Author's notes:

Yes, it's been a while. I think I may have burnt out. I don't know why or how. Yes, lots of stress. Still lots, but I managed to write this. I'll leave it for you to say if it is or isn't worth reading.

Back to writing about writing, as is the raison d'etre for these author's notes. I think a writer needs to be slightly unhappy to write. Not so stressed as to be too busy scrambling for dear breath, but a decent amount of unhappiness is required for this sort of creative endeavour.

Think about it -- writing is about making people uncomfortable. No, not (necessarily) the readers, but those figments of imagination the author creates. If an author is a god to those in hir stories, then most authors are capricious gods at best, and perhaps sadists if not.

Even if we set aside the pop.psychology angle of "making someone miserable so as to not feel at the bottom of the heap," there still is the basic prerequisite that, in order to depict pain, one has to at least have experienced it to some degree, however minor.

Couple this with the want to be original, and a prolific writer has probably already wrung the past for much of its juice. Thus, I say again, a writer needs to be unhappy to some moderate degree.

Otherwise, it's just "Happily ever after," and that could get boring...

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



Marcarius hit the floor hard, more pushed than fell. Callan slowly rolled his fingers first into claws, then fists. His body felt formed of steel cables and bulging steam pipes. The roar filled him, warmed him, fueled him. It seized him, and he lurched forward a step. A second one, and he was next to his fallen nemesis. He crouched and grabbed a handful of fabric. He lifted Marcarius' head up with that hand, the other pulled back by his ear.

He set him down. Gently, he lowered Marcarius back onto the littered carpeting.

''Go... ahead.'' Bloody spittle emerged from his mouth accompanying the words. ''I'm half-dead...anyhow.''

Callan shook his head. ''No, she wouldn't want me to.'' He gave Marc's delicately-situated bruise a nudge. "Where is she?"

The fallen man screamed hoarsely, thrashed, then flopped onto his side and curled fetal, whimpering.

Locke put a hand on Callan's shoulder as the two women looked away. ''No, my friend. Not that way, either.''

He crouched between Marc and Callan, bottle and two shot glasses in hand. ''I'd offer a toast,'' he said as he pulled a jagged piece of glass between himself and Marc. ''But I am at loss for an occasion. Any ideas?'' While waiting for an answer, he poured.

Marc coughed. ''How about me still being alive?'' His voice was soft, his words barely above a whisper. He extended an unsteady hand.

Locke nodded. Instead of placing the liquor in Marc's hand, he offered to the man's lips, who gratefully sipped from it. An embarassed cough spilled some, but most of the glass went into him and stayed.

Locke changed from crouching to kneeling on one knee as he swiveled on the other sole and offered the glass to Callan. "What say, friend? As good a reason as any. Any day alive is a victory, in some circumstances."

Staring still at Marc, Callan extended a stiff hand, pinched the glass from his comrade and threw its contents into his mouth, which then sealed with the same unyielding expression. When Locke's gaze made clear that he expected some reaction, Callan nodded slowly.

"Ressa? Can you bring three more shot glasses?" Locke poured another round for the two men. He caught the other woman's eye. "Ceili, bring me two cushions, please. And that tablecloth, please." He then sat crosslegged, his back fully to Callan, his attention fully to Marc.

"Who are you?" Marc's breathing was pained, shallow. His airway seemed finally clear, and his cough abated to the a series of huffs as he cleared his throat every few seconds.

"I'm surprised you don't remember, Marcarius. Then again, it's been a while." He accepted the three small cups from Ressa. "Thank you, doll."

Marc stared at him. "You seem to have me at a disadvantage." The vodka soothed him. His hand was steadier, and as he brought the second glass to his lips, Ceili put the cushion under him. "Thank you, dear."

Ceili mouthed a reflexive "You're welcome," her voice as near-silent as his. At Locke's hinting gestures, she gingerly laid the sheet over the wounded man's hips and below.

Marc again turned back to Locke. "As I said, a disadvantage. Should I know you?"

Callan took a step forward, but halted when Locke raised his hand and said, "Probably not. No matter now." He paused, regarded his glass, then downed it. "We've other things on our mind, yes?"

Marc grimaced. "Yes, I can guess." He held out his glass.

"Well, to start with, where is she, Marcarius?" Callan crouched down behind and beside Locke. His voice was level, but his eyes showed the intensity roiling within him.

"Callan, we've plenty of time to discuss this like civilized people. If there's any time pressure, I'm sure Marcarius would have told us." He poured more into the glasses before him.

"No. They're long gone." Marc pushed himself up on one hand, tried to match Locke's sitting position, then let out a raspy cry and lowered himself back down. "Pardon me... Pardon me if I don't get up." His face contorted as he spoke.

"That's quite a bruise you have down there, Marcarius." Locke pointed at his hips with the half-empty bottle. "Looks quite painful."

"It could have been worse." Marc allowed himself to roll onto his back. His eyes stared at the ceiling, the indirect lighting and brass trim. "She meant to kill me. Melatova."

Locke nodded. "Looks like she came close. Ressa, could you perhaps see if there's any ice behind the minibar?"

"What, to keep the swelling down?" A tear escaped in spite of Marcarius blinking.

"Maybe to numb the pain. Unless you have some morphine on-board?"

"Sorry, all out. I'll have to remember to restock next time I'm in port."

"Marcarius. I may be able to help. Do you mind if I try?"

"Help how, Callan? I think I'm well beyond help now."

"Ease your pain. Shall I?"

Marcarius sighed. "Very well. It's not like I've still got pride to lose." He clenched shut his eyes in bitter anticipation, then they relaxed and a surprised expression took over. "That helped. A little, but that helped."

"It's just pain. I did nothing to fix the damage. I don't know if I can, so I thought it best."

Locke nodded. "Sounds wise, Callan."

"But why did you, Callan?" Marcarius turned his head to look at his adversary.

"I don't want to be like you, Marcarius Adipisci Velit. That's all there is. Part of me wanted it, but that's not who I am."

"Not who you are in front of other people, Callan Sinclair. But we know different. I know what you're like when no one is watching."

Callan stiffened, closed his eyes and inhaled. His eyes were calm, sad and soft when they opened. "Those days were past."

Marc sneered. "Those days are now again."

To which both Callan and Locke only nodded. "They are what what we choose to make them," Locke added.

A soft cry of surprise filled the silence when Callan laid the bag of ice under the sheet.

"Choices. Hah. Don't talk to me about choices. I've certainly made some bad ones of late."

"Go on." Callan found his center again. His voice no longer fought him, and his heart started to slow from it's manic pace.

"Trusting her, for one."

"Sian?" Callan gave Locke a glance as the other man got up and beckoned the other two ladies to him, away from Callan and Marc.

"No, you fool. Melatova. Do you think Sian could have done this?"

"No, but I think she might have pretended to go with you, and somehow that led to this."

Marcarius shook his head, little bits of glass and debris getting trapped in his coiffed hair. "No, no pretense in her, Callan." He snickered. "No, she saved my life, if anything."

Callan blinked, speechless.

"You heard me. Melatova was about to steal my soul, and she made her stop."

"What?"

"It was my fault. I broke the deal. Yes, deal. I made a deal with Melatova. But I couldn't go through with it."

"What deal?"

"You need me to spell it out? Very well. She awards Sian to me. In return, she gets to share Sian with me."

"What? She's not a head of cattle, damn you!"

"So you've long said. Well, you're right. There. I said it. She's not. None of them are, or were." He looked away. "You're right. They aren't cattle." His voice never rose above a hoarse whisper, but those last words required Callan to Listen in order to hear them.

"You chose a very poor time to realize that."

"Epiphanies are rarely convenient. I'm just glad I had one." He forced himself onto his elbows, his face contorted by agony. "Even if it did hurt."

"I didn't know Melatova could do that."

"Well, imagine my surprise when she grabbed me. She's just as twisted as Lamentine. No surprise, given their family, I suppose." He managed to get his hands onto the ground behind him and ground his teeth as they pushed him upright.

"So she was taking that last burst from you, and Sian stopped her?"

"Yes. She said she'd go with her. Sian. Sian said she'd go with Melatova, if she'd stop." He heaved himself up to sit cross-legged, his hands gathering the bag of ice and keeping it against him.

"Which brings up to where we are."