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[Arahim]

---

The sun did not linger quite so long in the sky. Shadows grew longer, inch by inch, day by day. The final days of Summer died quietly away, leaving the briefest scent of life in its wake, and allowing Autumn to touch the evenings with it's telltale chill.

Without fanfare, the world began it's ponderous first steps into slumber. Leaving nature in a riot of color, before stripping it bare in it's cyclic dance of death and rebirth.

In no place more than Ilshenar, was the play of seasons felt more acutely.

Arahim and Sylvan walked together, her arm in his, to the gypsy camp they had called home for these past months.

The sun dipped lazily behind them, fat and distended. A yellow-orange blob etched stoically upon a pale blue canvas. Wispy scraps of cloud hung decoratively, scattered and stretched thin by some invisible titan hand as if to balance every skyborne element for every painter, every poet, who took the time to watch their Heavens and steal some small snatch of inspiration.

Arahim's hair clung wetly to his head, as did Sylvan's. A clean scent hung about the two young lovers, laughter and quiet words danced about them. What clothes they did wear, touched upon their skin snugly, being damp as though just bathed.

Sylvan, her neck and chest still holding a crimson flush, stopped to tie Arahim's kilt properly (thereby undoing his haste). Raising tip toe, she butterflied her lips to his ear and grinned wickedly as she whispered quick words. She stifled a laugh, hand over mouth, as she looked to the camp, hoping, absurdly, that no one else had heard.

"I promise to remember for next time," Arahim laughed.

As though time existed as a bother, they made their way to their wagon slowly. Stopping often to chat up this one or that, be it relative or friend. Stealing kisses from one another under the awnings of other wagons, not caring a whit who knew, or guessed where they'd been, or what had gone on there.

Within sight of their wagon, Arahim and Sylvan slowed. The smiles melted gradually as they were met by Merrique and maman Sabine. The old gypsy queen bounced their son, Christopher, upon her hip and spoke quietly to the baby and pointed to his returning parents with a smile.

Merrique wore a deep sorrow and pain like a knight wears his steel skin and tabard, only now more pronounced.

Behind his eyes, Arahim felt a dull buzz.

[Arahim]

---

Somewhere hidden within red and yellow leaves, a lone meadow lark trilled out a long burst of song as though to announce Arahim and Sylvan to the two gypsy women who eyed them both intently.

Christopher craned his little head this way and that, as the song was taken up several yards away. His strange green eyes wide and voracious. His mouth formed into a perfect "O" as he twisted and squirmed in Sabine's arms, insistent upon finding the source of such unexpected sounds.

"Ooooo..." he whispered as the old woman gently settled him back onto her hip.

"Took your time," said Merrique frowning slightly, "We need to talk."

"To you both," interjected Sabine, though her eyes settled upon Sylvan, and lingered.

Taking one step forward, maman Sabine placed three rapid kisses upon Christopher's chubby cheek, and began to disentangle his arms from hers.

"Take your little one, Arahim, we would see Sylvan first. And alone."

Reaching for his son, Merrique hissed slightly at the sight of Arahim's bare arms. Flashing her hands out to grab him at his wrists, she drew him close to her, rolling them in her hands, frowning at the runes burned into his flesh.

Reacting instinctively, Arahim pulled back to no avail.

"Despite her many claims to the contrary, your mother has done you no favors!" she spat.

Arahim bit off his retort as Sabine firmly removed Merrique's hands, one by one, and placed the child in his arms.

Sounding unphased, and holding Merrique's gaze in hers, the old wise-woman stated simply,

"As you have done no favors for yours. We will deal with each in their own time."

Pounding his fist upon his father's shoulder, Christopher let loose with a loud "Nenenenene!" followed by a gurgling giggle.

The old woman broke her stare, and turned smiling brightly.

"We still see you dearest, you just go with daddy."

Turning her attention to Sylvan, her smile softening, Sabine motions for her to come inside.

[Sylvan Sherwood]

---

Watching the younger of the gypsy women taking Arahim by the wrist, her facial expression, the ugly hissing sound she made was nearly enough to put Sylvan into an instantaneous defensive mode. Silently she gritted her teeth and choked back the urge to say a few pointed and hurtful things in response, and ultimately Sylvan succeeded in holding her counsel.

As she was led away by the women, Sylvan cast a furtive glance to Arahim in an attempt to ascertain if he had any idea what was going on. He met her gaze and shook his head. Christopher continued babbling and squirming against his father.

It was the grizzled old woman who spoke first. Really, to Sylvan it seemed as if Merrique was no more than a stage prop. It didn't take alot of effort to see how angry and hurt Merrique was from Sabine's rebuke. Though she suspected Sabine's words were in reference to Shalcross and his undying service to the city of Umbra, she did not assume as much. Sylvan had grown up in a necromantic household, and had a very good understanding of just how much of that particular magic was feared and misunderstood. However at the same time, Sylvan had a niggling little voice in her head tossing out phrases such as Now there's the pot calling the kettle black and others of similar sentiment when she allowed herself to look directly at Merrique.

Sylvan listened intently as Sabine listed reasons she suspected that the infant Christopher had this or that power or gift. All the while Merrique nodded at all the right times and occasionally offered an encouraging smile for Sylvan; this effort softened Sylvan. More than once Merrique had tried to treat her own physical ailments resulting from lifelong stress regarding her own, and her birth family's, magic.

One of the things said truly stunned Sylvan. This was when she was informed how the 'gifted' gypsies were usually women, and training also almost always focused on the females. Males with these particular talents were revered and treated in a near royal sense, at least insofar as the gypsies were able to provide. How ironic, she thought, considering that in the circumstances in which she grew up, women's magic was considered much weaker and less important. Her head reeled from the vast differences of culture, and at the things being said about her son.

Half joking, and fully in an attempt to put a few moments of silence at hand, Sylvan asked tentatively, "Has he been levitating small objects for you?"

The expression on the faces of the women had a very physical impact on Sylvan. She sat down hard and refused to look up for a while.

[Arahim]

---

With an audible hint of trepidation in her voice, Sylvan slipped Christopher into her arms and told Arahim that the old wise woman wanted to see him now.

She was clearly shaken.

Inside, the two gypsy women sat quietly, and regarded Arahim in a way that gave him no clear sense of their thoughts or intent. The candlelight within the cramped confines of the one room wagon tossing slow shadows against the walls, and touching their faces with an indefinable, ethereal quality both calming and alarming.

Merrique shifted slightly in her seat, breaking the silence as the wood of the chair scraped the wood of the floor. As if on cue, Sabine began. Her tone conversational.

"You have met your cousin Shalcross."

Arahim's gaze flicked quickly to Merrique, her face unreadable, then back to Sabine who held her pleasant mask in place.

"How did you find him, I wonder? That is to say, what did you think of him? So like, and yet so unlike you."

She leaned in close to him and breathed in heavily.

"The eyes have it," she said softly, "Always that."

"Twice," Arahim said uncomfortably, "We have met twice."

Arching her brow, the old woman smiled faintly.

"And?"

"We spoke briefly. He knew more about me than I did him."

Maman Sabine turned briefly to regard Merrique, before speaking again. A silent accusation seemed to pass from the older woman to the younger.

"He was born under a potent star. You understand? Born to be strong. Bound tightly by blood to our people. Touched by generations who came before him. Mother to son, on and on...and yet things often change, and now, we can no longer see or hear him."

Slowly Arahim answered, lost in the unspoken complexities of the room.

"I don't understand, maman."

"Find him again, son." she said with a non-chalant alacrity that put him immediatedly on edge, and set his mind into motion.

"If...IF I -can- find him, what would you have me do?"

"Kill him!" Merrique cut in viciously. The raw pain in her voice seemed to push the candlelight away from her face and left her swallowed, for the span of several breathes, in darkness.

Sabine turned to her sharply, locking her in a gaze that threatened more than a simple difference of opinion. Merrique held the glare stolidly.

"Just find him son," she said without taking her eyes from the woman in the corner, her voice even, "Find him, and talk with him. Come back to us. Tell us how you find him now."

Merrique broke in very gradual degrees. Her hate fueled resolve ebbing away like smoke in a light breeze, until she stared disconsolately at the floor. Pulling with a sudden violence at a stray lock of her hair.

Sabine stood slowly and placed a hand on Arahim's shoulder. Bending slightly, she placed a kiss upon his troubled brow. There was a curious strength in her touch that did little to calm him or allay the tension within these four walls where so much was said, and much more implied.

"See to your family tonight, son. Be at ease, take your pleasure there, and always. Your cousin can wait until the morrow...but no longer than that. Understand?"

Arahim was sure that he did.

[Arahim]

---

Before the sun had set the very next day, maman Sabine had come to Arahim and told him not to leave for a few days. For the now, he was needed right where he was. There was an unsaid exasperation in her tone that screamed in his face that the decision was a thing she had been coerced into.

Arahim left it alone.

For the next few days, he busied himself with his rapidly growing son. He sang old songs to him, or bits of nonsense he had made up himself. He walked around the camp and beyond, showing him this colored leaf or this bit of grass. Pointed out birds, and bugs, stone and sky. Sometimes setting the child down so he could dirty his hands with whatever he had shown him.

Always Christopher took the multitude of tiny experiences in with a wonder that threatened to swallow Arahim whole.

At night, Sylvan would return to their wagon after spending long days isolated with Sabine. Though she would not speak at any length about her time spent with the old Wise Woman. It was then, in the hour before late dinners, that a wide eyed Christopher would try to explain all the things he and his father had seen and done. ("Oh! How you missed out!")

Doubtless, the sounds and hand gestures, and nodding meant a great deal to the child, but only served to make Arahim and Sylvan smile and ask further questions.

"No? Daddy did all -that- with you!?"

It was when Christopher sat suddenly quiet, but still smiling his angel's smile, a smile laden with secrets only a child remembers to hold dear, that Sylvan knew exactly what he meant about his day's adventures.

Her green eyes reflected within his.

[Arahim]

---

Christopher's latest achievement was sitting upright by himself. Granted, he needed to be placed in a sitting position, and when his father's steadying hands were taken away, it became a tenuous matter at best. Still, the look of excitement on his face made up for the frequent tumbles onto his back, or the much more amusing flop upon his side, -then- onto his back almost as though it were some step by step, slow motion prat fall.

At such moments, Arahim could do little to stifle, or even mitigate his honest laughter at his son's comical travails.

Even the tiny thud he made upon the thickly woven carpet struck Arahim as the perfect excuse to peal off a string of chuckles.

Whether it was the insistent, plaintive squawks, or the palpable sense of outrage, and frusteration emenating from his son, hands and feet flailing at an uncaring ceiling, he could not help himself. The spectacle of watching his only child try, fail, and try again was all at once intoxicating and just damned funny.

The boy never cried, and Arahim had a great sense of pride in that.

Noisily turning his newest unexpected fall into a true production, Christopher rolled his little body to and fro, creating momentum, and kicking out one foot oddly at strange intervals, until he found himself suddenly righted, and on his belly.

("How did this room empty out so quickly?")

Scuttling in a semi-circle to face his father, the locomotion of his arms and legs working in some helter-skelter semblence of unison, which seemed ridiculously exaggerated considering the small amount of space and distance he actually covered, Christopher demanded his accolades with a loud, "dede..DE!"

Completely taken over by the series of ups and downs, as only a father can be by watching his son win a very real fight, Arahim laughed loudly and applauded.

Raising himself a bit higher upon his hands and knees, and bobbing his head, Christopher joined in as though he were in on the joke the whole time. His laughter coming out in a rapid inhalation, exhalation through his nose, punctuated with a sort of "kkkeh" sound through is tight, perfect smile, and the happy blinking of his wide eyes.

("Again.")

[Sylvan Sherwood]

---

Sylvan awoke, well before dawn's first light, feeling shamed and somehow unclean of spirit. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the wagon in which the new, small family slept. Baby Christopher was sitting up in his crib, wide eyed, his facial expression indicating that he felt just the way she did. Frightened, cold . . . dirty. It was obvious to her that her son had seen the dream of his father as clearly as had Sylvan.

Before going to the shivering child, Sylvan took a few deep breaths and tried to steady herself, to cleanse the rotten feeling the dream-voyeurism had left her with. Silently, she cursed this transient ability of hers and questioned how healthy it was that her child seemed to inherit certain abilities that she herself had grown up with. How would living among Sylvan and Christopher bode for Arahim? Oh, how bad would it harm him? What pain would it cause? Sylvan feared she knew the answer already, and possibly all too well.

Gently disentangling herself from Arahim, she stood and bent to kiss his cold but sweaty brow before hastily moving to pick up their son. Christopher was waiting, his pudgy little hands held aloft to meet his mother's touch.

"Daddy's okay, Christopher. We're all good," she whispered to him as she brought the child to the cramped vardo bed. Mentally, she amended, "I hope," before settling the baby between herself and Arahim.

Instinctively, Christopher rooted his way to his father, and in an almost frighteningly adult gesture, nuzzled his face against Arahim's neck in an offer of comfort.

It was apparent that Sylvan would not return to sleep again this night.