Fairy Tale

Part 4

"Leave me."

Vril Dox watched gratefully as his Body Shield reluctantly nodded, her long blonde hair sweeping her shoulders, and wordlessly withdrew.

He needed to be alone.

Alone to think ... to plan ...

His breath coming in great ragged gasps, Dox sat himself carefully down in the wide, inviting chair in his Palace suite. He closed his eyes and forced his pounding, racing heart to slow. After a moment, his hands, when he reached for the wine decanter to pour himself a much needed cup of the potent drink, were steady, no longer shaking from his hurried flight away from Tasmia and the others. Slipping away unseen had been simplicity itself. He tensed as his ears brought him evidence of the chaos lurking just outside his door; barked, hoarsely shouted orders and the tromp of many marching, running feet rang through the corridors of the Imperial castle, echoing and magnified by the ancient stone.

"Calm," he urged himself. "Remain calm. All is not yet lost."

The voice from the shadows, when it came cutting through the silence like a blade, was calm and certain and it froze him in his overstuffed chair like an insect trapped in amber.

"You're very clever, brother."

Vril's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. In the gloom he was certain that the other could not see his knuckles whiten with the effort.

"Querl!" he cried. Catching firm hold of himself, he turned to face the other man. Stepping from the shadows the younger Dox nodded in affirmation.

"You startled me, boy," Vril said evenly and then frowned. "What are you doing here?" the Tyrant of Colu demanded, deliberately unleashing all the arrogance of his high station to shine through the simple words.

Querl shook his relaxed blond head in apparent disappointment. "Vril ... Vril ..." his dry voice cut through the tension in the air like a laser. "Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out?" Vril stared at his younger brother, his sparkling green eyes hooded and unreadable. "That's your biggest flaw, I'm afraid," Querl continued conversationally. "Your oh so casual assumption that the rest of the Universe is beneath you; that everyone else is hopelessly stupid. That will be your downfall, in the end." The older man did not deny it, merely frowning his disdain. Querl lifted one sardonic eyebrow in reply.

"You're not the only one with a twelfth level mind, brother," he said softly.

Vril Dox waved one hand in casual dismissal. He was quite proud of its steadiness. "I'm sure I haven't the least idea what you could possibly mean. I can only assume that you must be demented." Querl studied his elder brother with enforced detachment, much as he might regard a mathematical equation whose essential error was not at all immediately obvious. When he spoke his voice was low and steady as he willed it.

"Oh, they'll learn nothing from that poor boy they're interrogating, will they? No, you're much too devious for that, I'm afraid. He doesn't know you. You've hidden yourself well, I'd guess. He's only a tool, after all. As his government is only a tool. I wonder how long it took you to find Earth and its legendary metas? Years I should think. But then, you always were persistent. I don't imagine it was very hard to convince them to help you, was it? Did you lie to them and tell them that the Great Queen, the Great Conqueror, Tasmia Mallor was a threat to them? Ah! I see that you did."

"You can't prove a thing!" snarled Vril. "You always were a fool, Querl."

Again, the younger man shook his head in seeming dismay. "Now, now, Vril ... what was it I just told you about overconfidence? Although, I suppose if you were inclined to listen to me it wouldn't be a problem, would it? Sadly, you're quite right. I have no proof. And I won't insult your intellect by assuming that such a thing even exists. No, I can't prove that you tried to have Tasmia assassinated."

The smile that spread itself across Vril Dox harsh, stony visage was an ugly thing to behold, born of pride and wallowing in contempt. Querl ignored it.

"Anymore," he said quietly, "than I can prove that it was you who arranged for the placement of the bomb that killed her son Grev." Querl watched Vril's eyes narrow dangerously and smiled. "I think your best plan was the one that killed Kal-L, though," Querl continued, insinuating a note of false pride and approval carefully into his level voice. "Now that one had real promise. You were ready for her Body Shield that time, weren't you? But where in the Universe did you find such an ancient, obscure weapon, brother? I mean, a projectile weapon that fired lead slugs? Not even his serum could protect him from that, could it?" Softly the Pride of Colu began to clap his hands in ironic salute to his sibling. "How perfect for a Daxamite! And what a pity Jo Nah was there to prevent your assassin from taking another shot." He lowered his eyes in sympathy. "I suppose I really should have warned you how ... inconvenient ... that great Rimborian oaf can be." When Vril did not bother to answer him Querl struck back in the best way he knew how. He hit Vril solidly in his pride.

"Grev Mallor ... Tinya and Winema Nah ... " the names of the dead flowed from off his tongue like water, "... Kal-L ... And now quite possibly Lar Gand ..." One last time he shook his head in mock consternation. "Ah Vril ... you keep missing the target ..." Querl's lips set themselves in a long, straight line of repressed anger. "But then ... you have very special, personal reasons for wishing to see Lar Gand dead, don't you? Rejection is a harsh thing, isn't it? Tasmia rejected you in his favor ... and Lar ... Lar -"

Vril catapulted to his feet, body trembling with rage, and regarded him acidly.

"You really are an even bigger fool that I gave you credit for, Querl!" he spat but then lowered his voice to its familiar level sneer. Querl was not mislead by the careful, false tones of regret that lived in that rich baritone. Vril sighed.

"Just think, brother, what the two of us might have accomplished together? If only you had obeyed me, done your duty. Why, we could have brought Mallor to her knees years ago; swept her from off her throne and claimed it for ourselves! But no. You had to fall in love, you miserable stupid boy. And what good has it done you, I wonder? Just look at you. Your knowledge is useless ... and you? You're stymied and impotent to act. Threaten and posture all you like, Querl. It'll do you no good."

Chuckling, Querl crossed his arms over his chest.

"You misunderstand me, Vril," he said. "I haven't come here to 'threaten and posture' ... Not at all. I've come here to end this once and for all." Startled, Vril Dox almost jumped when his impenetrable force field sprang to life of its own accord, it seemed.

"Quite a device, isn't it, brother?" came Querl's conversational voice as Vril fumbled with frantic, futile fingers to shut the device off. "Most sentients consider it your greatest creation, you know. Myself I would have said that the Omnicom was the crowning glory of your fertile mind. Swift, inexpensive communication across interstellar distances and with any computer or AI is most handy. Sad, isn't it, how often the invention of a weapon outshines more useful but less martial concepts in the minds of the great unwashed mass of sophonts? Your death really will be a tragedy, if only from a technological point of view."

Querl watched Vril struggle in vain with his invention in silence for several moments before Vril spoke once more. The Tyrant's green eyes fastened upon those of his younger brother in a paean of rage and loathing. "Damn you!" he shouted, "what have you done? What have you done?"

"Oh, there's no use fighting, I'm afraid." Querl advised. Turning his hand, he displayed a palm-sized remote sensor. "I have complete control of the device. Including the size of the field it generates. I told you that you weren't the only twelfth level mind in existence, didn't I? I did warn you."

With a few deft strokes of his long, elegant fingers the younger Dox keyed the remote and heard the mastermind behind Tasmia's attempted assassination cry out in pain as the impenetrable force field contracted around him. He watched in satisfaction as Vril collapsed and fell writhing to the stone floor. He would have screamed, Querl was sure of it, but the contracting field had not left him enough oxygen for that. Before he caught himself, Querl drew back his foot to strike at the dying man, slowly being crushed to death and suffocated by his own invention. His eyes blazed emerald fire, but he held himself firmly in check. Of what use was risking a broken foot? The field was still impenetrable, after all.

"Did you really think I'd let you get away with it, Vril?" His voice was a sibilant hiss whistling between his bared teeth. "If so, then you're the fool, not I, brother. I'll never let you harm Tasmia. Never! You deserve to die for what you've done to her. Tasmia ... and so many others. Such a pity, really. I doubt the people of Colu will mourn ... but, who knows? Anything is possible. What a grievous, tragic accident! Killed by your own malfunctioning invention. Rather appropriate, I would say, wouldn't you? But, who could have foreseen it? Unfortunately, no one but you really understands the device, do they? You made certain of that. Or so you thought. So exactly what it was that went wrong with it will be impossible to say, no doubt. Perhaps overuse? Why, in your ... zeal ... to protect yourself in the wake of Tasmia's near death who knows how long you had it in almost constant use? One might rather expect a burned out module or perhaps a decaying comp circuit. Tragic ... simply tragic ..."

With a small, telling smile Querl Dox sat himself down in the chair so recently vacated by his elder, made himself comfortable, and settled back to watch his now feebly struggling, dying brother. There must be no mistake, he told himself coldly, distancing himself from the scene unfolding before him. He must be certain that Vril was dead. There was no room for error. Later, he will slip back unnoticed his own quarters in much the same way that he arrived here in Vril's rooms undetected. This ancient palace is a maze of tunnels and hidden passageways. And, living here for more than half his life, he knows them all. He will not be discovered. He is confident of that.

Still, he cannot deny the swift surge of satisfaction that claims him at the thought of his victory. Triumph is an exquisite knot of joy in his chest that he savors with all relish.

And yet ...

Yet ... in the end he cannot force himself to watch. He must look away for he cannot bear to see the bloody pulp the inexorably contracting field has left of his only flesh and blood. He managed to stumble to his quarters and into the bathroom before his stomach rebelled and emptied itself. Gasping and spent, he clung to the cool, soothing porcelain of the bowl, the sour taste of his own vomit harsh in his throat.

"And now you're no better than he was," he whispered in weak accusation, his voice thin and uneven even in his own ears. He clutched at the porcelain and trembled.

"Oh Tasmia ... Tasmia ... forgive me ... forgive me ... "

But there was no one, of course, to hear his plea.

"Majesty?"

The physician cleared his constricted throat loudly to capture Tasmia's attention. He stared at the floor, engrossed in the bright, colorful pattern of the soft rug beneath his feet. He did not dare to met his monarch's black eyes. Pain like that reflected in those jet-dark depths could blind a man, he was sure of it. Patient, he waited and did not count the time. His head still bowed, the Chief Physician to Queen Tasmia Mallor of Talok VIII gestured and the other, lesser men of his vital trade withdrew, gusting sighs of great relief beneath their breaths with gratitude. They were very glad, at this moment, not to be him. Not be charged with the heaviness of his incipient burden.

Not that they were afraid of the Queen. Oh, no. Tasmia had never been known, as some rulers were, for anger and cruel whimsy. Not for her the quick, ruthless expenditure of her wrath upon the blameless bearer of bad tidings.

At least never before.

Now, who might say?

It was a tragedy and that was plain. And tragedy has a way, they knew from experience, of changing people; of bringing forth the worst in them at the most inconvenient of times. Why take chances, after all? Yes, best to let the Chief Physician run the risk of censure, of danger. That was part of his job, after all, was it not?

He did not see her (he still refused to met her eyes), but he could feel her hot gaze upon him like heat from Talok's burning desert sun. He shivered in the scant comfort of his heavy robes despite the overly warm atmosphere choking the large room. Light from the brazier, from the torches deeply ensconced in the stone walls, cast itself upon the ceiling, upon the bed in the room's center and the still form lying in the huge bed. Shadows danced and capered madly about the room like the Ancestral deities they represented. The Queen had long since ordered the dousing of the more brilliant and penetrating artificial overhead lights. He thought, perhaps, that she drew comfort from the nearness, the closeness, of the spirits of her Ancestors.

Or, perhaps, she simply did not wish for anyone to see her suffer.

"Majesty?" he inquired softly, once again.

He met her eyes this time as she looked up. And was, indeed, almost stricken sightless. He swallowed convulsively, but did not look away. Captured by those eyes, now, he could not. She did not need to ask the question. She need not give it voice. Her stiff, unyielding body shouted it, screamed it; demanded it.

So he gave her the only answer he had. The truth. He owed her that much at least, he decided. His voice did not tremble or quiver. He was as proud of that as we was of anything in his long life. He wanted to be strong for her. In the days to come, she would need all the strength she could garner. Both from within herself and from others. Frequently, he knew, one Keritalyn did not long survive the death of the other. He was determined to be one of those to lend Tasmia strength. Now, if she would only accept it, he thought with slowly mounting despair.

"He is dying, Majesty," the Chief Physician said and winced when the Queen recoiled from his words as if he'd struck her with his hand. Ancestors, that would have been much kinder, he realized. "There is little that can be done. I am sorry."

Quickly, she turned away so that he could not see her face, cloaked now in the comfort of cool shadows. For a timeless instant her small shoulders shook. But only for a moment before she mastered herself. Still, she did not turn to face him as she addressed him.

Thank the Ancestors for that.

"Get out."

He blanched. "B-beg pardon? Majesty -I-I-"

Her voice rose, then cracked like a whip. "Are you deaf as well as useless? I said GET OUT, damn you! Get out!"

Bowing, he backed carefully through the heavy oaken door and shut it silently behind him. But not before he heard the soft sobs issuing from within, oozing through the cracks around the thick wood like some virulent poison racing its deadly way through the body. He hurried down the long corridor, hands over his ears to shut out the pity of it.

It didn't work, of course.

Tasmia Mallor sat down upon the lavish bed and lay her head down slowly on the chest of the dying man who lay there so quietly, so still and silent. Her cold, nervous fingers could not feel the heart beat beneath their shaking caress. Her sharp ears could barely detect the irregular beat of the straining, noble heart within that broad chest. Breath trapping itself in her constricted throat, she waited in agony for the next beat, the next soft lub-dub, lub dub, to reassure her that Lar yet lived. But for how long, she wondered? How long? Tears moistened exposed, tanned flesh and the bed clothing alike, falling like rain from the silent, weeping sky.

She pulled up the bed covers, tucking them more tightly around his unresisting body with great care as if she feared to cause him any further pain. The guard, when the Queen summoned her, was plainly startled and very uncomfortable. She shifted from foot to foot, awaiting an order. When one was not immediately forthcoming she gathered her courage and spoke to her monarch.

"Majesty? How may I serve you?"

Tasmia closed her eyes. She was growing weary of that word. So very weary.

The Queen never looked up and for that the guard was almost grateful. Gulping, she repeated herself.

"Majesty?"

The Queen spoke softly - so very softly - so that the beleaguered soldier could barely hear her. "The fire," she said, "stoke the fire. It's cold in here."

Sweating in the overheated room, the guard frowned, but wisely held her silence, stilling her tongue. Her bow of leave-taking was deep and low.

"Yes, Majesty," she replied evenly, retreating on swift feet to discharge her errand.

Satisfied, Tasmia stroked Lar's chill cheek. He hated the cold so.

The doctors had explained it oh so very carefully. hadn't they? Oh, yes. Very carefully indeed. Her Chief Physician, she suspected, wanted her to understand, to find succor in their helplessness. The others, she was convinced, were merely frightened.

"No!" she'd cried from the heart when they broke the news to her. "No! He can't be dying! He can't! Impossible! He's invulnerable, for the Ancestor's Sake! Invulnerable!"

The Chief Physician looked away, unable or unwilling to met her blazing, demanding gaze as it pierced his heart. The others held their collective breaths and awaited the falling ax. But not upon their necks, thanks be to the Ancestors. Prayers of all descriptions skittered like quick vermin toward the Cave of Shadows.

"Not while he wears the collar, Majesty ..." the Chief murmured.

He flinched when his unintentionally barbed remark struck home, drawing blood. He hurried on. "And to put it upon him once more would only exacerbate the situation, now, I'm afraid," he told her quietly, anticipating her next query. "The wounds are there and cannot be undone. Taking off the collar now would only serve to render his body invulnerable once more. And we have no way to heal torn, invulnerable flesh, Majesty, no way to stitch it or repair it. No, pulling off the collar now would not heal him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Best to let us try and do our best for him."

He did not need to say that their best would not be good enough to save him. They all understood that.

Tasmia had never thought about losing him. Not once had the notion crossed her busy mind. It didn't seem possible, after all. The word echoed within the labyrinth of her mind like a benediction, a prayer, a protective mantra ...

... invulnerable ...

...invulnerable...

But not invulnerable enough, it seemed...

Not invulnerable to love.

Not as she was.

For good or ill he'd always been there, a part of her life; a part of her. The vows said so, didn't they? Even when they fought, when they dealt one another pain after pain after pointed pain for so many endless years, she had always known that he was there. Always known that he was there for her if she really needed him. She stroked his smooth cheek with pale, trembling fingers.

"You can't leave me, Lar," she whispered into the dimness, into the shadows where her Ancestors might hear her pleas. "I won't let you, do you hear me? I won't let you! I-I haven't given you permission to go - I haven't! Shades damn you, don't leave me alone ..."

Her composure abandoned her completely, then, as if it had never been. Salt tears, bitter as the flaming alkali winds of the Great Southern Desert scalded her cheeks, tracing strangely numb and icy paths over the bright cerulean flesh there. She lowered her head once more to lay it upon his chest, always so strong and broad until now. In despair she clutched at him with frantic hands, as if she might physically prevent his coming departure.

"Murderess!" she accused herself. "He lies her by your hand. Who made him wear that bedamned collar in the first place? You! You deserve to be alone, you great bitch! He's not doing anything now that he shouldn't have done years ago. He's leaving you as you well deserve! Ancestors, the two of you even made jokes about it. 'Why not eternal peace?' he jested and you laughed. You laughed! Well, now, he's going to get his 'eternal' peace, isn't he? And at least he'll be free of you. You won't be able to hurt him any more. Won't that be a tragedy for you both!"

Unless ...

Her eyes widened and she straightened as if electrified.

Yes!

Merciful Ancestors, YES! Why hadn't she thought of it sooner, she wondered? Please don't let it be too late. Please.

She leapt for the door and flung it open in such haste that she almost struck the guard posted there. The poor woman lurched to the side so hastily to avoid the heavy oaken thing that she dropped her ceremonial spear and must bend awkwardly to retrieve it. Her eyes alive with hope, Tasmia grabbed hold of herself. Her voice was even calm and steady when she spoke, much to her relief.

"Send for the priest Arrah," she instructed. "Immediately!"

Clad in plain brown homespun, Jan Arrah stepped into the large overheated room thronging with Ministers and Councilors of the Talokian Imperium. His long curly blond hair kissed his slight shoulders, gleaming golden in the flickering torchlight like a halo.

Murmuring, the courtiers and High Government functionaries of the of the Empire made way for him, parting before him like the sands of the Great Desert driven by the burning winds of the Sirocco, the hot dry wind blazing irresistibly from the south.

After all, it wasn't every day that even such exalted company as this saw a priest of the Order of The EverChanging.

Especially not this priest.

He was not a particularly tall man, the priest Arrah. But his Presence filled the distant reaches, the nooks and crannies, of the large room with ease, spreading like calming oil cast upon turbulent waters.

Gliding forward, he extended his hands; long fingered and delicate, they looked almost frail in the dancing light. They gave no hint of the vast power that rested within them.

"Tasmia, my friend," he murmured.

Standing tall and unmoving, Tasmia Mallor, Queen of Talok VIII, swept the room with her dark obsidian gaze, making her Ministers most uneasy.

"Leave us," she instructed them in a serene voice.

Obediently, they began to file out, still murmuring. She watched them go and it was not until the last of them departed, closing the door carefully behind him that she moved to accept the proffered hands, so deceptively fragile. Then, she clutched at those hands, lay her head on his slender shoulder and wept.

"Sh-h-h-h," he urged her stroking the dark mass of her disheveled hair. "Sh-h-h-h ... "

"Ancestral Shades, Jan! " she sobbed. "He's dying ... dying ... They tell me there's nothing they can do. I can't ... I can't... "

He lifted her sharp chin and caressed her with his eyes. "All things Change, Tasmia," he said softly. "Death is only another sort of Change. You mustn't fear it so."

She embraced him even more tightly. "Ancestors, Jan! Please don't preach at me! I know that you're the Head of The Order of The EverChanging! I'm not afraid to die! You know that! I'm not! No, I'm not afraid for myself ... " Her eyes ghost to the large bed and the still form of her Consort. "Help me, Jan .. please to the Ancestors ... you have to help me ..."

As if his body were suddenly too great a weight for him to bear, he fell heavily into a nearby chair and lowered his head. "You don't know what you're asking of me, Tasmia .. " he whispered.

She knelt by his chair and grasped his shoulder so hard that she was certain it must be painful. But he made no outcry.

"You're wrong, Jan! I know exactly what I'm asking of you!" she hissed. "And I know exactly why you're going to give me what I want!" She shook him almost savagely. "You owe me, Jan! You owe me!"

He ducked his hands into the safe cradle of the long voluminous sleeves of his robes and closed his eyes before she could see them darken with memory.

Trom ...

Lovely Utopian Trom ... Its single habitable valley lush and green amidst the radioactive desolation of the rest of the small planet. Laughter and the closeness of friends and family ... It seemed so long ago now. So long ago that everything changed ...

That everything ...died ...

Death and burning ....

The coming of Roxxas The Butcher and the shrill sounds of screams mingled with the sickly sweet odor of charred meat racing on the shouting winds ... Fire and pain ... Fear and self loathing ...

So long ago ...

But not long enough to forget.

He'd hidden himself, cowering among the hideously burned bodies of his people for over a week before Roxxas and his men finally corned him in the ruins of the Church. It was almost a relief to see the grinning pirate raise the deadly needle gun and take careful aim ...

And then fifteen year old Jan Arrah, who would one day become the spiritual Head of an Order devoted to peace and the preservation of life, in his shock and fear, did a shameful thing.

Instinctively lashing out with the elemental power that was his alone to command now, his in all the Universe, he touched the gun wielding pirate with the Gift his people were granted by The Eternal.

One moment the luckless pirate was a man, flesh and blood and bone; the next his compatriots found themselves staring at a crystal statue sparkling in the rays of the waning sun, the look of surprise on his thick features captured exactly at the moment of transformation.

The resplendent figure shone still and multicolored in the gold and purple of the setting sun, cold and pristine ...

... and very, very dead.

Falling to his knees, Jan Arrah vomited until he had nothing left to spew forth. Sobbing uncontrollably, he did not see the remaining pirates, panicked and terrified, now, turn and flee. But he did hear the harsh voice of Kivun Roxxas shouting at their retreating backs.

"Cowards!" the pirate leader howled. "Puling cowards!"

The boy looked up just in time to see the mega watt laser pointed in his direction. The powering weapon's strident hum shrieked loudly in the silence of the now dead world of Trom.

Jan Arrah closed his eyes, offered up a silent prayer, and waited to die as he deserved.

It was the sounds of a scuffle that brought the young transmuter back to himself. He looked up into the dark compassionate eyes of Tasmia Mallor and knew that he was safe at long last. At a distance he saw Roxxas struggling futilely in the arms of two burly Imperial Guardsmen, held fast by brutal hands. Tenderly, Tasmia wiped the blood and vomit from Jan's face with the sleeve of her uniform.

"Tell me what happened here," she said quietly.

And so he did.

It should have been Jan Arrah's testimony before the Imperial Court that convicted Kivun Roxxas of murder and attempted genocide. Jan thought that Tasmia was the only one who'd ever understood why he'd refused to testify. With the death of the nameless pirate who'd tried to kill him Jan Arrah lost that right. How could he help condemn a man for the crime of murder when he himself was equally guilty of the same crime?

"Let the boy be," were the Queen's firm orders. "Surely you've enough other evidence against that soulless dirj to convict him without burdening that poor child any further."

Indeed they did.

Jan Arrah spent the day of Roxxas' execution on his knees, praying for the soul of the man they were beginning to call The Butcher of Trom; the destroyer of his world, all he knew and cherished.

Praying for Roxxas ...

... and for himself.

When Jan Founded the Order of The EverChanging, it rocked the foundations of Talokian society.

"Heresy!" cried the Elders. "Abomination! Forbid, Majesty! You must forbid this obscenity!"

Tasmia set her teeth and pointed a warning finger at the Eldest. "Touch one hair on his head and you'll answer to me, priest!" she promised. "Now get out!"

The Order flourished, much to the disgust of the Talokian clergy who thundered against it. People flocked to Jan Arrah in droves; the poor, the friendless, the disenfranchised, the ones who slipped between the cracks of any society. They listened to his simple message that someone did care about them, that they must care for one another.

They listened and they were Changed.

Jan Arrah was there to Bless the birth of Tasmia's first child and he was there when they buried him. Both events came close to scandalizing the Imperium. He became a fixture at Tasmia's Court. Revered and held in awe by many of even his most fervent opponents, the Head of The Order of The EverChanging cast peace and serenity before him wherever he trod.

Returning reluctantly to the present from the safe haven of the past, Jan choked. "Tasmia," he pleaded, "you're asking me to betray everything that I believe in. Everything that I am ... "

How could he do it, he despaired. To interfere with The Eternal - the one Universal Constant. To thwart the process of Change ...

It was anathema. Heresy of the highest order. Sacrilege. Within the concealment of his sleeves his hands trembled. Would he burn in the cleansing fires of Sheol if he did this thing?

Yes.

Yes, he would.

He shivered at the flaming memory of Trom. More fire and burning ... Could he never escape them?

Tasmia clutched his knees and lay her head in his lap. "Please, Jan," she begged, this woman, this Queen who had never before begged for anything from anyone in all of her long life. "It's not for me, You know that. I don't deserve it. No, it's for a brave man whom I've treated shamefully. Oh, Daxam's Moons, Jan ... I never even got to say goodbye .. never got the chance to tell him how much I still love him ... You've got to help me .. please help me ...."

With gentle hands he lifted her chin once more and wiped the tears from her eyes as she'd once done for him so long ago. When he gazed into her eyes he saw not a great ruler, not a stately Monarch, but a lonely woman in pain.

He caught his breath.

Would he burn ...

Oh yes; yes he would.

'So be it, then,' he decided. 'Then I burn.'

"What you want is very dangerous," he cautioned.

"I don't care about the danger!" she cried.

When he frowned, she smiled and kissed the palm of his hand. He curled the fingers of his hand into the palm her lips had touched as if to shield it.

"Jan," Tasmia said, "you mustn't worry about any danger to me. I told you. You're my last hope. Keritalyn. I can't live without Lar. I can feel that, now. He's a part of me. If he dies ... " Her tiny smile was tinged with sadness. "How can only part of a person survive? Either we both live or we both die."

He kissed her cheek, chaste as the abstinence his vows required of him. "I can't let either of you die."

She embraced him fully, then, wrapping her arms around his slim waist. "Tell me what you need," she whispered in his ear.

He melted into the embrace and held her fiercely as though his life were in her hands. "A quiet place to prepare will do to begin," he smiled. "Then I shall need all the medical data collected on Lar's ... condition to study." With a single harshly barked command she made it so.

She engulfed his small soft hands in her war hardened ones. "What else?"

"Tell the Lady Imra that we're going to need her assistance. I'll let you know when I'm ready to begin."

When she turned away to leave he held onto her hand to prevent it. In a last ditch effort to make her understand, he told her, "Tasmia, I've never done anything like this before. No one has ever done anything quite like this before. Theoretically, it's always been possible, but ... " He let the ominous pronouncement fade into the shadows of the huge room, leaving so very much unsaid.

With a smile of confidence she caressed his cheek and left, closing the door in her wake.

With a sigh, he approached the warmth of the burning brazier, settling limberly into a lotus position. Clearing his agitated mind, he sought the EverChanging Center of all things, reaching for its soothing embrace like the comfort of a lover's body.

He found it, of course.

The medical data, he soon discovered, was much more straight forward. The problem was relatively simple. Lar's Daxamite invulnerability prevented any readily available treatment for his great injuries. It was impossible to suture or incise invulnerable flesh; there was no way to regenerate invulnerable tissue. Given the limits of Talokian medicine and Daxamite physiology, it would be necessary to persuade Lar's body to heal itself. From within. There were Daxamite medicines, naturally occurring Daxamite endorphins and hormones that could accomplish the task. But they could not be administered from the outside. The invulnerability prevented that. It would be necessary to use the resources of Lar's body, the blood, serum, and other things to be found there, to create the needed chemicals by transmutation.

It wouldn't be easy. He would be working with extremely complex organic proteins and peptides. Biochemistry was never his forte. In the absence of another Daxamite it would be necessary to work using Tasmia's body as a rough template to guide him through the tedious, exacting procedure.

And, under the circumstances, considering the likely result of this reckless meddling ... he was sure that Tasmia would insist upon that in any case.

Very strongly insist.

And the Lady Imra would make it all possible via a telepathic Link between the three of them. Much depended on the skill and strength of the steady icy calm Titanian telepath.

Taking a deep breath, Jan Arrah rose and stepped to the edge of the large bed and its still, unmoving occupant. Carefully, he lay his hand on the chill forehead of Lar Gand, The Mon-El.

"Pray for me, my friend," was his fervent request. "Pray for all of us."

Then he summoned the Guard and told her to inform the Queen that the time had come to begin.

They gathered swiftly. It did not surprise him in the least that he was the only one of them who was nervous. As ever, Imra Ardeen remained cool and collected, in total possession of herself. Alpha Class telepaths were rare and quite rigorously trained in The School of The Mind on her native Titan, Jan remembered. The Saturn shaped symbol of her status, embroidered in gold thread on the breast of her plain red jumpsuit as required by law, shone in the torchlight.

Tasmia was a cypher; hiding behind a cold blue mask of Imperial dignity. It was impossible to guess what was going through her mind just now, although Jan would have given much to be privy to such. No sense asking the Lady Imra, either, Jan was sure. She was an ethical telepath.

Ethical to a fault, sometimes.

"Jan?" Tasmia's voice summoned him forth from his ruminations. He was running out of excuses. He wouldn't be able to delay for very much longer he was sure. Taking a deep breath he approached the Queen.

"Tasmia ..." he began. He would fail, of course. But he had to try, nonetheless. Imra wasn't the only ethical one involved here, after all. Her stern look was far from placating.

"No more warnings, Jan. I know what I'm doing."

He gritted his teeth. "Do you, my friend? Do you indeed?"

Her return nod was swift and sure. Jan sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. "Listen to me!" he insisted, snatching her hand to capture her complete attention. "This is dangerous, yes. In more ways than one." Tasmia's answering frown leant him a small bit of hope. Seizing the initiative, he plowed forward. "The only time anything even remotely like this was done ... the results were ... surprising. When this is done your mind and body will be in tune with Lar's. You really will be part of one another. And once done it can't be undone. Think about what that means, please, I beg you."

Tasmia's laughter resounded throughout the spacious room. "Oh, Jan! Lar and I are already part of each other. We have been for more than forty years. Since I first laid my eyes on him when I was only seventeen. It doesn't frighten me. Keritalyn, Jan. Remember?"

"Yes, I remember, Tasmia," Jan ground out in a quiet voice. "Do you? By your Ancestors, think, woman, think! I'm not speaking metaphorically or spiritually here, Tasmia! This is physical! Imagine how it will be to be able to really know what Lar is thinking, what he's feeling! And he'll know the same. Neither of you will ever be able to hide again. Ever. Anywhere. How will that be, Tasmia, how?"

It seemed that both their gazes fell upon the Lady Imra at the same time.

She had never had a lover. They both knew that well enough. Amongst the Court, she was derogatorily known as "The Ice Princess". It was a rare and brave man who could approach a telepath. Her power, the power to know, to uncover all things and lay them bear for her inspection was frightening. Everyone, after all, had something to hide; some small part of themselves they did not wish to show to the world. In the company of a telepath that wasn't always possible.

Calm and serene, the Lady Imra remained coolly inscrutable, leaving no faintest clue to her own feelings in this matter.

To her credit, Tasmia did pale a bit at the thought of being constantly exposed to her Consort.

But, in the end, it did not deter her.

"Let's do this Jan and stop talking about it."

He bowed his head. "Very well, Majesty."

It took only picoseconds for the telepathic Councilor to Link minds with the other two. Philosophically girding his loins for the task ahead Jan Arrah went to work. He reached out to study a molecule of cooper based hemoglobin. He touched it lightly, adding and discarding an electron here, a proton or a neutron there. In a little under a minute he had a working molecule of the powerful Daxamite healing endorphin xylotanase. He released it and proceeded to the next.

Later, to Tasmia it seemed she only blinked and it was over and done. It wasn't until she noticed that the guard had changed that she realized more than eight hours must have passed. Her telepathic control relinquished, Imra Ardeen was barely in time to catch Jan Arrah's slight body when he slumped to the hard stone floor, unconscious and exhausted.

When Tasmia opened her eyes the first thing she saw was Lar Gand. With a hand that trembled the Talokian Queen peeled back the edges of the bandages still stained with his blood. The flesh beneath was now pink and healing, no longer raw and red, but Tasmia's was forced to look twice to be certain. Damnation! Tears had a way of obscuring one's vision. Which was why she rarely indulged in them. But now she couldn't seem to stop weeping, curse her eyes.

Sobbing deeply for all the times she hadn't allowed herself to cry, Tasmia Mallor lowered her head onto her Consort's broad chest and wept from the heart.

The hand that rose to stroke her mane of black, black hair was unsteady and far from at its strongest. The smile that accompanied it was wane as a disappearing Dry Season moon.

"Now I know I'm dead," Lar Gand whispered, his voice weak. "This has got to be the Great Reward." He tried unsuccessfully to chuckle. "Funny. Never though I'd end up here. Always figured my Eternity would be spent in a place a little ... colder ... than this ... "

The Daxamite version of Hell, Tasmia knew, was a frozen wasteland, peopled by the immaterial, phantom, untouchable souls of the sinful dead.

She embraced him, showering him with kisses and her flowing tears. "No, Lar, no," she couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry so she did both. "You're not dead! You're not! Neither of us are dead. And from now on we're going to live, I promise you. Together."

He found the strength to squeeze her hand. His eyes shone like bright, faceted gems.

"I'm going to hold you to that promise." he threatened.

Reaching out, she removed the stasis collar from his neck, tossing it into the burning brazier. The smoke of its passing rose up toward Heaven.

"I'm going to hold me to that promise," she vowed.

His attempt at mirth was more successful this time, she noted with a glad heart. Clapping loudly she summoned the Guard. "Call the doctors," she instructed. Her kiss to his cheek was soft and yielding. "Rest," she whispered in his ear. "We've a great deal to talk about when you're up to it."

She turned to the rest of the room, the sound of his even steady breathing like music in her ears. "J -- Jan!"

She was shocked to see the Lady Imra seated on the floor tenderly holding Jan Arrah's curly head in her lap. The Alpha Class telepath seemed somehow ... softer, less formidable, now. Or was it only the Talokian Queen's imagination; her own fresh emotions transferring themselves to the Titanian?

Imra stroked the fallen priest's hair. "He's fine, Majesty," came the reassurance from the mind reader and Tasmia breathed a sigh of relief. Imra smiled much to the Imperial woman's surprise. "Don't concern yourself, Your Grace. I'll take see to him."

Turning to other business, Tasmia Mallor had no doubt that she would.

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