Author's notes:

Let's talk about the classic Aristotle definition of story structure: beginning, middle, end. Or, buildup, climax, resolution. Climb up the mountain, summit it, then climb back down. Specifically, let's talk about why Sian doesn't follow it.

I've written a few stories conforming to the standard story arc. Most of the time, I start with the idea, either the climax or the resolution, then work backwards from there.

Eventually, I've plotted my way back to the beginning and start writing. Remember how I said I worked my way back here? Well, it's work to go up the mountain and work to come back down. Sometimes, even enjoying the view at the summit is work.

In fact, it's so much work, I've plotted far more stories than I've written. The longer the tale, the less likely I am to write it.

In part, this is because I've already told the story, to myself. Writing it is sharing with others, yes. But it's retelling it. The thrill of discovering the end I've already enjoyed.

Sian, on the other hand, is still rife with potential. I truly don't know what'll happening next when I finish a chapter and post it. That makes escalating the excitement next-to-impossible. This means it breaks the traditional story arc.

But I don't really care. I'm not planning to shop this around anyhow.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



Behind and beneath the dance club resided a library so vast and ornate Sian saw its ilk only in movies. Oak columns supported shelves eight books high and repeated themselves along a wall at least tenfold the width of Sian's apartment. The topmost shelf along each wall projected a brass track and accompanying side-sliding ladder. Everything was a rich shade of brown -- the wood stained to something as dark as the woods in moonlight, the volumes showing their warm leather spines and gilded text.

The brocaded carpeting showed a map of the world across two massive joined circles, woven to span the room's length and breadth. Tables, couches and chairs, all of expert make, some occupied, others awaiting use, scattered about with room to spare. By a fireplace to one side sat five armchairs, wingbacked and lustrous. Three had feet and shoes descending from them.

Callan gave Sian's hand a reassuring squeeze, holding it with both of his, beneath and above. He looked down at it, then traced her midline past her neck, rising to meet her eyes. Again, in those pools, he laid bare before her. She saw more the shapes where his spirit grew dim, then dark. She held more than just his pleasure, his strength. In her eyes, in her heart, she held some measure of his pain, however small. She held it and treasured it more than anything else he gave her so far.

Again, too soon did the moment escape them. Again, as one they moved to break the bond, both spared the off-balanced moment when the other withdrew, however slowly and gently. Instead, she returned the comforting grip. As his eyes threw their locks and gates up and focused back to her, she nodded quickly, minutely. He returned a brief, thin smile. Then he turned and led her to the chairs.

"Geravances. It's been too long." Callan nodded in deference to a thin man with bony fingers ornamented by silver bands.

The man tipped his head slightly, slowly. "Callan Sinclair." His mannerisms were dry, his voice the same. However, he studied Callan for a split second longer than Sian though usual.

"Melatova." Again, Callan bobbed his head.

"Callan." The woman he addressed gave him a smile, empty and formal. From there, Sian caught a glint of silver and followed it to a pen, then two, holding her hair in a bun. Between her fingers she rolled a third.

"Dilligaff." Callan forced a bow, but this greeting was more flat than with the other two. The portly man nodded in response, his eyes never leaving Callan.

The woman motioned Callan to one of the remaining chairs. Sian took a step toward the next one, but the rotund man said, "No, please stand, if you don't mind." Sian didn't mind at all and stood behind and beside her Sire. She placed on hand on the top of his chair and felt his comfort.

Geravances gestured, rings glinting in the dancing light. "I believe you have something to say, Callan."

"Yes. I do. Marcarius may say he has laid Claim to this one, but I had already Claimed her."

"You didn't share this with us." The woman stopped rolling the pen and regarded the two of them. Sian felt her resolve slip slightly when Melatova studied her as if one was predator and the other prey.

"I didn't realize it was required." Callan's voice quieted her heart.

Dilligaff placed his hands on his spread knees and leaned forward. "No, but it's a formality. It keeps things like this from happening."

"How was I to know that, of all the women in the world, Marcarius had his eyes set on this one?" Callan reached an arm across his body and patted her hand.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that you followed me while I was studying her and planning my approach?"

Sian startled at that too-familiar voice so close behind her.

Marc stepped into the semi-circle of chairs, nodded to the group as one, then sat down.

Callan nodded, formal and precise. "Marcarius. Glad you decided to speak up."

"Callan." He glared, then raised his eyes. "Little one."

Sian staggered. Only Callan's grip on her hand kept her from falling back. Those words, those damnable words. The shock and sensation floated her mind as if it were to blow away. She clenched to keep herself grounded and felt the soft kiss of dampness, of the wet. A flush rose on her face. By reflex, she took a small step to one side, Callan's side.

A snort caught her attention, landed it back to the present. "That seems to be the issue at hand, no?" Dilligaff made no secret of his disapproval. "Callan did not Present his thrall, so Marcarius pursued her, then Claimed her in good faith." He challenged Callan, voice and countenance, "Do you agree?"

"With all respect due to parties present, I wished only to avoid repeating the unpleasantness from my last thrall."

"Callan, I can't even remember when that was." Melatova shook her head, lips pursed in thought.

Dilligaff grunted. "I can. But Melatova's right. It was too long ago to have any bearing on this."

"I beg to differ," Geravances extended his other hand on a cane, a silver-capped rod the same colour as his chair. "History is not just the past, it is how the future remembers the present. At some point in the future, this will be as much history as was the events five score years ago. If we hold that age insignificant, how would we feel to have this day dismissed the same way?"

"Stop talking in circles, man!" Dilligaff tore his eyes from Callan to blaze at the old man. "If you have a point, say it so we all know what you're saying."

"Melatova? Do you understand my meaning?"

"Stop trying to put me in the middle. Yes, I understand what you're saying, but I don't agree with the full of it. Just because others in the future may think what we say here is or isn't important doesn't affect our own opinions on what happened to that thrall or to Callan. In this case, I think it still has some bearing."

Callan nodded and said, "Her name was Chella. She was not 'that thrall.'"

"Bah." The stout man waved a stout hand, then looked back to the other two. "Thank you for unbending his riddle-speak. I myself don't think it has any bearing on this. A hundred years is long enough even for me to forgive Geravances. Callan has no right to take offense like this."

"You forgave me, old comrade. Do you forbid Dominik?"

"Gentlemen, will you stop this? That's even older than Callan's complaints against Marcarius. Yes, I'm sure Dilligaff forgives Dominik. What good is it to hold anything against him?" She waited until Dilligaff stopped fuming, and Geravances stopped smiling smugly. "Now, stop bringing up old grudges that don't apply to these two and the girl. Callan, you've said your side. Marcarius?"

His scowl faded and he nodded respectfully to Melatova. "I say he is trying to get back at me for his last one." He looked at Callan and said pleasantly, "What was her name again? I forgot."

"Chella. Bonamia Chella Deucosi. Your memory is getting worse, my friend." Sian relaxed when Callan declined his bait.

"Ah, yes. At any rate, his last thrall. I say he was stalking me and wanted to play some pissant game by stealing my little one away from under me."

The tip of the cane scraped the carpet, leaving a small whisper in the ensuing silence. All eyes turned to the oldest man. "Oh, don't mind me. I always said, if you can't keep her, you shouldn't take her." He smiled apologetically.

Melatova silenced Dilligaff with a raised hand, still as a statue. "You are really starting to irritate me, Geravances. Stop goading them, will you?" She turned and lowered her hand, but spoke before the other man could. "And you know he has a point, Dilligaff. We are not the Wilding. We do not Claim what is not ours."

She looked back and forth at the two men. "I'm guessing you support Marcarius, and you, Callan, correct?" She sighed. "Damn you both." She looked around at each face staring at her so intently in turn, then her eyes bored holes into Sian. "You. Girl. Who do you choose?"

"Wait! You know she'll say Callan! If you're going to side with Geravances, at least have steel enough to say it!" As he roared, Dilligaff lurched free of his chair.

Her eyes never leaving Sian's, she held up the pen she twirled between her fingers. "Steel, I have. Do you think bluster is proof against it?"

The leather squeaked and a puff of air escaped as Dilligaff seated himself.

Marc's voice filled the sudden silence. "Callan took her because I was close to Claiming her. He's just living in the past. I Claimed her in good faith. He didn't. How can her consent matter if he didn't tell her the truth?"

"I told her everything. I showed her my soul. Did you see a lie in there, pet?"

"No, Sire."

Melatova sat in silence staring at Sian, who avoided her eyes. When everyone was shifting in their seats, she said, "You do realize I can simply make you look at me, girl."

Sian crushed the section of chair under her hand. She looked into the other woman's eyes, and saw only cold walls and unforgiving towers. In turn, she felt Melatova's eyes lunge into her head, take in her shame, her fears, her dearest memories. Hopes, dreams, loves, lusts, hatreds and loatings. All bitterness, all laughter, all secrets, she saw bared before that womans' stare. Then, she was released, and collapsed into Callan's lap, sobbing.

He stroked her hair and softly said, "She saw your soul, little one. She saw the goodness in you."

"Callan, shut up." Melatova's voice froze the room. With narrow eyes she spoke, her lips and tongue moving in sharp precision. "Marcarius completed his Claim first. She goes with him."