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[Xana]

---

Standing at the message board hanging near the teleporter of the home they shared, Xana frowned and tore at the scroll hanging there and balled it into a tiny bit of nothingness. The words were kind enough, with plenty of proclamations of love and allegiance. That certainly wasn't the problem.

The problem was, she wanted to hear these devotions in person. Life at house de Clare was joyful for Xana--she truly adored Roger. Squeezing the little ball of parchment in a gloved fist, she tried to convince herself that she shouldn't be so childish and demanding of attention; Xana was well aware that the heart of a warrior was fickle thing and often could not resist the call of drawing first blood. It was mutually understood that no matter what adventures faced either of them, home would ultimately be the place of refuge.

It's the timing, she told herself. Just bad timing with their comings and goings. The words rang hollow. Xana then turned away from the message board and went outside, where she laid the mutilated parchment on the ground. A few chanted words redirected her angst, and the message Roger had left became (very briefly) a brilliant ball of flame.

Xana watched the fire dissipate, and then sat on the steps. For the first time in her entire existence, she wondered if perhaps the years of refusing to be involved with love affairs thwarted her ability to cope with the stresses of something as intense as what she and Roger shared.

With a lighthearted laugh, she thought it didn't really matter. There would never be another, and the years of waiting were worth it.
_________________
An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner

[Roger de Clare]

---

Roger de Clare turned towards home as the sun began to set. Since the invasion of Magincia and the siege at Minoc, he hunted just a little. He much preferred to stay home with his beloved Xana. She often left home to play her music across Sosaria, honing her peacemaking skills. They seldom hunted together because he preferred to fight creatures who were not very susceptible to her music.

He smiled at that. Her talents completely charmed him. Especially her love for him. Anyone who knew her would love her.

That reminded him of Merrique, her twin sister. Merrique did not love her. On the contrary, she seemed to hate her twin. Roger was sure it's because she never met Xana and did not know her. He did not know much about Merrique's life before she came to Umbra and certainly knew nothing of her life in Umbra except she had been the barmaid in its notorious tavern, the Den of Sin. Roger and Xana both avoided Umbra once Merrique made it plain she did not want Xana near it or herself.

The other day Roger visited his friend Silent Poet at the Garden. He was surprised to find Xana there and then astonished to realize the woman was actually Merrique. There was a hardness about Merrique's face absent in his beloved's face. He knew it was Merrique before she spoke.

She said she wanted to meet Xana in peace. Roger answered Xana would like nothing better than reconciliation between them. Merrique was not sure about reconciliation, but she had information she wanted her sister to know.

His thoughts returning to the present, Roger cast holy journey and dismissed his charger in front of their house. He hoped she was home, but it seemed lately they often missed each other.

He went inside and quietly left his armor stacked on the floor by the spa and took a quick bath. Then he went upstairs and found her already asleep. He knew he should tell her about meeting Merrique, but as he watched her he figured it could wait for morning.

He also thought it would be considerate to not disturb her rest, but he woke her with kisses and she welcomed him home.

[Xana]

---

Xana's unease was dissolved when Roger came home that very evening, and he actually thought to wake her. When morning broke chill and bright, she eagerly dressed and grabbed her flute, heading out into the world to see what kind of beasts she could practice her musical and magical talents on.

Perhaps it was that she felt so relaxed and reassured by Roger, perhaps it was a freak thing, perhaps it was just bad luck. Caught off guard in her distractions, her mount shied away from some unseen fright and took off into the woods and away from the path upon which she'd been riding. In horror she watched as her brand new flute fell and was trampled under the pounding hooves, and then the unthinkable happened.

The horse reared, knocking the rider against a tree with considerable force. Xana's bandanna-covered head smacked into the tree with a sickening thud before the motion yanked her from the horse. She crumpled to the ground, breaking her ankle in the process.

It could have been a few minutes or several hours that she laid upon the loamy forest floor, abandoned by the horse she'd just that day taken from the stable after letting it relax for a few weeks. In time she regained consciousness and instantly knew she needed help.

With a Herculean effort, she managed to summon her ethereal steed, who briskly and willingly took her home. As the fates would have it, Roger was standing on the steps of his home, surveying the tidal shift before him. With even more effort than it took to mount her steed, she dismounted and limped toward him.

"Roger, help me," she managed to say before falling limply against him, the pain in her head and foot exploding to the point that she saw little pinpoints of light in her fields of vision.

Next she awoke she was in the bed upstairs, her armor removed, her boot cut from her foot and laying on the floor like a small dead animal. A glance down showed her that she was wearing an impossibly bright white robe, and a look up showed her Roger standing bedside and looking very worried. He murmured that he would go find a doctor, and with that he was off . . . his reluctance to leave apparent.

In a short while a medical man by the name of Alfredo came to the house, accompanied by Roger. The doctor frightened Xana, who had never been to a healer who was not of the wise-woman variety. He examined her wounds and pronounced her as having a concussion and a broken ankle. He gave her a potion to calm her nerves and stomach, and left a small packet of medication she could mix with water if she needed more. Mixed into the noxious brew was a pain reliever that almost instantly caused a vague euphoria.

After some bantering back and forth in regard to setting the break, Roger encouraged Xana to accept the offered medication that would make her sleep and spare her the agony of having the bones set back together and splinted. Xana consented.

The man leaned forward, holding a wad of bandages soaked with a noxious smelling liquid which he held over her nose, and then the world went black.
_________________
An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner

[Roger de Clare]

---

He picked her up and carried her to the bed as she swore colorfully and laid her down.

He elevated her feet by putting pillows under them. The injured foot was black and blue from bruising and he suspected a broken bone. He felt of it rather hard to find the break and announced it was a simple one. She had choice words about his prognosis.

He recalled to Britain to find a doctor and returned with Alfredo, a bearded balding white haired man in a brown robe and a gray hat which he did not remove.

When they teleported to the bedroom, the old man found himself facing the corner of the room. "We've landed in a closet!" he exclaimed. Then he turned around and said, "Ah, much better."

He quickly crossed to Xana and yanked the covers off her. "It's alright" he said. "I'm a doctor! Oh, you're dressed."

He checked her injured foot and pronounced he would have to set the bone. It would hurt, by golly, but he had a pain killer. He searched through his bag and pulled out a hammer.

"A simple boink on the noggin and you will feel nothing until you wake up with a headache," he bantered.

Xana swore at him for an idiot and said she was about to throw up. He said, "Spew to the other side. Nothing gets on my robe but gravy. Have you been eating gravy? No? Then you may not vomit on my robe."

"Your compassion overwhelms me, " she gasped.

He looked at her closely though and held a candle up to her eyes, noting the reaction of the pupils. He felt of her head and found a knot.

"What am I? " he exclaimed. "A veteranarian? I'm a doctor! When I ask where does it hurt you must say it hurts here and here. Nobody told me you hurt your head!"

He put the hammer away. "Enough knots on the head. I was anyway making a joke. Your head is not broken so there is nothing to be done but rest. You have a concussion and thus the nausea, but plenty of rest will take care of that."

He pulled out some herbs, pounded them with mortar and pestle, mixed them in water and told her to drink it. "That will ease the nausea."

He packed his bag and started to leave. Xana yelped something about her leg.

Alfredo lifted the hem of her gown and looked, "Ah yes. Very nice legs. Except that one. You should see a doctor about that one."

"I'm kidding," he said as he set his bag down and began rummaging in it. He pulled out various items and arranged them on the side of the bed. "First I will set the bone and put a cast on your foot. No barnyard dances for at least six weeks."

He gave them instructions about the medicines he left behind for pain relief and swelling.

"This is a brew I invented while in college and meeting girls at the local pubs, " he said. "It's very handy for...well, nevermind that. It is fast acting and you will not feel a thing until morning."

Already in agony, Xana and Roger agreed to the drug's application. Soon she was fast asleep and resting. The doctor completed his work and left.

[Xana]

---

For the next several days Xana lapsed in and out of a drug induced sleep. She barely realized that Roger stayed by her side, making sure she took the potions and powders as prescribed by the eccentric doctor who had set the bones.

The splint at her foot was at best annoying and at worst extremely uncomfortable. Xana's sense of pride and dignity precluded her ability to allow Roger to help her with more private aspects of life, and when nature demanded to be paid heed it was with pain and determination that she was able to do so independently--and not without admonitions from Roger.

The drugged state of unconsciousness induced by the medications also brought with it dreams that made it difficult to distinguish waking from sleeping. Many strange thoughts and feelings washed over her, and in her waking moments the dreams seemed very real indeed. There were times she wanted to cry out in protest of the confusion and perceived hurts the unnatural state forced upon her.

Over and over in the fog, Xana relived those horrible moments of the accident. She was unable to share her fear and torment. The man she adored simply remained bedside, occasionally paying closer attention as a small whimper fell from her lips, but never knowing the looped terrors she was living.

Sleep was not a reprieve. Nor was the waking time. Xana suffered.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner