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[Arahim]

---

Arahim had awoken earlier than was usual.

Dawn had yet to break the Nightsky's cacophonous reverie, and It's sky lazily paraded streaks of sinuous purple clouds, borne aloft on the insistence of the dreams of a thousand sleeping minds.

He was sure Sylvan was one of these peaceful, sleeping souls.

Alone, he sat upon a long dead log, perfectly placed at what seemed some mad artist's idea of the very end of the world.

Below his dangling, booted feet swirled a sea of silent stars which swam in flickers and flames, as though in song. Unbroken, this dark cloak of glimmers soared to heights only gleaned by poets and children, creating an impenetrable canopy above, hiding the heavens' many secrets.

Malas, though strangely unnatural to Arahim's mind, held a unique beauty all it's own.

Gazing out upon this abyss, his thoughts turned deeply within.

Sylvan had put images into his head, the likes which he could not now recall. There was only the pain, now lost,but remembered, that it had caused him.

The remnants of more than twenty years of meticulous conditioning from the elders of an overly superstitious people.

Alone, alert, and aware of the possible consequences in doing so, Arahim prepared himself to see just what his beloved Sylvan was capable of.

[Arahim]

---

Calmed by the quietude of the starry pre-dawn, Arahim steadied his breathing, and closed his eyes.

Touching the peripheries of thought and memory, the outside world soon compartmentalized, then winked out methodically, piece by piece like so many lantern lights shuttered.

He was drawn tightly,inexorably within.

A dark haired woman met him there.

Tall, and pale, she held him stock still in her green eyed gaze. Smiling and untouchable.

She had two heartbeats.

Arahim, blocking out the distance which seperated them, whispered one insistent word in his head, then braced himself for the inevitable pain that would come if he was right about her.

"Syl."

[Sylvan Sherwood]

---

She lay awake and alone in the familiar house in the still alien kingdom of Sanctus, trying not to ponder too deeply as to Arahim's whereabouts. After hearing of the debacle following the Protectorate elections, there was a constant nagging wonder of just when the two forces would again collide.

Sylvan turned her thoughts back to a too-familiar subject, that being her complete and total inability to fit into any niche of this strange world that was thrust upon her in adolescence. Her heritage was too 'dark' to fit in among the truly light sworn, and her dark side too fleeting to fit among those thus inclined.

She never questioned, however, her complete devotion and adoration of Arahim. One thing that Sylvan did question was whether their love was enough to protect their bonds. Could two people truly stand as a small nation unto themselves when surrounded by such powerful outside forces? A wry smile crossed her lips as she remembered how much she had disliked the so-called hippies back in the place of her birth--always preaching peace and love in a world that had proven that it really wasn't 'all you need'. No irony that Sylvan now found herself desperately clinging to the hope that such ideals could prove true after all.

And while we're at it, she thought to herself, Let's talk about your magic. How long before years of conditioning prevailed over the gossamer patina of new love? How long before the clairvoyance and other telepathic tricks nauseated the soul of Arahim? Worse yet, she wondered, what of the accidental magic that sometimes happened in times of duress--the magic that laid beyond her control?

Zach had been teaching her how to control it with some success. At the very least she no longer made herself physically ill from the stress of having the magic in the first place; he'd taught her the key: accept what you are and you will begin to heal and control it. But along with her mother, Zach had disappeared into their world of dark arts and, no doubt, undead. The only contact she'd had for months was a letter announcing the birth of a girl-child.

Thinking of this yet unseen sibling made her shudder violently. What horrors awaited yet another female of her mother's line? Would it be better or worse in its own fashion here, compared to back on Earth?

Stop, she told herself firmly. Just stop, you're borrowing trouble here.

Sylvan climbed out of bed and stood looking at the place that should have been occupied by her lover. Where are you, Arahim? I need you here now.

As she stood in the candle-lit gloom of a time well past the witching hour, Sylvan focused that thought of need, intending to send out that invisible tendril and reach his mind. It was always a physical sensation that told her if she had succeeded--a strange tingling and empty feeling when she produced the mental burst of energy. Too great was her anxiety in this moment to worry that if she were able to reach his mind, it would likely cause him terrible pain. He was a warrior, he would be able to handle it. Wouldn't he?

But the thought was disrupted just as she was trying to push the energy forth. It was though she heard Arahim's voice as surely as if he stood beside her.

Syl.

Sylvan staggered backward in surprise. She was unsure if her reply was mental or verbal or even both. It didn't matter.

Arahim!

[Arahim]

---

His breath caught very suddenly in his throat, making a small choking sound as his eyes fluttered open in unfocused shock.

His lips parted in tremulous recognition as an unchecked torrent of thought, and emotion, and images slogged through his mind and pushed vehemently against his skull. Desperate to find substance in the waking, tangible world outside.

What Arahim had hoped would amount to a pinprick had turned upon itself and self replicated a hundredfold.

Sylvan's mind drove against his relentlessly. Her thoughts given a terrible strength through some unanswered need he could not understand.

The message(?) scattered and fragmented by the swirling storm of pain that beat behind his eyes and blackened his senses.

Tasting a metallic tang on his top lip, as his nose poured blood, Arahim clenched his eyes and tried to simply focus on where he was.

This was the test.

[Sylvan Sherwood]

---

Arahim! was the last somewhat pleasant thought Sylvan had before all physical and mental hell broke loose. It was though the moment her mind touched his, the world exploded in a black maelstrom of pain. Without hearing it, a choked and quiet moan issued from her lips, and she tried to pull the tendril away from him but could not.

She felt Arahim's pain as if it were her own, she could see as if through his eyes. Her hands gripped the sides of her head in an attempt to squelch the agony.

It may have been moments or it may have been minutes but Sylvan eventually withdrew the mental touch.

Find you, she thought. Sylvan stumbled down the stairs and paused only long enough to grab her pack, in which were bandages and potions. If she was right about where he was he was but a short run through the woods to the west of the house. It was once she was outside she realized, that physically she'd changed and perhaps her running wasn't such a good idea or the fastest means of travel.

Her head throbbed as it hadn't in such a long time, the pain exacting and hurtful and cruel.

Let's find out if you're that good, Syl, she thought and stood perfectly still, her hands folded before her as if in prayer, her head bowed in a reverence she could not identify.

Sanctum Viatas, came the words, along with a rush of hope and fear; hope that the magic was strong enough to go where she needed to be, and fear of what she might find once she was there.

[Arahim]

---

The silver medallion that hung at his neck creased his palm in several places. One tiny curve drew a thin line of blood which wound its way down his forearm slowly.

Languidly.

The cold metal allowed Arahim the focus that the domineering pain sought to rob him of.

His world swam and flickered. Pulled him to his knees. Wrenched sight from him.

Still, he saw her clearly.

A sad, perfect smile touched her cool green eyes, urgent and purposeful.