Subj: [ffml] [HD] In the Name of the Moonbow
Date: 01-02-26 23:34:24 EST
From: larathia@mcs.net (Larathia)
Reply-to: ffml@yahoogroups.com
To: ffml@yahoogroups.com, hilliondynasty@egroups.com
The cabin was small and cramped, but Aelis-Re didn't care. The bed was long
enough for his six-foot-plus frame, and that was all that mattered.
Getting off the monster's isle had taken every ounce of horsepower the Bear
could provide, and most of his remaining ammunition. As a result, he was
now a wealthy man by this world's standards, even without the gems. The
runner had been willing to divert to Nikeah for a mere pittance of the
total; if he ever ran out of gunblade ammunition, it would be because
someone stole his supply.
But the run had taken several hours hard riding, hard fighting, and he'd
been short of sleep when he started. The bed could have been three feet
long and made of sharp nails and he would still have found it inviting. The
runner had said it was two days fast sail to Nikeah; it would not be hard
to contemplate sleeping the entire time.
He put his battered baseball cap on the chair which doubled as a
nightstand, pulled out the rubber band holding his hair back, and -
formalities thus concluded - collapsed face-first onto the bunk. He was
asleep in minutes.
* * * * * * * * * *
The dense wood was alive with the screams of the dying and the forlorn
cries of prisoners. The smell of orcs was everywhere.
Aelis-Re blinked. This was *not* his bunk on the runner-ship. He looked
around; the trees had no more sentience than you might normally expect, and
there was no monster-sign. He looked down at himself; his arms were as
slender as before, but more gracefully shaped and his skin tone was darker
- as if he'd been in the sun for most of his life - and his arms were bare.
A tattoo of a prowling tiger wound its way up each arm. The hair that fell
into his eyes was no longer dusty brown, it was such a pale blond as to be
almost white.
A quick inspection of himself confirmed it; he was Elessar, the half-grey,
half-desert elf. He even had the twin longswords he'd carried then, when he
was a Bladesinger. He thought Larathia had them, stashed away in one of her
caches somewhere. She was attached to things like that.
Which meant this was a dream; Elessar d'Telcontar had been dead so long
even his headstone had worn away. Out of morbid curiosity he'd checked
once, just to see if the dates were still readable. And he wasn't accepting
things the way dreams normally have the dreamer do...
Larathia had reached out to him in her sleep, drawing on the soul-bond
they'd forged that night ages ago, when they were wedded under Sehanine for
all time. Good; he'd wondered how long she'd stay mad at him for that
argument. Now it was just a matter of finding her, and talking things out,
and hopefully when he woke up he'd remember the important bits.
Except...this wasn't right. She didn't play with his shape in dreams, any
more than he played with hers. So why was he Elessar again? And armed? And
(he sniffed the air again) *why* in the name of *any* god would there be
*orcs* in the dream?
Maybe she wanted him to play the dashing knight and rescue her. It wasn't
unheard of, but usually she asked him if he was in the mood first. He
frowned. He was *not* feeling particularly amorous tonight, and certainly
not in the mood for games. He reached out with his will, to change himself
back into Scott, his current incarnation.
No luck. Tonight, will he or no, he was Elessar. Thoroughly annoyed now, he
drew his swords. Let her be reminded that as Elessar, he could outfight her
with one hand tied behind his back. He was *not* in the mood for games.
The screams cut through his thoughts, as this time he recognized their
source; it was Larathia who was screaming. All anger forgotten, he charged
toward the sound. That hadn't been a playful mock-scream 'come help me'. It
had been a real scream, born of unimaginable pain and fear.
In a ring of orcs were captives, mostly female, all battered. About half
were already branded, and now it was Larathia's turn - an iron collar
around her throat, chains from there to her wrists, and there to her waist
and ankles. Far too much iron, too much weight, for her to fly.
An orc had been using a running branding iron to draw lines across her face
and eyes. Horrified, he watched as the creatures branded her cheek with a
fleur-de-lis. Her scream galvanized him into action; he began the steps of
the bladesong, longswords whirling.
They were only orcs. Bladesingers took out much tougher things than orcs;
they were the knights-errant of the elven race, the lone hunters that took
out elven foes. Even outnumbering him by several dozen to one, with
crossbows, he took them out without a scratch.
Even though the other prisoners were also elf-kin, he immediately went to
Larathia. He knew this was a dream; the bladesinger's codes didn't really
apply. But she stared at him in helpless terror, no shred of recognition in
her eyes that were streaming blood and tears.
She didn't even recognize the tattoos of the longsword Bladesinger guild?
What the hell was going *on*?
This had ceased to be in any way amusing. He used the phrase that would
give him control of their shared dream-realm: "In the Name of the Moonbow!"
But nothing happened. He could not make the chains melt away, nor change
his shape...and in Larathia's eyes shone madness. He was trapped in her
dream, and her dream was a nightmare. It had never happened before, that he
could not escape the dream or control it if he willed.
Larathia had the answers he needed. Perhaps if he freed her...he quickly
used his longswords to slice the chains and manacles from her body. (God he
missed those swords, now he came to think about it.) He grabbed her
unresisting body and fled the scene, leaving the other prisoners behind.
Her wings trailed behind them like a broken kite.
"What's happening, Lara?" he whispered. "What's going on?" But there was no
reply. She stared at the sky as if she'd never seen it before, the fresh
brands smelling of crisped flesh.
When he judged them far enough away (ah, the days when he could *run* as
fast as a horse, with no need to depend on motorcycles or anything but his
own two feet) he set her down, propped so that she would not crush her own
wings.
As best he could guess, she was in shock. There was no telling how long, in
this dream, she'd been in her chains. Avariel could - and had - gone mad if
they were kept too long from the sky. Why, even Larathia had once...
Oh, no. He started shaking his head in denial. Oh, no, no, no....you
didn't. But the marks were there, that horrible brand, and the chains, the
orc camp...the madness....
He couldn't control it because it was a memory, not a dream. He'd met
Larathia this way...so long ago. Taken prisoner in an orc camp, and he, the
bladesinger, the knight-errant, had gone in and saved them all because that
was what bladesingers lived to do. Except that Larathia had gone mad from
the pain and confinement, and he'd taken her to a temple to be healed...and
he could change small things because it was larathia's memory, and not his,
and she'd never known he'd freed the others.
He looked around. Yes, now that he thought about it, he knew where the
temple was, and he could get her there probably very quickly. But this
wasn't that first trip together, so long ago. He knew her now, loved her
now as he had not then, and the sight of her burned and bleeding face and
mad eyes was almost too much to bear. He picked her up again, gently
curving her body so her face rested against his chest, and rocked back and
forth, holding her.
"Why here, why now?" he whispered, voice rough as he tried not to cry.
Tears wouldn't help anything. "What have you done?" But there was no reply.
To her, he didn't even exist. Nothing existed, where her mind had gone.
But he could bring her back - just as he had the first time. And this time,
he could be there when she woke up. It would change history. Carefully,
gently, he stood up - still holding her cradled against him. He could make
speed as Elessar that few races could match, as his desert blood put wings
on his heels. A desert elf could run faster than a horse on their long legs
- and generally preferred to.
The events at the temple played out much as they had the first time; the
priests were willing to help him in exchange for a geas of servitude, debt
for debt. He agreed to everything they asked. He knew how that would turn
out. The priests took her away....
* * * * * * *
.....and he woke up, back in the cabin on the runner-ship. In the privacy
of his cabin, he indulged his temper by giving the floor a good solid
punch. The dream had thrown him out once his part had been played,
confirming that it had been a memory. In memory, he hadn't been there when
larathia came to; he'd been out already, paying off the debt he owed the
priests for reviving her. It had taken her days to track him down; she'd
demanded the right to help, since his debt was undertaken to help
her....and they'd fallen in love.
He was left alone, in the cramped cabin, with an aching hand and a nagging
worry. What had Larathia done? What had messed up the dream-bond to the
point where he couldn't control it?
She hadn't. He'd taunted her about forgetting what it was to be an elf,
yes, but she wouldn't...he sighed inside. Yes, she would. God *damn* it. He
could only hope that she'd taken that goddamned potion *after* she'd found
the avariel she was supposed to guard, or he'd never find her. Her dreams
would be memories until she snapped out of it, he couldn't get any info
that way.
He spent the rest of the night trying to forget the nastier things that had
happened in those years, trying not to think about Larathia re-living them,
trying at the very least to re-enter the dream-world to be at her side.
He ended up watching the sunrise, instead.
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Date: Mon, 26 Feb 2001 22:32:34 -0600
Reply-To: ffml@yahoogroups.com
Subject: [ffml] [HD] In the Name of the Moonbow
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