arms around her and hold her til the dawn! And damn her for missing him so... for longing for him... for needing him! She tilted her chin up defiantly as the tears began their trek down her face. "I need ye Grave. Without ye I'm nay whole. I'll be yers til the day I die, if'n ye'll have me or nay but I'll ne'er belon' to anoth'er. Without ye I'm nay but a mere shell longing for a soul."

As she turned her face upward toward him Grave saw the tears in her eyes. They started his own that had been locked deep inside him for so long. He reached out with a hand both scarred and dirty to wipe a lone tear from her face. It's wetness was but a single part of that which cascaded down her cheeks. This simple touch of her fluid, the essence of her being, one of the five humors that bound together to make the human body, unlocked him. He found that he could not take his hand from her cheek. Instead his fingers curled around so that the tips of them brushed the lobe of her ear and the palm was against the smooth skin of the jawline. His thumb brushed slowly across collecting more tears. It was an insane thing to do but he leaned forward and put his arm around her. He dared not draw her to him but he softly pressed his lips to hers and waited. He expected an explosion to come, wrapping him in its embrace and destroying him once and for all. A single soft touch of her lips would make that more than welcome though. Once more, as he had at the tourney, he would steal the prize and take the consequences of his actions later.

She stirred that in him deeply, primally.

And he waited...

His touch was all she needed. The touch of his fingers against her face, his palm against her cheek was like a jolt of energy swimming down her body and filling the void that had spread and consumed her the last few months. She shivered while keeping her eyes locked with his. The crystal blue depths seemed to swirl around each other like a storm, opening themselves so that she could see into his very essence, into his soul. When he slowly leaned forward Mac found herself holding her breath, blinking back the tears. Would he kiss her? Oh how she hoped he would! She longed for him. Needed him.

As the soft touch of his lips pressed against her own Mac allowed all the tension, all the hurt, pain and frustration to seep from her body. She sat up, moving her body closer to him. Oh how she longed for him to hold her! If all she did was cry held within the strength and shelter in his arms. She needed him. "Grave." His name escaped her lips, her voice low and soft, barely audible in the quite room as she pressed her lips against his own.

"Oh Mac..." He murmured her name against her lips, tasting it as he tasted her. The tension that had hung in the room like a tangible fog dissipated. All that was left was him and her; the two people who over six months ago had fallen in love. He felt her push into the kiss rather than pulling away from him and gasped in surprise. It was not so much unexpected as unthinkable that she could accept him back. Surely they had both gone their separate ways?

From the passion that enveloped them during the kiss nothing seemed further from the truth. He pulled her closer into his arms, her body against his chest, and broke their passionate embrace only to gulp down air. As he did he examined her face, his eyes passing across it. "Welcome home, Mac..."

His touch was all she needed. The touch of his fingers against her face, his palm against her cheek was like a jolt of energy swimming down her body and filling the void that had spread and consumed her the last few months. She shivered while keeping her eyes locked with his. The crystal blue depths seemed to swirl around each other like a storm, opening themselves so that she could see into his very essence, into his soul. When he slowly leaned forward Mac found herself holding her breath, blinking back the tears. Would he kiss her? Oh how she hoped he would! She longed for him. Needed him.

As the soft touch of his lips pressed against her own Mac allowed all the tension, all the hurt, pain and frustration to seep from her body. She sat up, moving her body closer to him. Oh how she longed for him to hold her! If all she did was cry held within the strength and shelter in his arms. She needed him. "Grave." His name escaped her lips, her voice low and soft, barely audible in the quite room as she pressed her lips against his own.