Disclaimer: Power Rangers belong to Saban and whoever else, not to me. Sigh. Still, that doesn't keep me from having fun with the characters — in a totally non-profit way, of course. 🙂 That said, I should probably admit that the original concept for this story also isn't mine, but filched from a twenty-year-old Star Trek fanfic, featuring Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. (Yes, I'm old enough to remember that far back!) Unfortunately, I have forgotten the author's name, or I'd credit her here. However, the idea was so intriguing to me that I couldn't help trying to adapt it to another pair of heroes …because I'd always wondered just how Jason and Tommy became such close friends almost instantly. Oh, and the dialogue in the opening is directly quoted from the appropriate scene in "žGreen With Evil V". What is mine are the emotions and thoughts I assigned to the characters. Thanks to Hellfire for the idea to write the epilogue. Rating: PG-13, to be on the safe side. Comments, as always, will be eagerly waited for.:) May/June 1999, DB.

In The Blink of an Eye

by

Dagmar Buse

Jason was panting hard with exertion. The fight against the Green Ranger had taken a lot out of him, but he could and would end it — right here, right now. He drew his Blade Blaster and took careful aim. Tommy was already recovering, lifting himself up from the sand and reaching for the Sword of Darkness. Before he could touch it, however, the beam from the Red Ranger's energy weapon bathed the curved blade in a flash of red light, and it dissolved. Green mist seemed to rise from the tall figure as he was force-demorphed, and the spell that had held Tommy in its grasp dispersed in the slight breeze wafting over the beach.

Tommy shook his head to clear it. For the first time in days, his thoughts were no longer overshadowed by green flames. He felt it all the way down to his innards — his mind was finally his own again. With that, realization set in. He'd been captured by Rita Repulsa on his way home from school; it had been his fighting abilities that had drawn her attention, and she'd made him into a Power Ranger — only to fight for the side of Evil. Tommy shuddered as he remembered all too vividly what he had done under the sorceress's command.

As he collected himself, he heard a gruff command to demorph. *Jason*; he'd recognize that deep voice anywhere. Then, he felt the Red Ranger crouch next to him and a warm hand on his back, helping him up.

"žYou okay, Tommy?"

He sneaked a glance to his right and caught a flash of red clothing.

"žWhat's happening to me?" Tommy asked dazedly, still light-headed from his forced demorph and inwardly shrinking back from the helping hands. He heard Jason speak, and knew he answered after a fashion, but nothing really registered.

"žWhat have I done?!"

"žWhat you did, you did under Rita's influence." There was a slight pause before Jason continued. "žYou own the Power now. Fight by our side, and we can defeat Rita."

Could it really be that easy? The long-haired boy didn't dare believe.

"žAfter everything that happened?"

"žTommy, we need you." The Red Ranger was quietly insistent.

The others rushed up to stand at either side of Jason and Tommy as the two looked at each other appraisingly. Tommy saw Kimberly smile at him, and the Blue Ranger — *Billy?*— nod shyly. It gave him back some much-needed confidence. But Jason drew his attention once more with his next words.

"žIt's where you belong."

The calm, low voice was compelling, as was the look from the dark eyes. He held out his hand to the most dangerous adversary the Rangers had known so far, barring Rita Repulsa herself.

"žWill you join us, Tommy?"

The Green Ranger looked at the strong hand, then into serious dark eyes that glowed with a strange, burning intensity. Drawn into that glow almost against his will, Tommy reached out with his own hand and grasped the calloused fingers. They closed around his own, spreading warmth and acceptance into every corner of his being. Almost instinctively, he smiled, and Jason's face lit up as well as they both shook, sealing themselves to each other. Tommy barely felt Kimberly touch his back and only vaguely registered the expressions of joy and relief his new teammates were giving. His eyes were drawn once more to Jason's midnight pools, and as they gazed at each other, hands still joined, something unexpected and quite extraordinary happened.

At the Command Center, Alpha and Zordon watched the scene in awe. While the little android saw only that the Rangers had gained their greatest victory so far, the ancient Morphin' Master sensed something more. A ripple in the space/time continuum … the gates between past and present opening for just an instant … deeply-buried memories surging forward and retreating again almost immediately as the leader of Zordon's Chosen connected with the one being that had been — was — would be forever the other half of his soul. Through the Viewing Globe, the Eltarean detected a slight stiffening in both Jason and Tommy, and in that instant knew that both young men remembered as the Karmic Veil lifted for just a heartbeat …

~*~

~*~

 Their names were Iason and Timon; they were soldiers in Alexander's army. Even now, people began to talk of him as being "'the Great'. They followed the Macedonian King across the known world, conquering, fighting, sharing …

They tried to follow their commander in everything — his indomitable spirit, his courage, his neverending quest for new experiences … they even followed him into love. For as truly as Alexander loved Hephaistion, his brother-in-arms and closest friend, so did they love each other, sharing everything: horses, weapons, shelter, food, women — even each other's bodies. Iason had befriended Timon from the day he joined the Macedonian army, a new recruit from one of the conquered city states in Greece.

Quickly, the two young warriors had found themselves to be equals, fierce fighters and tender lovers, the best of friends. The rest of the army marvelled at their teamwork; everyone knew or quickly learned that for all their friendly rivalry on and off the battlefield, the two were friends and almost unbeatable together. Nothing and no-one could stand against them, and they rose within the ranks together at an uncanny speed. Their superior officers acknowledged the close bond they shared, and they were always paired up for every venture that demanded intelligence, speed, strength and cunning. They always were victorious.

Not always. For one day, deep in a lush jungle far from home, an arrow from a hidden enemy struck Iason in the back while they were on patrol. Timon caught his fallen friend and cradled him in his arms. Wiping the sweat off Iason's brow, he felt the icy hand of fear clutch at his heart. He did not want to believe, but the dark eyes of his friend looked into his, and he knew. The arrow had been poisoned, and Iason was dying. Pain contorted the handsome face, and strong muscles spasmed in agony as Timon held his friend and lover, oblivious to the shadowy figures creeping up on them and their men.

"žDon't leave me, Iason," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "žI need you too much!"

"žI have no choice, Timon," Iason answered as new waves of agony wracked his powerful frame. "žI do not want to leave you, but I must."

"žWhat will I do without you?" the young man asked raggedly as tears began to fill his brown eyes.

"žFight on until this enemy too is vanquished, and serve Alexander as before, to the end," Iason answered as he felt a cold numbness seep into his limbs from his wound, paralyzing him. He knew his life force was ebbing away with every fresh spurt of blood, with every beat of his heart. "žBut I promise you one thing: Wherever you are, I will be with you. Whatever you do, I will be at your side. And if the Gods grant me one wish, we will meet again — on the Elysian Fields or in Tartarus, or if they are especially gracious, even in life. We are one, you and I, for all eternity."

"žYes." Timon sobbed once, uncaring of others' eyes.

"žAnd I promise you the same; should we ever meet again — I will always love you, always be your friend."

"žI know," the dying warrior said, his once-strong hand clasping his friend's. "žWe are one, in life and in death."

Dark eyes held lighter ones as Iason became too weak to speak. Oblivious to the others of their company fighting around them, avenging their fallen comrade, the two men — not quite as young anymore, but still in their manly prime — were absorbed in each other, until a last shudder shook Iason's body. The light in those dark eyes dimmed, but the firm lips moved once more. Timon bent down to hear his friend's dying words.

"žRemember me … and we will meet again someday."

"žI will," Timon promised brokenly, cradling the dark head against his chest. He felt the soft breath against his skin for another moment, then the strong body arched up one last time and collapsed. Iason was gone.

~*~

 Iain faced the conquerors across the fire. The Roman Emperor's soldiers had swept over Britain like a tidal wave, strong and unstoppable. Only their Pictish cousins to the North had put up enough of a fight to stall them, aided by inclement weather, their greater knowledge of the land and their fierce independence. The young chieftain by now refused to believe that the Ancient Ones were helping the Britons any longer. The Romans, with their military might, endless supply of soldiers and weapons, and their strict discipline, had won.

However, Iain was determined that his small clan would not perish, like so many others. They might have to adapt to the Pax Romana, but that didn't mean they had to lose all of their heritage. It all depended on how reasonable the legion commander turned out to be.

Hoofbeats clattered through the darkness, and the flickering lights from torches and braziers gleamed on breastplates and helmets. A centurion barked orders, and the foreign soldiers snapped to attention. Iain straightened slowly. He was quaking inside, but didn't let it show. His dark eyes were unreadable as he idly fingered the chieftain's torc around his neck, standing casually but alert as he waited for his adversary. The soldiers' ranks parted. A tall, lean, muscular figure strode towards the fire, his red cloak snapping in the night breeze. The commander stopped just within the circle of firelight, and looked straight at Iain.

Dark eyes met brown ones as the two men looked at each other measuringly. They were close in age and height, with the Roman maybe a bit taller. They had fought each other earlier, on the battlefield, their swords clashing until they were swept apart again, and already knew the other to be equally skilled in a fight. Now it remained to be seen if they could coexist in the newest Roman province without tearing each other and their peoples apart. Iain cautiously drew a deep breath. His wounds ached, but he refused to let himself be tended until he had learned about his tribe's fate.This was it — the moment of truth. Warriors on both sides stood warily; if their leaders could not find common ground and an honorable truce for the Britons, there would be death for many of them in the morning. The very air crackled with tension. Then, the Roman extended his right arm, the polished arm guard catching the light.

"žMy name is Titus Olivius."

"žIain Mac Lescot", came the deep-voiced answer. Hesitantly, the clan chief copied the Roman's gesture, and the two clasped wrists and elbows, aligning their forearms. A small spark, almost of recognition, passed between the two men, and unconsciously, they relaxed. Wine and bread were brought, and the two commanders began to negotiate, helped by skilled translators, since neither knew more than a few phrases of the other's language. Soon, the atmosphere around the campfires began to ease, reflecting the growing understanding that sprang up between conqueror and vanquished.
 

***

Iain stood, supported by his youngest grandson, watching the Romans break camp. It had been over thirty years ago that Titus had come here, establishing an outpost halfway to the Pictish border, and now the new Emperor called his troops home, to Rome. He was sorry to see his friend go, but Titus' loyalty to Rome was too deep; much as he would have liked to stay, duty compelled him to return.

They were both old men now; their relationship had not been without its up and downs, but the connection both had felt on their first meeting so long ago had persevered. Together, they had created an enclave where Britons and Romans coexisted peacefully and in prosperity, setting an example that others throughout the land had tried vainly to emulate.

Iain watched as Titus fastened his shield to his saddle, then turned and strode towards him. The two friends looked at each other dry-eyed; there was no more time for tears. Those had been shed the night before, at their private farewell. Besides, they were linked by ties of blood. Titus had married Iain's younger sister, and his son would stay with his adopted people, carrying on the legacy of his father and uncle. The prefect's niece was betrothed to one of Iain's sons; she would journey north across the Alps to join her promised husband the following spring. However, the two seasoned soldiers knew that for them this was the final goodbye.

"žI will miss you, my friend," said Titus, his voice hoarse with more than having issued innumerable orders over the last few, hectic days.

"žSo will I," Iain replied. He had learned Latin quickly, out of necessity and of inclination; he did not want to use the services of a translator when conversing with the man who had grown to become his closest friend. Titus had tried to return the favour, but had no talent for languages; the harsh Celtic tongue had proved nearly impossible for him to master apart from a few necessary phrases to deal with the locals.

The prefect looked at his former enemy with barely-concealed emotion. Only his stern discipline stopped him from hugging his friend in full view of both their troops. Instead, he reached for the eagle-shaped fibula holding his cloak together.

"žTake this to remember me by," he requested, pressing the gilded ornament into Iain's hand.

"žI don't need a memento," was his answer. "žBut … just in case …" he grinned, for a moment looking like the young man he had been so long ago. "žYou might need this to remember me." The prefect's leaky memory had been the cause for many a friendly jibe among both Romans and Britons. Iain also reached for his left shoulder. A brooch engraved with a dragon's head gleamed in the sun. He pinned it to the red soldier's cloak himself, then fastened the eagle pin to his saffron-coloured plaid, outward sign of his leadership.

"žI don't think I can ever forget you," Titus Olivius murmured, but made no protest. "žI wish things could be different, but …"

"žI understand." Their eyes met once more. A look of perfect communication passed between them as they clasped forearms one last time. They knew they would never see each other again. For an instant, time seemed to stand still, then both stepped back.

"žSafe journey, Titus Olivius. And may the Gods watch over you."

"žAnd over you, Iain Mac Lescot, and yours," the Roman agreed. Before he could lose his composure, the soldier turned and mounted his white stallion. Saluting his friend one last time, he gave the command and in orderly lines, the Roman legions marched off, leaving only memories behind.

~*~

 Thomas d' Olivare, youngest son of the Sherrif of York, rode wearily into the little hamlet of Annweiler, at the foot of the Trifels — the strong castle/fortress where Duke Leopold V of Austria kept his King prisoner. He had heard the news at his father's table many months ago, that Richard Coeur de Lion had been taken captive on his return from the Holy Land, where he and all Knights of Christendom had valiantly fought Sultan Saladin and his Saracens for possession of the City of Jerusalem, sacred to both their faiths.

The young man had been enraged; how could the Duke ask ransom for a sovereign King of another nation? But he was made even more furious by the older generation's inactivity; too, Prince John, the King's brother, was loathe to give up the throne and power which Richard had left in trust to him. Although the Prince's position was deteriorating — his constant demands for more, new and higher taxes angered the Barons, the Church and the peasantry alike — he still was too strong to be easily overthrown, and to Thomas' mind, his father and his friends were clinging too much to their fleshpots of position and privilege to take action. He himself had not even been knighted yet, although he had little doubt that he would be — if and when he succeeded in his self-imposed mission: to free his beloved King and Sovereign.

To that end, Thomas had saddled his charger, taken his armour with its dragon device, summoned his squire and crept out of his father's keep in the middle of the night, to make his way down south to the coast, where he took ship at Rye and sailed across the Dover Straits to the continent. It had taken him weeks to reach the area of Germany which would later be called the Palatinate; it was actually a quite lovely place, with gently rolling hills covered in wheatfields and vineyards. Thomas had not tasted the fine wines grown here very often — the Sherrif of York wasn't rich, despite his position, and more often than not the drink of choice at his table was English ale rather than German or even French wine. He didn't mind; like his other friends, Thomas was more concerned about honing his battle skills and excelling at knightly virtues than food or drink. As long as it was filling, tasty and plentiful, he was fine.

He settled at the shabby inn, the only one available, and rested for a day, trying to formulate a plan. The castle lay high atop the rocky hill with its three peaks that gave it the name of Trifels — meaning literally "žthree rocks" — with only one road leading up to its gates. His best bet would be a stealthy approach, so he took off on the next night, without his armour and squire. Riding up the path as far as he dared, and leaving his horse behind, he crept through the underbrush until he reached the castle wall. Thomas listened intently into the darkness, his heart beating in his throat. He made his way around the perimeter, trying to discern where Richard would be held and simultaneously watching his steps — the waning moon cast only a very dim light through the trees — when suddenly a noise behind him made him whirl around. Before he could do more than reach for his sword, something dark was thrown over his head, a spear shaft came down on his forehead with a sickening thud, and he knew no more.

The dungeon door clanged open, and Joffrey Le Scot lifted his head wearily. Through sleep-fogged eyes, he saw a body thrown into his cell; the guards laughed raucously, and the iron-banded door slammed shut again. Still sore from the latest beating administered by the guards, the yound Saxon lifted himself painfully to his feet and turned the new arrival over. In the dim light, he could make out longish dark hair, tanned skin…and while he checked the young man for injuries, he noted the hardened muscles of a trained fighter. That and his clothes, which were of a familiar cut and style, showed Joffrey that his new companion was of the nobility. Snorting in contempt, he settled next to the other, having found no worse injuries than a few bruises and a nasty bump on the forehead, which would probably hurt like hell once the newcomer awoke.

Joffrey's wait was over when the patch of sky visible through the tiny barred window high up on the wall lightened and the first birds started singing outside. The unconscious young man stirred and a pained moan escaped him as his head began to throb violently.

"žOh… my head!" A deep groan followed as he tried to sit up. Joffrey helped him lean against the damp wall. "žWhere … what happened?"

"žI imagine you were caught by the Duke's castle guards, as was I," Joffrey said drily as he sat back.

Thomas opened bleary eyes. Once he could focus, he saw a young man his own age, with dark short hair, broad shoulders and dark eyes that sparkled with humour despite their unfortunate circumstances. His clothing was dirty and coarse, but of a sturdy cut; he'd seen tunics like that every day of his life, back home in the north of England. Thomas shook his head in an attempt to clear it and winced; not one of his brighter ideas.

"žI wouldn't," his cellmate advised him with a slight smirk.

"žBelieve me, I won't," he mumbled, trying to orient himself. He obviously had been captured and been thrown into the Castle's dungeon; so much for his grandiose plans to rescue his King. "žWhat are you doing here?"

"žI'd think the same as you, Norman," Joffrey grinned. "žTrying to free Richard." He shifted on the none-too- clean straw, easing his muscular legs into a more comfortable position.

"žBut … but you're Saxon!" It had taken Thomas this long to realize that they were conversing in the same language — Norman French — but that his companion's speech was overlaid by an accent that the servants in his father's hall displayed as well.

"žSo? Do you think me — us — incapable of the same loyalty towards our rightful King that you claim to have?"

"žI … I never thought about it," the young noble admitted, after a moment's thought. His head was clearing slowly, and he looked at Joffrey curiously.

"žRichard is our King, for better or worse, and I do not like to see John usurp his throne," the young Saxon added seriously, with more than a hint of challenge in his deep voice.

"žMy father gave his oath of fealty to Richard at York when he was appointed Master Mason of the Craftsmen's Guild, and as his son and heir, I am just as bound by it. And since none of the great nobles of the land seem to be willing or able to do what was right, I came myself to see if I might not succeed." Here, Joffrey paused, eyeing his companion speculatively. Liking what he read in the nut-brown eyes, but without being able to tell why that was so, he confessed what still brought a flush of anger and shame to his cheeks.

"žOnly, I got careless; while I was scouting around the castle walls, looking for signs of His Majesty, the guards came upon me from behind, and captured me."

"žThat's what happened to me, too," Thomas admitted, at once unwilling and relieved to do so. He, too, felt an unexpected ease with the young man next to him. Both fell silent, thinking about their predicament. After a while, though, Thomas turned once more to his fellow prisoner.

"žWhere are you from?"

The curiosity in the Norman's question drew a sharp look from Joffrey, but he relented when he saw only a genuine desire to know in the lean face.

"žRipon, originally, but we moved to York when my father got involved in the building of the Great Church everybody says will one day stand there. You?"

"žYork. My father is Sherrif there." Thomas felt a pleasant surprise at learning that his fellow prisoner was another Yorkshireman.

"žYou're the Sherrif's son? What, in all the Saints' names, has brought you here on your own? That is, I assume that you're alone?" The hint of incredulous laughter in Joffrey's voice brought an embarrassed flush to Thomas' cheeks.

"žAlone save for my squire; I left him at the inn down in the village." He spoke almost defiantly. "žAnd as you surmised, I came here to free Richard, if I could. For I feel as you do." Thomas inhaled deeply. Then, he burst forth.

"žI don't understand my father and his friends! They should be doing everything in their might to pry the King away from Duke Leopold's clutches, and instead, all they do is sit, drink and talk. Grand words are bandied about, of how they will seek revenge on the Austrian, but they never do anything!"

"žSo you went off by yourself, huh? Hail, fellow fool — well met!"

Thomas was all set to protest this appellation, when the import of what Joffrey had said so sarcastically registered. A rueful grin began to play about his mouth.

"žYou, too?"

Joffrey met his amused gaze a bit defiantly, but nodded. The two regarded each other warily, until first one, then the other could no longer control his twitching lips. Grins turned to chortles, then into guffaws until both young men dissolved into helpless laughter that brought them relief from anger and secret fears. When they had to hold their aching sides (and the guards had yelled at them to control their unholy mirth or face the consequences), they reluctantly subsided and settled back against the thick stone wall of their prison. Joffrey was the first to regain his composure.

"žI am Joffrey Le Scot." He held out a grubby hand. Thomas took it without hesitation and closed his fingers around the other's in a firm grip. Though his friends would have scoffed at the notion, the young Norman sensed something inherently right about this moment — almost as if it was meant to be.

"žThomas d'Olivare."

"žBe welcome here, Thomas," the young Saxon grinned facetiously, gesturing grandiosely around the narrow cell. "žSince I dwell here longer than you, let me be your host since Duke Leopold will not do the honours."

Thomas grinned back. Despite the … unfortunate … circumstances of their meeting, he could not help but like this young man. He somehow felt closer to this Saxon than to most of his other, more nobly born friends. He leaned back negligently and affected a courtly drawl.

"žI would have thought that, as my host, you would provide me with drink and sustenance, my dear Joffrey." He chuckled at the snort of laughter his jest provoked.

"žI would already have done so, but the servants in this keep are ill-trained, and not at all suited to wait upon two heroes such as us," Joffrey replied, with the same languorous air. "žInstead, they are wont to make us wait for such simple fare as lumpy oatmeal, stale bread and tepid water, served ungraciously and often with a side dish of kicks and blows, if we should happen to displease them somehow. Which, I might add, our simple presence seems sufficient to do."

The two laughed, continuing the game, but Thomas could not fail to understand the warning Joffrey gave him while he proceeded to play the gracious host. Resignedly, he signalled his comprehension and was rewarded by a wolfish grin. Their charade, which at first had drawn suspicious looks from the guards outside, soon turned into an easy exchange of information about each other, their goals and ambitions, and both young men, much to their surprise, found a kindred spirit in the other. Together, they quickly united against the rarely mild and oftentimes harsh torments their jailers devised for them, supporting each other through beatings and deprivations as days turned into weeks.
 

***

One day, the two young men having become fast friends through shared misery and common interests, were unceremoiniously yanked out of a heavy sleep and forcefully marched through dark corridors and up twisted stairwells. In their dungeon, they had known only darkness and some kind of dim half-light, and they had to shield their eyes against a bright afternoon sun as the guards thrust them into a well-lit hall, where the Castle's Guardian, a minor German noble with a sadistic streak, was talking to an older, richly-dressed man who was very familiar to Thomas.

"žFather!"

He earned a spear-butt in his back at his exclamation, and Joffrey quickly supported his friend, shaking his head in mute warning. Thomas swallowed a wince of pain and straightened. His father spared him only a single look, then continued to converse quietly with the boys' jailer. Thomas and Joffrey waited; they had no idea what was in store for them, or even what the presence of the Sherrif of York meant. It became all too clear, though, when at last William d'Olivare signalled one of his retainers and the liveried man presented an open chest to the German baron. The glint of coins and jewellery could only mean one thing — Thomas was being ransomed.

Joffrey swallowed, and felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. In the course of their imprisonment, he and Thomas had been forced to divulge their names and origins, the reason for which was now made clear. He knew all too well that there would be no ransom paid for him; his father was a respected member of the Guilds, a leader of the citizenry of York even, and they lacked for nothing in their lives, but they simply had no means to accumulate wealth save what their hands' labour could bring them. He stood as straight as possible as the Sherrif turned and summoned his son to his side with a single glance Thomas dared not disobey. Left alone in front of the guards, Joffrey met his captor's eyes unflinchingly. He would not show his fear to this man.

"žWell, young Le Scot," the Baron said unctuously. "žI wrote to your father at the same time I sent my message to Sir William here. It seems as if you are not worth as much to him as your friend is to his father."

"žIf you asked for a ransom for me, Sir Baron, you will needs be disappointed," Joffrey said calmly. He was not ashamed to own his humble origins. "žMy father is not a rich man. He loves me dearly, I know, but I also know that he simply cannot buy my freedom from you."

"žBut surely your family will help out?" The greedy light in the man's eyes had not yet faded. "žAfter all, you bear a proud and noble name."

"žThat may be, Sir Baron, but the Le Scot family does not claim us. We owe the name to a Knight in the Conqueror's army who fell in love with a Saxon maid and stayed behind, but his kin disowned him for that. My father is Master Mason of York's Guild — not a noble. I will have to pay the price of my behaviour myself."

"žAh."

The single syllable conveyed contempt and disappointment; now that it was obvious that no prize would be forthcoming for this prisoner, the German lost interest. Joffrey flushed angrily at the veiled insult, but held his tongue. There was nothing to be gained by losing his temper.

"žWell, in that case, I think King Philippe of France will be thankful to gain a new crewmember for one of his galleys. The price you'll bring will most adequately cover the cost of feeding and housing you all these weeks. Unless –" here, the man stepped closer and put a clammy hand on the broad shoulder and leaned closer, leering suggestively into a face that was handsome and strong under the accumulated grime, "ž — unless you should choose to serve me for a while and … earn … your freedom?"

His meaning was obvious, and with an expression of disgust, Joffrey stepped back from the lecher as far as the guards at his back would allow. Pale with anger and contempt, he could only utter one word, but it was more than enough.

"Never!"

The baron flushed at the disdain he heard in the low voice. He did not like to reveal his vices and be refused, and vowed privately to make the young man pay for denying him.

"žAs you wish," was all he said out loud, however. "žThen it'll be the galleys for you, after all. Take him away!"

Joffrey was roughly manhandled out of the room, and only the iron grip his father had on his wrist stayed Thomas from crying out his fury or following his friend back to the dungeon. He turned despairing eyes on his father, but the older man would not meet his eyes. Instead, he coldly took his leave of the baron and shepherded his son and retainers out of the castle. Once they were on the winding path down the Trifels, Thomas pleaded with his sire to help his friend.

"žFather, Joffrey saved me more than once! Without him, I would surely have perished in there! I can't just leave him — he's my friend!"

"žI would like to help you, but Michael Le Scot came to me with that toad's letter; the ransom asked for Joffrey is as high as yours, and I do not have any more to give. This was hard enough for me to scrape together as it was, and even so I had to borrow part of it."

Thomas was close to tears. This couldn't be happening!

"žFather, please! Joffrey is the truest friend I could ever wish for — this isn't right! Without him, I would have suffered far worse than hunger and beatings!"

The older D'Olivare looked compassionately at his son. He had made inquiries, and had liked what he'd been told of young Joffrey. He also heartily approved of Thomas finding friends among the Saxons; he meant his family to stay in England, and knew it was essential to let go of old resentments between conquerors and conquered.

"žThomas, it is of no use. I applaud the sentiment which brought the two of you here, and that made you friends, but it was ill-conceived from the start. I am afraid your friend will have to pay the price for his folly. All we can do is pray for him, and God willing, Joffrey Le Scot will survive the galleys and return home one day." The Sherrif's tone made it very clear that for him, the matter was closed.

Unhappily, Thomas subsided, his heart heavy with grief as he often turned in the saddle to look back at the castle where his friend awaited a horrible fate. Following his father's retinue downhill, he desperately sought for a way how he might help Joffrey after all.

***

 Joffrey lay back against the dirty straw of his cell, alone with his thoughts and aching in every bone. Now that they knew there would be no ransom, the guards had taken turns at beating him until he almost lost consciousness, not once, but several times each day since Thomas had been bought free. It had been almost a week, and Joffrey was genuinely glad for his newfound friend; his only regret was that he hadn't been able to say goodbye. For he was fairly sure that they would never meet again; his fate on the galleys, which his guards had gleefully informed him of only this morning, was sealed, and it might as well have been a death sentence. Only very few survived the rigours of that, and as for getting free … Joffrey sighed.

He settled himself more comfortably in his recently acquired bonds, for once reasonably sure that he would not have to serve as sport for the guards, since it was the last evening before Lent began, and they had talked about the feast they had planned in the Guard Captain's quarters. Tomorrow would be another story; they would most likely take out the agony of their hangovers on his back and limbs.

The young man was well on his way to dozing off, when the muted clang of bolts being carefully thrown back roused him. Resignedly, he sat up to await his nocturnal torturer with as much dignity as he could muster. However, the slender figure slipping into his cell did not belong to any of the burly guards. Joffrey was about to address the stranger, when a warm hand clamped over his mouth and a very familiar voice whispered into his ear.

"žShhh! Come with me!"

"žI can't," he whispered back, his heart leaping joyfully as he recognized Thomas. "žThey've chained me."

Thomas — for it was him — cursed under his breath.

"žWhere are the keys?" He looked at the heavy chains circling Joffrey's ankle disgustedly. Much to his surprise, his friend grinned at him.

"žOver by the door, on a peg in the upper left-hand corner. Just out of my reach, of course."

"žTrying to be clever, were they?" The two young men shared wolfish grins as Thomas speedily retrieved the key and freed his friend.

Disregarding his bruised ribs, Joffrey followed Thomas into the dank corridor and both crept as silently as possible towards the small gate where Thomas had entered. There was a tense moment just before they reached the wall, because a couple of guards chose to step outside to relieve themselves just as they were about to open the stout oak door, but they remained undetected and fled into the forest just outside the castle wall. Stealthily, they made haste to where Thomas had hobbled his horse. Both mounted the charger, and rode away into the darkness.

They rested in a small clump of trees once daylight was about to break. Only now they spoke again. The first words uttered between them were Joffrey's.

"žThank you." The deep voice was quiet, and he would not say more, but the grip of his hand and the look in the dark eyes was everything Thomas needed. He returned the look just as frankly and with as much affection.

"žI could not leave you there. Not to that fate."

"žNeither could I have."

"žI know."

The short exchange expressed more than either cared to admit out loud, but their eyes spoke eloquently. Joffrey stiffly made his way over to the small brook they had found and began to wash away the dungeon's dirt. He didn't care that the priest back home thought washing oneself a dubious, if not dangerous pursuit; he just knew that he needed to get rid of the filth he had acquired while being held prisoner. Besides, he'd noticed that Thomas, too, had cleansed himself and was wearing fresh clothes. Gratefully accepting the simple but clean tunic his friend handed him, he almost casually asked a question that he sensed the answer for.

"žHow did you get in? And … does your father know?"

Thomas answered as he'd expected.

"žI bribed one of the scullery boys. And no, my father does not know I came back for you. I stole away in the night once more, sold my sword for a tidy sum and came to get you."

"žSold your sword! But — but you told me it was a family heirloom! How could you …"

"žWhen all is said and done, it's only a piece of cold steel. I'd much rather have warm friendship." The young Norman looked steadily into the Saxon's dark eyes. "žMy father will probably flay me alive once he learns of this, but I don't care. You are my friend as much as I am yours, and that is worth more than anything to me."

This time, it was Thomas who held out his hand to Joffrey. There was no hesitation in the warm grip as their hands joined again, to seal their friendship in freedom as it had begun long weeks ago in captivity. Both knew it would last a lifetime. Wordlessly, they let go of each other and curled up together under a blanket, heedless of the brightening sky as they slept long into the new day.

~*~

 Mhari Scott sat on a bench in front of her house, watching indulgently as her two-year-old son Jonathan piled wooden blocks into high structures, only to laugh with childish glee when they collapsed and he got to do them all over again. She had brought the brightly-painted shapes with her from Scotland five years ago, when Robert Scott had married her and taken her across the Ocean to this wild and wonderful land that was America. The building blocks had been carved, whittled and painted by her sickly younger brother, and they were little Jonathan's most prized possession. Not a single one of his circle of tiny friends was allowed to touch them, or he would throw a fit of temper that was astonishing to witness in a child this young.

The young matron lifted her eyes from her needlework as she became aware of a commotion at the Fort's gate. Her heart began to beat faster, and automatically her hands smoothed over apron and bonnet, for that could only mean that her Robert and the other men had returned from an exploratory mission into the mountains. They had spotted smoke above the trees two days ago, and had gone to investigate. For the only thing that spoiled the majesty of the land were the unrelenting hostilities between the French and the Iroquois on one side, and the English and their allies, the Mohicans, on the other. Mhari prayed that everyone would be allright.

Her heart gave a tiny lurch of happiness and relief as the broad-shouldered form of her husband separated from the cluster of men and strode towards her, a cloth-wrapped bundle held awkwardly in his arms.

"žRobert!" She offered him a warm smile and her smooth cheek for a chaste kiss, all the outward affection they permitted themselves outside the walls of their home.

The stocky man greeted his pretty wife as heartily as he dared under the curious eyes of their neighbours, then settled on the bench as well and scooped his small son up, ruffling his dark hair as the equally dark eyes shone with joy that "žDa" was back home again.

"žLook, my little man — Papa has brought you a present!" Robert sat his son between himself and Mhari and once more took up the bundle he had laid carefully on the seat beside him. He drew a corner of the concealing cloth aside, and Mhari gasped in shock and compassion — for draped in the faded scrap of flannel lay a child about the same age as Jonathan. It was a scrawny little thing, nothing like her sturdy little boy, and one thin cheek was marred by a wicked, only half-healed cut, as if made by a knife — or a saber's thrust. The young woman lifted questioning eyes to her husband.

"žThis is the son of one of the French traders over at the river bend — his, and an Indian maiden's. Their hut was attacked by I don't know who; that was the smoke we saw. The parents are both dead, and the old man who sheltered him until we came won't live through the week; he told us what little he knew about this poor child. His name is Thierry Olivier, and according to the old man, his parents were married right and proper by one of those itinerant priests."

Jonathan looked at the sleeping little boy with great interest, noticing but not understanding the slight convulsions the tot couldn't suppress even in sleep. He could not care less about what his parents were saying. Curious, he reached out a none-too-clean small paw to the nasty cut. His touch on the raw flesh snapped the child's eyes open, and little Thierry began to whimper with pain and fright. Jonathan looked for a moment as if he might want to start crying himself, but then he seemed to reconsider. Before either of the adults could react, he bent and picked up a bright cube, the sides of which were painted in red, green and white, and held it out to the scared orphan. A moment's hesitation, then a tentative smile lifted the corners of the small mouth, the nut-brown eyes warmed, and a small, feeble hand reached for the toy.

Mhari and Robert exchanged a glance, and she shook her head in fond exasperation. She knew her husband; he had the kindest, biggest heart in the New World, and she knew very well what he hoped for. Well, it was all one with her; Jonathan's little face beamed like a ray of sunlight as he babbled at his newfound friend, and to her amazement, he tugged at the flannel until Robert carefully sat the injured child on the grassy carpet. Soon, the two little boys were happily building enormous towers with the prized toys Jonathan had never shared before, and pain was forgotten as they communicated quite well in a mixture of French, English and an unknown Indian tongue. Thus simply, Thierry Olivier found a new home and a brother.
 

***

 Terry Olivier looked at the happily dancing couples. His lean face still bore the marks of the wound he had received as a baby, but the scar made him appear only more dashing. At least that was the opinion of quite a number of young damsels at the Fort. He was lean where Jonathan was burly, moody where he was cheerful, silent when the other sang, but nonetheless they were the best of friends. They had shared everything as they grew up, scrapes and praise, success and failure, and they were both accomplished woodsmen, fully capable of earning their way as scouts and guides to the British Army which was slowly but surely beating the French back into Canada.

Today, Jonathan was getting married. Terry — his name had been Anglicized first by his foster brother, then by everybody else — heartily approved of the match; the lovely blonde Elizabeth was the ideal wife for his friend and brother. Only because he wanted to see them wed had Terry curbed his unrest and desire to leave. He had already spoken to his foster parents, and both Mhari and Robert understood why he had to leave, even though they regretted deeply to see him go.

The young man, all of twenty years, did not want to desert the only home he'd ever known, but a year or so ago he'd gotten word that people of his Mother's tribe had been seen further south and to the east; apparently she had not been Iroquois, but of a different tribe altogether. Some very few mementoes of his parents had survived the looting and killing, and they had given him his first clues to what he needed to do. His affairs were in order; he had discharged himself of all duties and obligations; now all that was left for Terry was one last task.

Saying goodbye to Jonathan.

Terry dreaded the moment which he knew had to come soon now, but there was that within him that needed to find his roots; for all the love the Scotts had given him, he'd always known he didn't truly belong. He sighed wearily. Carefully wending his way through the revellers, he went outside to look at the stars. The glittering points of light in the sky usually brought him comfort, but not tonight. Not when he knew that he would hurt Jon — his friend, his brother — deeply. The lean young man was lost in his thoughts, trying to find the words he had to say to Jonathan, so he almost didn't hear soft footsteps approaching. His trapper's instinct, however, warned him just in time to recognize the gentle swish of skirts, and thus he refrained from drawing his knife that never left his side. Turning slowly instead of whirling around, he came face to face with the petite form of Margaret Sanders, the Sergeant's daughter and Elizabeth's closest friend.

"žYou should have brought a wrap," he spoke gently into the darkness. Margaret, while by no means meek, was such a gentle person that nobody ever spoke harshly to her. She was the one folks called when they needed nursing, the one children turned to when they scraped themselves up or had gotten into a fix, and everybody confided his or her worries and secrets to her, certain to find if not help, then at least a sympathetic ear.

Margaret looked up into the handsome scarred face; Thierry — she was the only one who ever called him by his true name — always was so considerate of her that she was not in the least astounded that these should be the first words he said to her. Neither was she surprised that he'd heard her approach; both Jonathan and Thierry were famous for their instincts which made them so good at their jobs.

"žI am not cold. — Have you told him yet?" she asked. Although only a year younger than him, she knew what he was about to do, having come upon him accidentally two weeks ago as he was dealing with his affairs.

"žNo."

"žYou will hurt Jonathan; he loves you so." Margaret did not show that her heart was breaking as well; she had given hers to Terry the day he'd saved her from a badly leaking boat that was threatening to sink right under her while crossing the river. Only Elizabeth knew that she loved her husband's friend, and she was sworn to secrecy.

"žIt cannot be helped; it's not easy for me, either, but something I feel I have to do." Terry spoke slowly, as was his habit. For some strange reason, the clear grey eyes of Miss Margaret seemed mysterious like the small pond he had once found in a clearing deep in the forest — silvery and bottomless pools a man would drown in if he weren't careful.

"žOh Thierry, I know that — but surely you know that we will all miss you dreadfully!" The earnest little face was lifted up towards him, and it was as if Terry saw it — and the girl whom it belonged to — for the first time. Margaret wasn't really pretty, but sweet; her gentle nature was apparent in every expression and gesture, and as always it softened Terry's disposition. Something, he knew not what, made him tease her a little bit.

"žAll of you? Surely not everybody!"

"žOh yes, yes! How can you ask?" Margaret looked at him artlessly.

"žEven you, Miss Maggie?" he joked, using her childhood name as he stepped closer. To his surprise, she flushed deeply. Her eyes never wavered from his, though, as the combination of starlight, soft strains of music from the party, and his impending departure on the morrow made her confess her secret.

"žEspecially me."

Terry now stood very near to her. He looked deeply into the honest eyes, and something he hadn't known he possessed slowly worked itself loose in his heart. Slowly, carefully, he reached out with both arms and drew her against his chest.

"žWhat would you be willing to do then, to make me stay?" came his husky question, almost against his will. Her answer bound him to the Fort as nothing else could have done. Bold as never before or after in her life, Margaret touched trembling fingers to his scar, cupping the lean cheek in her soft palm.

"žThis," she whispered, just before she touched her lips to his mouth in the gentlest caress.
 

***

 They were married within the month, and Jonathan and Elizabeth were ecstatic. Mhari and Robert welcomed the news that their beloved foster son would stay after all with heartfelt joy, and for a few happy years, all went well. Then, disaster struck. A trader brought typhoid fever to the remote Fort, and after four weeks, when the disease had run its course, less than half of its occupants had survived. Both Mhari and Robert were now gone, as was Jonathan's small daughter. Elizabeth, still weak from her own fight against the raging fever, clung desperately to four-year-old Timothy, submerging her grief in caring for the newly motherless little boy.

Thierry — Margaret's habit of using his true name had gradually changed the others' mode of addressing her husband back to its original form — stood at Jonathan's door, all ready to leave. His brown eyes were hard and dry, but they softened as he looked at his friends and his son one last time.

"žIt's time."

"žHow can you go?" Jonathan asked his best friend. The low voice was hoarse with barely-suppressed emotion.

"žI have to," was his answer. "žIf it hadn't been for Margaret, I would have left the day after your wedding." Thierry recalled that night with a rush of pain so intense, he had to close his eyes.

"žJon … brother, I don't want to leave. Not you, and not Timothy. But the road I'll need to travel is a long and hard one, full of danger. I don't know what I will find, or if I'll find what I'm searching for. It's no place for a child. Besides, having him to care for will help Elizabeth to get over the loss of little Susannah."

Jonathan Scott looked over his shoulder where his wife and godson clung to each other. Then, he turned back to his best friend of so many years.

"žDoes finding your mother's people mean more to you than we?" he couldn't help asking. He saw the brief flash of hurt in Thierry's eyes and was ashamed. "žI'm sorry, I …"

"Don't be. The answer is yes, and no. No, because I love all of you … as much as I ever loved Margaret. You know that, don't you?" Thierry didn't need the confirming nod. "If I hadn't lost her … but she's gone." Thierry swallowed hard. "And yes, because although you and yours have shown me nothing but kindness and love, I need to find out who I am, what and where my roots are. I need to, Jon — or I'll never find any peace. Margaret could give me that peace, but …"

Jonathan nodded resignedly. They'd been over this so often, ever since Thierry had announced his intention of going away, and he knew that in this he couldn't change his mind.

"žWe'll take good care of Timothy for you," he promised.

"žI know you will. And God willing, you'll have a son of your own one day — when it doesn't hurt as much any more."

Thierry turned towards Elizabeth with a few swift strides. He embraced her and kissed her pale cheeks, over which silent tears began to flow. Then, he bent towards his son. Tilting the small face up to his own, he brushed a stubborn lock of brown hair out of the child's eyes.

"žBe good for Auntie Eliza and Uncle Jon, Timothy."

"žI promise, Papa," the boy said solemnly.

"žVery well. And remember, son — Papa loves you, no matter what. Even though I won't be here, you will always be my brave boy. Don't let anyone tell you differently." He hugged the child carefully, then got up. His eyes locked with Jonathan's, and both men had a hard time holding back their tears.

"žWill you come back?"

"žIf I can."

Both men knew it was highly unlikely. Their paths would go in different directions from now. Mutely, they embraced, saying goodbye through looks and desperate grips. At last, Thierry Olivier tore himself away from his best friend and mounted his horse, to begin the long journey towards his mother's people. He rode out of the gate without looking back while Jonathan stood with little Timothy's hand clasped in his own, looking after his friend until the forest hid him from view.

~*~

 "žThe baby's coming."

Running Doe's voice was so soft, White Falcon almost didn't hear her. He stopped and turned towards his woman.

"žAre you sure?"

"žYes."

She didn't need to say more. He put an arm around his small mate and supported her while he adapted his long strides to her shorter legs. He didn't like this; the two of them had fled from the large contingent of Cherokee and their uniformed guards under cover of night only four days ago, taking advantage of a disturbance among the soldiers' horses. They'd rested by day and walked at night ever since then, but Running Doe's swollen belly made fast progress almost impossible. They had been lucky so far to find water; armed only with his hunting knife, White Falcon hadn't been able to snare so much as a single prairie turkey or hare, and hunger was gradually weakening them. Not that they'd had that much food on their long trek, anyway.

The Chief Soldier, an older man who had told them that he was only following his orders, was a hard and unforgiving man, driving the Cherokee from their mountain home for many months. They had been separated into two groups at random, and White Falcon had seen his family herded onto large river boats like so much cattle. He knew not of their fate; he was just glad that Running Doe was still at his side. Many of those riding in and walking behind the hundreds of wagons had already died, from exhaustion, little food and diseases they were too weak to fight off. Not that this man Scott would have granted permission to tend for them anyway, the young Cherokee thought bitterly. He cast about him for a place where Running Doe could give birth undisturbed.

"žUhhhh!"

The soft exclamation of pain did not go unheard; time was running out on them. Whte Falcon sighed and guided his woman into a thicket of bushes that afforded them at least some protection. As he eased her to the ground and helped her shed her leggings, she looked up at her tall mate with frightened but trusting eyes.

"žIsn't this too close to that?" Her head inclined towards the small log cabin just visible against the night sky. It was dark, but both could recognize the signs that people lived there.

"žWe can only hope," he answered with a reassuring smile. "žIt is the middle of the night, and white men usually sleep deeply. If you can keep quiet, they won't even know we've been here."

He had done everything he could for his woman, and rose from his crouch.

"žWill you be allright?" It was their custom to leave matters of birth to their women.

"žI think so," Running Doe panted around another contraction. "žWhat will you do?"

"žTry and see if there's any food to be found." He touched her cheek gently one last time. He'd counted himself the luckiest man in their valley when Running Doe and her father agreed to his courtship, and ever since he had found nothing in their union to change his opinion. White Falcon moved carefully out of the concealing bushes and crept towards the silent farmhouse. At the back, he saw a well-tended garden with vegetables and late-summer fruit, and filled a pouch at his belt with a variety of things. He didn't recognize all of them, but he knew that they could eat them; besides, his innards were churning so much with hunger, that he didn't care anymore whether something tasted good or not. He looked around once more. There was a small structure at the far end of the well-kept yard; he recognized the smell, and his mouth watered. Some kind of bird was being kept there.

White Falcon hesitated only briefly. The white people would not miss one or two birds so much, and Running Doe would be in need of the energy fresh meat could give her. Stealthily, he moved towards the hut.
 

***

Jared Scott folded the letter his mother had sent in the