Voreda,, Maximia Caesariensis, Britannia, the empire according to Maximianus and Constantius.  c. winter 297 C.E.

To any who read these words of mine:

Please forgive this rambling missive as it reflects my scattered thoughts and memories.  Sometimes I stare at this blank page for hours, the words I wish to write not forthcoming because I either do not remember how to put them in coherent order or they refuse to leave the chaotic shelter of my mind.  To put them down on physical matter is to expose them to the scrutiny of the world.  There are some who would take these ambassadors of my heart and examine them under the microscope of scorn, then dissect them for hidden meaning that never was intended to be conveyed at all. 

It is a risk I take whenever I pick up a stylus or touch a keyboard to share my ideas with others.  At one time I cared nothing for what anyone might say in retaliation to my voice, simply went about my way and let them wallow in their disapproval.  I knew that my ideals and truths were hard won and long thought over before they were ever inked onto the scroll of posterity. 

Human nature, though, dictates that we wish to please those we respect and admire, especially those whom we care about and have taken into our hearts and given the keys of our souls.  We expect that as we covet and protect their gifts and secrets, so will they return the favor upon us.  Is that not true friendship and trust?  But so does imperfect tendency toward jealousy of another's great ability cloud our judgment and begin to fray the delicate fabric of companionship that binds us to those we sough as company in our adventures. 

I would not write on this now, except that for spans of time that I stopped counting months ago it has vexed me, for I cannot pinpoint the moment that the oppressive spirit of competition and possession began to steal my joy and freedom of expression away from me.  Like a predatory beast it consumes me, this question of whether I can again rise up from the ashes of control and slavery to the will of others and become who I was born to be.  And not give a damn if they care for it or not. 

Boudicca.  A name I have felt unworthy to bear for a very long time, for the burden of responsibility to live up to all its connotations.   The victorious one.  But what have I gained victory over since the day I walked away from the stories and into obscurity?  Nothing.  I fear the light of society and hide myself within the caverns of my dark spirit in order that I not hurt and be hurt, when once love and the power of the healer flowed through my veins as thick and hot as my blood and impelled me to walk among humankind and touch all with the joy of laughter.  I seek the brightness of day again in vain.  All that greets me is the night and the monsters it hides.  Demons that bear my likeness and whisper reprimand that I am not what I would give anything to be just one more time.

The bane of the healer is that as they try to remain detached from the human race in order to bear the pain and stench of illness and death in those they meet everyday, so love of mankind drives their every action.  The irony of the seeker is that as they desire solitude to sort out the truths that reveal themselves in a mind uncluttered by all but their own voice, they are impelled to search out the proximity of others in order to share what they have learned to ease the path for others.  The simple truth is that no one can exist alone.  Even the most ardent of loners seeks human companionship from at least one individual who understands and accepts them for all they are and all they are not.   We are born to need fellowship.

The Come On Inn, c. early summer 2004 C.E.

Even as that basic truth haunts me, I am not always sure where it is that I must seek companionship.  Once I knew such a place, a haven of love and friendship that offered me a home for my wandering spirit.  There were others like me there, men born from the fire of the storyteller's dream.  As their creator breathed life in my creator's gift, so was I made and joined with them.  Soon we were accompanied in our adventures by women who shared a common love of telling tales beyond the origins from which the men and I came.   All that prevented us from being whatever and whomever we wished were the boundaries of the imagination.  But as evolution goes, things must needs always change.  The details are not for me to reveal, but suffice it to say that as talents and personalities shift, it is inevitable that that which the heart treasures also trades form and position. 

It is no less true of myself.  Even as I fought to stay with them, I think I knew that eventually, the need to continue the journey alone would overtake me.  But what I could not foresee was that it would cause me the most distressing pain of all when I finally came to terms with my unsettled nature.  Despite the solicitations of those who knew my war to stay and let them battle beside me, pride- that I could win alone, that I did not want to burden them any further beyond that which they already suffered- led me away. 

But in going I left behind a promise, of which Maximus only knows.  In the last words I wrote to him in the twilight hours of my time among our family, I told him I would reappear to watch over him and the others though they would never see me and I would never contact them.  I remain faithful to my word, and perhaps that is why I sit here in the shadows of this funhouse of revelry and imagination.  They may never know the secrets I hide within the vault of my heart, but that is a queen's prerogative- to allow her people peace while she aches over their welfare. Many things change.  Not everything.  Not the sense of duty and the spirit of love that drives me to cherish their memory and seek the circle of their love and kinship again.

The Come On Inn, c. mid-summer 2004 C.E.

It is different now.  I must keep telling myself that.  There is history that I cannot deny, and they will not forget.  Even though as Cort and I established, it is better left where it lies and the future paved with the lessons we take from it.  His touch as we danced in the safety of the dark told me I was missed.  Uma's understanding nod toward a booth in the shadows of the pub said that I need not come out of my shell until I was ready.  Both gestures whispered a welcome home.  The others, the women, have been nothing less than kind in their dealings with me.  The men smile and tease me in the way they might a little sister whom they adore and cosset.  Yet I still feel oddly removed, as though a wrong step or word will cost it all again, or that I was simply an intruder all along.  I laugh at their jokes and their adventures; listen to their troubles and offer what little advice I feel I am able, but I still do not feel...a part of the whole...

Voreda,, Maximia Caesariensis, Britannia, the empire according to Maximianus and Constantius.  c. spring  298 C.E.

My last patient of the day, an elderly woman fortunate enough to have lived beyond her forties and on into her sixties asked me today why I replace the joy of a family of my own with the care of others who come to me to be healed. 

"Follow my finger," I instructed.  While her eyes traced the path of my finger as it took her through a series of sight tests, I thought on my answer.  "I have not found another that can replace what was lost to me," I finally lamented. 

"You're too young to wander the forests alone, muttering to yourself and losing your mind to the games of the gods, Honored One.  There are many fine men in this world that would welcome you to their beds." 

Smiling, I held her wizened face in my hands, catching her eyes with mine for a moment longer than needed to gauge her health.  "If I am old enough to incur the title you have bestowed on me, grandmother, then I am old enough to start talking nonsense to myself while I gather your medicine."  I handed her a tiny vial of dandelion for her stomach.  But she was not put off so easily.

"Child, you have the benefit of education and travel.  They make you wise, but old age and experience are my teachers.  You cannot outrun yourself.  Make amends with whatever troubles you.  You are no good to anyone until you do.  All this," she indicated my shelves of herbs and healing plants and the cauldron simmering in the hearth a few feet away, and then pointed to herself, "is a means to distract you from doing what you know you should, but your heart is not in it."  Long after she was gone, I sat here at this table, thinking on her words while I chewed my food. 

When was the last time I cared about the succulence of the meat I strip from the bone in my grip?  Probably the last time I had entertained a guest or fed my husband and ensured that all the laws of hospitality and love went into the display of the feast I put down on the table for them.  Only the need for sustenance requires that I eat at all.  My gaze steals to my fingers, the skin and nails dry and cracked from water and dirt and wind.  My little house in the woods is tidy, but only so I can find items necessary for my occupation, rather than a desire to provide a comfortable and warm haven for a man that I loved and wanted to make happy.  Even my precious druid robes are becoming worn and shapeless from repeated washing and wear and I have not bothered to have more made.  I think vaguely about what Uma might think if she were to see me this way, and grin wickedly for the first time in ages at the idea of the shattering scream of horror that I know would erupt from her mouth.   Even my brief excursions to that other place have been voyages in a sea of dreams, guided only by the hands of the gods and the winds of whim and curiosity.   The very words on this page seem cold and forced, as though the skill were newly learned rather than the very lifeline of my existence.

What a strange conundrum I find myself in at this writing.  There was a time I ached to feel nothing at all and remain free of the fetters of emotion.  Now I search through the storage rooms of my soul, desperately seeking the smallest scrap to hold onto, that I might know that I am alive and not a wraith looking for release from her purgatorial hunt for peace.   

The words Maximus wrote to me haunt me, as though his voice were in the glow of the lamp beside me and the whistle of the breeze outside my walls.  There is no reason in the world you should feel that you must do this alone.  Are you afraid to be seen as weak?  That the mighty Boudicca might actually need someone's aid? 

The truth that echoes in the hollow canyon of my heart is...yes.  But I do not know the way back.

Perhaps by pulling it out of its hidden cache and opening it, the answer will come from its pages.  It is the one thing I took with me when I left that place, so I might never lose that part of my history to the failure of memory that comes with old age.  Every word I have ever written, done and incomplete resides in this weathered volume along with these mementos.  First to greet my gaze is a dog-eared, worn copy of Mediations, my last reading kept in place with a silver anklet.  A bawdy limerick written on a restaurant napkin, a silver sun wheel placed around my neck are set a few pages over from that and bring a smile to my lips as I remember the things said by those who gave them to me.   Pressed in the middle of this scrapbook is a faded yellow rose, laid on my pillow to thank me for a moment's shelter given in a storm of fear and heartache.  My watch is no longer running; the battery ran down long ago, given to me by a boy who worried I might never care enough about time.  It seems he was correct.  An antique, coral-colored cameo brooch from the early days of my experience in that modern world drops out of her spot in the book, landing with a dull thud on the heavy oak of my table, resounding with the echo of my heart's own fall into sadness over the swirl of pictures and voices that run endlessly through my mind as I examine the contents of this book.  Even now, in the whisper of the breeze I can hear the soft rasp of the heart of a man in his words as he took my hand in his among monoliths of stone.   Even if the entry in my diaries did not witness it, I would remember the occasion.  In the favored spot of the book, the back pages, lies a tiny bronze horse meant to depict the goddess Epona and letters, messengers bearing comfort to my troubled heart, reminding me that their author knew the war that waged in my soul and would never abandon me to fight it alone if only I would have screamed for his aid.  

In the blurring of the image before me, skewed by tears I have ignored until now, the puzzle begins to take shape.  Gently I close the book, smoothing the soft leather cover with the tender hand that would have wiped away their troubles as surely as it removes the grit of storage from this volume.  If only I could blow my trepidation away as easily as my breath douses the light of my lamp.

The Come On Inn, somewhere close by, afternoon, 19 August, 2004 C.E.

"Your usual room, Miss?"  the clerk at the desk asked, already reaching for the key.  Number sixty-one.  Sixth floor, first room on the left.  Watch the fourth landing.  They are still doing construction on the railing.  Nothing like that usually happens here.  Poor bloke.  I listened patiently as he went through the routine guest patter, pointing out the community bathroom at the end of the hall of each floor, the kitchenette in each room and if I needed anything, I only had to call down and ask.  "Good to see you again, Miss Carlisle.  Will you be staying a while?" 

Laying the pen on the guest register, I smiled and replied mysteriously, "As long as I need to.  If it's beyond what I have paid for, I will make additional arrangements then.  Thank you, Nigel."

"Enjoy your stay, Miss."

On the fourth landing, the workmen did not even look up from their setting of the railing, and there were still spatters of dried black blood on the wall.   The lamps that lined the corridor muted the deep red and gold of the patterned wallpaper that promised a cozy atmosphere despite its turn-of-the-century decor. Through a door I heard the faint voice of a television, through one the shouting of several men over what I assumed must be a sports match.  At the end of the hall, a man came out of the lavatory and stopped cold in his tracks, grinning sheepishly at his attire- nothing but a thread-bare towel that enabled me to see what he was trying to hide almost perfectly.  Nodding without laughing at his predicament, I let myself into my room while he disappeared inside another.

The shift in time and space continuum is always daunting on the body, but there was so much racing around inside my brain that I did not even unpack my case; I simply curled up on the bed and fell asleep.   While I slumbered, the gods sent me dreams of desires I had long since learned to quell in order that temptation not steal my purpose from me.  But with the reawakening of self-awareness, my body's youth and the passions of my heart began to rise up in revolution of my mind's strict control. 

Oceans of love in the eyes that peek up at me from between my thighs, promising me exquisite bliss, an Elysium of pleasure. I give myself over to the tide, letting it wash over me in swells of hot lust and need.  The first touch of tongue to clitoris that makes me thrash on the waves, seek anchor on firm ground in order that I do not drown in my ecstasy...

I woke, calling a name out to the silent darkness that shrouded me in my aloneness. 

The Come On Inn, night, 19 August, 2004 C.E.

Bud White gives it to you straight.  Despite a shaky relationship between the two of us, which was on the verge of at least beginning to take a more friendly tack when last I saw him, I have always appreciated his directness.  He will not tell a person what they want to hear always, but what they need to.  However, he will also temper his judgment with concern and insight if the situation calls for it.  Perhaps that is why I felt able to ask to take a seat with him, in hopes of asking his counsel.  But sweet Marie already had his attention, and Uma grabbed me and hauled me to the bar.

"Where have you been!  Tell me everything."  She poured us both a glass of something rather hardy that I did not catch the name of, searching my face for all the signs that I had  tried hard to hide- dark shadows under my eyes from lack of good rest, blank features, eyes darting everywhere instead of gazing straight at her as I am wont. 

"I don't know that I want to talk about it here," I parried gently.  "I'm...I just live day to day.  Sometimes they're good days.  Sometimes they aren't." 

Uma will never press a friend for more than what they are willing to give away.  But she lets you know in little ways that she understands there is more beneath the surface of the words you speak to her.  "Just hang in there, Bou.  I know you can beat this.  Whatever it is." 

"Thank you, my friend.  You do my heart good.   This is a wonderful place you have made."

"Why don't you stay a while?"

"I may.  I don't know.  I'm still wandering and searching for all the answers to the riddles.  I never know when I will feel the pull to disappear again." 

"Maybe you could take him with you."  She glanced darkly in Terry's direction.  From early on, they had been exchanging snide banter over things from the Hawaii expedition several had gone on to dredging up Terry's past.  Barbs that masked what I suspect to be a very deep-seated attraction they hold for one another.  Rounds were being drained and new ordered before we could speak further.  I offered to give her a hand, but she waved me away, telling me to enjoy myself and think about staying on.  I smiled in gratitude and decided to save her from big, bad Terry Thorne.

Sauntering over to his table, I hoped I gave off the vibe that was more self-assured than I really felt.  The thing about Terry that makes him so good at what he does when he is sobered by business and the realities of a vicious world, is that he is not fooled one bit.  He can see right through the masks a person wears to pretend that things are not as they would have another believe.  Besides Maximus, he is one of the few I have not been able to dissuade from reaching down into the core of my being and finding the measure of my true mind. 

Those who know my story with Maximus no doubt wonder why I did not seek him out first and lean upon his wisdom and understanding of my nature to help see me through this part of my journey.  Logical thought, as far as the workings of the heart are concerned, would follow that course, for he is still the one I treasure above them all.  My soul's companion.  The very reason I exist at all.  Had I felt worthy to stand in his presence- a broken down warrior holding the shards of a shattered spirit begging his audience- I might have.   Shame holds me back from revealing myself to him.  Perhaps when I have remembered who I am and can hold my head high with pride, the opportunity will come.   And I will thank all the gods of Heaven for the privilege.

Maybe because I wish nothing more than to live up to the example the general, Terry, and others have set for me, do I worry so much what they will think of what I have become.  Unwavering courage in the face of all obstacles, wisdom to see beyond the obvious, and the honesty to admit when I have erred- these are the things I have learned from them or were reinforced in me by my relationships with them.  Even when I fight to retain my own will.  And I love them, because they know the reasons for which I adore them and understand when I break free of conformity and fly on my own.   Maximus I cannot face.  Not yet.  But with Terry, there is no fear of coming to him and admitting to my failures.   I cannot explain the difference.  Perhaps there is no need to. 

He was still grinning like a mad fool when I pulled a chair up to his table.  "Sounds to me like you need to be kept from trouble, Mr. Thorne.   Care to share a drink with a lady?"

Right on cue, I received the split-second Terry examination.  I noted the appearance of a few tiny lines around his eyes that had not been there last time I had seen him.  He was a bit thicker in the barrel, and he seemed...happy, as happy as I have yet to witness him, but with that peculiar underlying world-weariness that comes with being a warrior in any age.  Yet he still shoulders the troubles of those he cares about.  I felt a pang of guilt for even thinking I might come to him with mine.  So I tried a different tactic, the one that I love to employ most often:  pretend I have none.   I flashed him my most winning smile. 

And was given the old 'nice-try-but-I'm-on-to-you' grin in return.  "Bou, me old mate.  Let me do the honors."

"Just keep your fingers away from my wallet, where I can see them."  

"I'm just misunderstood.  It's not in my nature to upset a lady.  But Uma...you bet.  You should have seen her face."

"I did.  Was sitting right in front of her to be exact. And I think you are going to pay dearly one day for picking on her."  

"Classic, eh?"  At my murmur of half-approval, he went on.  "It's been a while since you and I have cooked up a scam.  Too long.  You remember?"  It was meant to be lighthearted, but he was fishing.  Trying to suss out what might be lurking under the surface of the congenial veneer.  Do you still think about us, and the good times?  Or have the bad shot down your laughter and driven you to forget?

"It's been a while, but I think I could be persuaded." I hid the answer I knew he would never miss in the swill I took from my beer, pretending to be fascinated with the suds that slid down the frosted glass, slowly dissipating with every sip I took.  Like my confidence.  "What do you have in mind?"

He proceeded to outline a few ideas- a mouse in the store room (too juvenile, even for Terry), telling Uma something she simply would not believe, no matter how true it might be (lame), and a haunting (someone had that one underway already).  "Or," he leaned over conspiratorially, "I've got fake blood somewhere.  Want to play the tough guy?"  At the sardonic eyebrow lift I gave him, he realized what he had said and quickly negated that notion.  Whether it was to refrain from mentioning a past better left outside the doors of the pub or because he did not want to catch Uma when she fainted, I could not tell you.   Besides, Uma would have just handed me the first aid kit and told me to fix it myself and not to get blood on anything.  Shaking my head in mock exasperation, I studied the flickering candle in the middle of the table, dancing merrily as I gently blew across the flame, the gases rising from it making irregular tracks in the air.

"I don't know.  The things you are suggesting might produce hysterics, but not of the sort you are after.   You're liable to lose a few things before the night is over.  Maybe I can suggest a different sort of fun?  Let me think on it a moment and I'm sure I can come up with something."    The second it was out of my mouth, I realized how it must have sounded to him. 

He giggled and gave my shoulder that friendly little push that begs a person to laugh right along with the jokester.   Even if it was only a gesture of friendly play, I ached, as I had when Cort had slid his hand to the small of my back before.   So long since any man had touched me.  And imperceptibly I shook the thought away.   I had come to seek company, but not of that sort.  A listening ear, a shoulder in understanding.  Nothing more.  Had I not?  The dream of little more than three hours previous and all its effect on my body were still fresh in my mind.  Or was that just the scent of spice and testosterone from Terry muddling my motives?

Even as my ears burned fire hot with chagrin, he settled back, giving me space to gather my senses and decide how I wanted it to be.  We would talk, his eyes said, no matter what else transpired.  He was not going to let it go that easy, sensed I needed it.  Maybe he had perceived it as a deflection from what I must be really feeling, and that I needed a break from it.  Then again, maybe he was just looking for a bed partner for the night. 

He sat back with a smug grin, the challenge in his eyes before it ever left his lips.  "I'm waiting.  All ears. Although somehow I reckon this one is going make me sweat." 

"Bring those ears over here then, and I will whisper a couple of things to them.  I'll try to keep my tongue to myself." 

"You're a wicked woman. But you know my views about sin," he returned.  I did.  And having benefited from my experience with another so-called 'good' Catholic boy of clerical persuasion, I know that his views are no less warped from the word of their holy book than Cort's. 

"Fortunately," I swirled the contents of my glass, wondering if I should venture another.  After the stuff Uma had given me and the large helping of tap, the false courage of drunkenness was clouding my thoughts a little.  I have been drinking little more than water and milk for so long, that my tolerance to the product of the fields is nearly nil.  "I come from a culture whose concept of sin was based only on the idea that wrong did harm to someone. Not something consensual and wonderful between adults attracted to one another."  Definitely no more that night.  My mouth was getting ahead of my brain.  

"Is this a history lesson, or are you telling me something?"  

"Just saying we're evenly matched on our viewpoint.  Or are we at the game?"

"You're not exactly talking about darts, are you, love?"  He leered wickedly.   He got a smirk and a roll of the eyes for his cheek.   

"No.  Besides, I'd beat you.  I'd rather play something we both win at."   Very subtle, Boudicca.  Perhaps volleying innuendo is, as they say in this age, like riding a bike. 

His grin widened.  "I might need to get this old body in gear, then."  Old?  "Told you you'd make me sweat - before I sweat.  Name your weapon." 

Glancing around, I lifted my pants leg to show him my ankle holster and the sheen of deadly metal it held.  "Beretta Tomcat .32 automatic. Double/single action pull. Notched rear sight and blade front sight. Manual safety.  Contoured tang.  Nickel finish, of course.  Not sure I like the plastic grip, but that can be fixed.  Pretty, isn't it?"   I got the chin lift for my effort and laughed as I drained the last of my beer.    He had been thrown off guard momentarily by that particular dodge. 

He made a quick recovery, surreptitiously drawing his own hardware and holding it down below the level of the table top so only we could see it.  "God, I love a woman who talks dirty.  But that's a bit on the small side for me.  I'm more of a Browning nine-millimeter man."   I had held that gun.  It was the first gun that my fingers ever touched, because Cort had refused to teach me how to shoot.  Terry had no qualms, agreeing with me that a woman needs to know how to defend herself, especially in this age.  Never mind, of course, that I am quite capable of killing with my bare hands.  A weapon does considerably even up the odds, though. 

So I already knew all its features as Terry rattled them off to me.  "This is what I call a piece.  Single action; external hammer.  Frame-mounted safety with ambidextrous safety levers.  Two sight versions with standard fixed sights and with rear tangent sights.   Fixed combat sights and polymer grip panels. Accommodates a more powerful cartridge and a magazine capacity of ten rounds.  How about that?"

"Impressive."  

"I really shouldn't be taking this out in public.  Uma's anti-gun and I don't want to scare those of a nervous disposition.  Never could resist a game of 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours,' though.  Excuse me a moment..."

"What?" 

"Curry.  Tweaking my chain.  Can't let the air force get one over on the regiment.  Don't move."

"May I freshen up in the ladies'?   I do so love the fire of victory in a man's blood.  And I might want to show you more than my protection.  If you'll show me yours," I snickered as he went off to settle up with Lachlan.  I was graced with the aquamarine blaze of the gauntlet being thrown in my direction before he turned and stormed into the men's room. 

While I waited, I thought about what was being said under the trifling words we were uttering.  Was I ready for that so soon, after a year or more without?  Could I leave off governing my thoughts and emotions for a while and just enjoy the warmth of a man's body without strings or making sure it meant anything but sex and in Terry's case, a reintroduction to friendship and camaraderie?  I had to stop all the soul-searching.  It was miring me in a neurotic muck of self-doubt and pity.   Not to mention that I had no intention of getting between any established couples.  

Whatever was going on across the bar in the bathroom was taking a long time.  I was in and out of the women's in less than two minutes, just long enough to wash my hands, splash water on my face to soothe my racing nerves, and meet every other red-haired patron in the pub excepting Dino.   Maybe he had made a polite exit, after all.   A little uncharacteristic of him, but maybe I had been too eager and had not played my cards right, letting too much of myself show. 

About the time I decided it was time to seek out my corner booth or slip out into the night, he strode purposefully out of the bathroom.  He slid smoothly into his seat and slammed back the rest of his drink.   I could only guess at who was the victorious one in that exchange.

"How did it go?"  

"Apples, love.  Blood's pretty hot.  You reckon we need to take this somewhere else?  I think we both prefer to keep that side of ourselves a bit private. But I promise I'll look after you if you look after me."  The way he said it- that insisting tone, softened by understanding that compels you to trust him to feed you strength from his own store- convinced me.  It was as easy as that.

"I agree. I have a small place close by where we can go. It isn't much, but it's clean and quiet and serves my purposes.  Give me your hand."  I held my own out to him in invitation, letting the burgeoning tightness in my chest travel over my body, to my extremities and to my private regions, and then erupt in the most exquisite of tremors.   

Out of the corner of my eye, just before Terry opened the door, I caught something that put the brakes on my rush to leave.  Uma.  She had been moving around the bar to different ones, asking them to stay behind and help her with various tasks.  I wondered if, despite her bravado, the ghost scare had made her a little wary of staying alone.  Everyone had plans already.  I looked at Terry then back at her.  If I knew my friend, she would benefit more from his company than I would.  I am used to being by myself in the dark.  And she had been good to me.  The least I could do was shove Terry in the right direction. 

"Terry."  I caught his arm and motioned to the bar and its forlorn tender.  "Look beyond, at the bar. She seems so dejected. Perhaps you should be taking care of her, instead. I will be all right. I don't fear the supernatural." 

Did he actually roll his eyes?  Perhaps I had been wrong in my assessment of their relationship.  Or he was afraid to go after that which he really wants.  "Are you chickening out? She'll find someone, you know she will. Don't worry. Anyway, I'm scared of the dark. You gonna keep me safe with that little gun of yours?  Come on, show me your place. Or should I show you mine?"

Unsure, I faked a smile and a shrug, hoping Terry was right.   Though had I been a true friend, I would have offered to stay and keep her company.   Sex.  What strange ability it has to cloud the senses and twist perception and logic. 

"All right, Thorne. Let's go to my safe little hideaway, and I will protect you from the things that go bump in the night.  Except I think those things will be us."

The Come On Inn, somewhere close by, midnight, 20 August, 2004 C.E.

"I thought you said the place was 'close by,'" Terry huffed after me as we ascended the stairs to my room.   

"It's within walking distance.  Close enough."  Never mind that it was also located in a part of the city that harbored all manner of situations and inhabitants that would make a lesser man than Terry think twice about wandering through that maze of darkened alleys and side streets alone.  But despite its hiding place in the cesspool of humanity, it was still elegant and sweet.  And fairly untouched by the world outside.  

"There are some rooms available at the pub if you want to crash, you know," he breathed at the small of my back, his exhalations warm through the thin cotton of my blouse.  I did not answer until we reached my floor, and started fishing my key from my pocket.   The entire building was asleep it seemed, and his voice filled the passageway.  Glancing sideways at him, I smiled mysteriously and fit the key into its lock and turned it. 

"Yes, I do know.  But for now, this place will do.  It's peaceful enough."  Reaching inside, I slid my hand up the velveteen patterns of the wallpaper to find the light switch.  "Come in and make yourself comfortable.  And don't worry about me.  I am quite good at not being seen if I choose so."  

"You're a fucking stubborn woman."  He stopped just inside the door frame, fingering the brass number plate on my door.  "Sixty-one?  On purpose?" 

Crossing over to the table beside my bed and turning on the lamp, I grinned crookedly, then joined him in his musing, after hitting the main switch and reducing the lighting of the room- an attempt at some subtle seduction on my part. 

"Few would actually get the joke."   I rested my chin on his bicep and gazed up at him.  I was rewarded with a half-bemused snicker in return. 

"That sounds like something SID would do to amuse himself."

"When one is in isolation, one has time to think of ways to keep oneself entertained."  I turned away, starting toward the bed to turn down the covers.  Behind me, the door shut with a bit more force than necessary, shaking the wall and shattering the stillness of the room.   The deadbolt slid home with a loud click. 

Terry's hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his body, while the other gently picked up my chin and brought my face up to his.  "You're in a self-imposed isolation, mate.  You know I'm not one to judge your reasons or tell you to get over yourself, but this popping in and out of our lives like you do smacks of unsettled business in your head."

This was the reason I had sought him out.  Sometimes, your own thoughts mirrored from the mouth of another helps you see things more clearly.  But the business of course, was that which I was afraid to utter.   If I gave it voice, it would be empowered and I would have to recognize my weakness.  I do not want to be weak.   Terry was daring me to face that fear.   But it angered me, because while I run from it, I feed from that fear.   And if I lose it, will I be able to live without it?

"Did it occur to you, 'mate,' that maybe I did not leave of my own accord?  That coming back now is only possible because certain elements of my past are no longer binding on me?"

"They're not?  Is that why you sneak around the pub like a dog that's been beat too many times?  Is that why you go running back to...where the fuck do you go, anyway?  Face it," he continued, "you are scared shitless.  If you're alone, it's because you choose to be."   His words resounded with the voice of the old woman who had prompted this visit back, and those of Maximus.   But how to tell him why I wander off, despite my own nature?  Why leaving the circle had been so important and clandestine before and why it still haunts me now?  

"I have my reasons."  It was a weak argument, but it hurt to be searched.  Only two ever knew my reasons for going.  I protected the others with the silence of the men with whom I had entrusted my secrets.  Drawing away from Terry and his infiltrating eyes, I began pulling the sheets from their crisp setting. 

"We've established that, love.  Now we have to get to the meat of it.  What those reasons are and why you won't deal with them."  

"I'm not a terrorist, Terry.  Don't negotiate with me."

"No, but you're my friend.  And I'm trying to help you realize that there are a lot of folks that care about you and want you with them.  I was under the impression that that's why you approached me." 

"And here I was, just looking for a partner for a lonely night.  Maybe I should have chosen someone less prone to talk, and more willing to get it done and over with."  He knelt on the bed and walked on his knees to across it to me.  I put up no resistance when he slid his hands down my shoulder blades to the small of my back, tracing little whorls over the nerves and setting off sparks that set my skin ablaze.  They came to rest with his palms over my buttocks.  And giggling at the evil leer that transformed his mouth was a hard thing not to do.  

"Just setting you up for the hard deal."  Nodding against his chest, safe in the haven of his embrace that really had nothing to do with sex or desire, and everything to do with our own peculiar bond of kinship, I let myself rest.   We stayed like that for a while, until the only thing that invaded my trance was the steady beat of Terry's heart under my cheek, and the heavy warmth of his body against mine. 

Then the most delicious idea stole over my calm, though it was an address to something he had said earlier that piqued my curiosity.  "Is that how old men have to get aroused?"

He held me away from him, but kept his hands on me.  "What?!"

"You said 'this old body.'"  

"Oh.   That.  I turned forty, love.  It does shit to a man's outlook on life and himself.  But you don't worry.   I think I can remember how to make you scream blue bloody murder all night."

Up to then, I had been hesitant to allow myself to touch first or lead the dance we found ourselves on.  My fingers broke my unspoken rule and stole up to his cheek to trace the lines at his eyes and brow, and then lay against the shadow of whiskers along his jaw.  "You're not old.  Just care worn." 

"Makes two of us, I think," he whispered against my temple.  "And we both know this isn't about getting laid."

"It hurts to talk about it."

"If you don't it'll never heal over.  You're a physician.  You know that." 

"Yes.  But it is so hard to want to sometimes."  

The body becomes so used to the pain it carries, that it learns to adjust to accommodate it.  When corrected, the new use of that part creates a different pain.  Without long and difficult therapeutic means to teach it to work properly, surgery alone cannot teach it to behave as it is meant to.  It is the same with the heart and mind, as I am sure John Nash's Dr. Rosen would concur.  And as Jack would say, sometimes we choose the lesser of two weevils.  We choose the easier pain to bear.  Yet we never work quite right as a result.  

"I've never known you to fear a challenge before."  There was a time when you would not hesitate to rise to the challenges the world threw your way, and regardless of whether you won or lost, you stood proud and courageous in the face of opposition and never gave in to defeat.  You embraced it, learned from it, and used it to educate yourself as you planned your strategy for the next skirmish. 

"I was never hit where it could hurt me most before, either.  I had no means of fighting back.  Because I could not see my enemy."   I felt the defiance of old, the refusal to submit to a master that took without giving and give up my hard-won possession- myself- rise up in my blood as that admission came tumbling out.  And shame that I had been beaten anyway made me turn away and walk to the window, to stare out at the darkness and hide my trembling mouth and wet eyes from him.  The floor shuddered as he stepped up to my back and wrapped himself around me.  

"Do you see it now?"  

"Not clearly, not always.  Just when I think I have it targeted, it eludes my sights and hides behind another form."

"What does it feel like?"  I pillowed my head against his chest, and felt suspended in time, rocked gently on a sea of flesh and bone.   But my mind was racing, hurtling over blocks of thought and memory, as it sought the prize of the single answer that would encompass all my musings and questions.

"Like nihilism."

"That's a pretty heavy collar, mate.  Someday, though, you're going to have to learn to break it."

"Every time I speak, I fear it will be clapped around my neck again.  I stay away, because I never know who I will offend by speaking my mind.  I cannot give up what I fought so hard to learn just to make others love me.  But I don't want to be alone, either."  I could taste the tears in my mouth, before Terry's palm wiped them from my eyes.

"Who taught you to give a shit?"

"I don't know." A snuffle overtook me, and I hid my face behind my hair.  Without seeing him, I knew I was getting the cocked-chin treatment.

"Yes, you do, but it doesn't matter.  What's important now is if you can decide you belong with us again.  And you know what?"  He faced me to him, and made sure I was looking straight into his deadly earnest eyes, the gaze that gives you the no-nonsense truth.  "The important ones, the ones who know you're full of shit and love you anyway?  Still want you here.  And there are more of us than the other kind."

"I've let them down, Terry.  I'm not myself anymore.  I don't even know if she is going to ever come back."  Leaving a kiss on my forehead, he hunkered down and slipped his fingers under my pants leg to my calf and unfastened my holster. 

"You're running on your perception of who you think we want you to be."  He held the gun up for me to see.  "We didn't come running to your arms for you to protect us from the world, love.  We came to you to be healed."  Still on his knees, he took my hands in his, turning them over and rubbing the pads of his thumbs along the rough anterior of each. "This is your true gift.   Not fighting battles you can't win.  And there will always be people who will try to push you down so they can feel important."

For moments I stayed there, studying his face while I picked apart his words.  When the eye contact became overwhelming, I looked down at our joined hands, unable to put a concrete concept to words.  It was like absolution from a sin, but I still did not feel quite cleansed.  Finally I dropped down in front of him, buried myself in his shoulder, and cried. 

"You better not be getting snot on my shirt."  His voice stirred my hair and roused me from the meditation of weeping.  But it was the stone that dammed the flood, and I giggled through the sniffles. 

"There's no tissue in here.  I'll have to get some in the bathroom.  I'll be right back."  I started to stand, then thought better of it.  Taking his face in my hands, I kissed him softly, murmuring, "Thank you.  You are my hero."

"I bet you say that to all the boys."

"Just those who deserve the title."

"Go get your tissue while you still have a chance."  He let me up, but not without a cuddle that defined just why I might not have another opportunity. 

In the bathroom, I let the water run while I examined my red-rimmed eyes and lamented the puffiness under them.  Sexy.  But mostly I held on to the edge of the basin, letting the exhaustion of sorrow and the lifting of weight off my shoulders wash over me, as the water would wash away the salt of my tears.  The woman staring back at me from the mirror looked pale and thin, but it was difficult to tell if that was due to the fluorescent light snapping above my head or the draining of emotion.  It felt good in a way, as though there was room for something else to take the place of the dark, to accommodate the light.   I pulled the cord and sent her image into blackness. 

Terry barely looked up from rummaging about my suitcase when I reentered the room.  I was neither surprised nor put out, it is his way.  It is how he gets a deeper understanding of clients and people he chooses to help, by discerning their tastes and interests through their belongings and the trappings of their homes.  What bothered me was when he pulled my scrapbook from its hiding place under my clothing and toiletries and opened it.

"Give me that, please?"

"What is it?" But he did not turn loose of it, either.

"Memories unto myself.  It's private."  I held my hand out, and he took it in his.  Laying the book on the bed, he drew me down as well, so that it lay between us creating a barrier of time long past.

"What sort of memories?"  

"Some painful.  Some quiet beautiful and wonderful.  But they don't matter now except to me."

"About us?"  He fingered the stem of one of the flowers pressed between the pages thoughtfully.

"Yes, mostly.  So I don't forget where I have been and those who walked the journey with me."

"Sort of like Frodo and his ring, eh?"

"Who?"

"Lord of the Rings.  This book of yours is like his ring.  'My preciousssss...'" he hissed, and leaned back laughing.  "You need to see it to understand, I guess.  Your Celts would love it."  While he expounded on the tale of the Hobbits and the evil ring that could destroy their world, describing the perils they and their companions face along the way, I stroked the hide cover of my volume.  "You're sort of like Frodo, mate.  Carrying your burden all alone, not sure who to trust." 

"I'm not burning my book."

"No.  But maybe you should consider the fact that it harbors some serious hurts.  Maybe the constant reminder is part of what is eating you."

"Actually, I never took it out until just before I came back.  I have not written in it for ages or added to the passages already there."

"Why did you bring it?"  He waited patiently while I fumbled with the answer, though he did still my hand's repeated caress.  My love.  My very own.  My precious....

"Because it is as though you are all with me, if I at least have it close."

"You need to let it go.  Finish it if you have to, but let it go.  You're trapped inside its pages along with the words.  There's a whole new world out there waiting for you.  And a few people that want to see you happy in it with them.  You don't need this to be close to us anymore.  You're with us in the flesh.  Where you belong."

Pursing my lips, I removed my hand from its protective place and nodded at him.  He tugged at the other and pulled me up and around to sit on his lap while he turned pages. While he read or looked over the contents of the items stored inside, he held me tight and laid his cheek against my shoulder blade.  I answered questions and explained some of the things that had no obvious stories behind them, but otherwise traced the veins in his hand across my stomach, or smoothed the hair of his arm around my waist.   Every so often he would induce me to smile with an off-handed comment or two about his findings.  "Jesus, Mitchell is really off sometimes." 

"Two-pot screamer."

"How many did he have before he wrote that?"

"Five."

"Christ.  Warn Uma."

The last page, where my correspondence with Maximus resides, caught his attention longest, but he was still, except for his fingers as they flipped the letters over and traced the features of the little horse.  The words leapt up from the paper, gently reminding me in the silken gravel of the general's voice that nothing Terry had said to me that night was different from what Maximus had tried to tell me so long ago.  I bit back fresh tears and looked away, unable to read or talk about it anymore.

"Someday, love, you're going to have to talk to him.  No one else can help you like he can."  

"Not like this."

"No.  But one day.  Or you'll never move on."  I gave him a half-smile and hugged him to me.   He closed the book and set it away from us and lay back on the bed, still holding me.  Shifting my body was a bit difficult in that bizarre position, but I managed to snuggle at his side without falling off the bed. 

"Terry?"  I stroked his hair and his neck, and then trailed my fingers down his bicep and around his back, allowing my hands their need to explore and feel the familiar patterns that they missed. 

"Hm?"  He nuzzled at my throat while his hand found my thigh and wrapped it over his.

"Thank you.  It still hurts, but I hope you know how grateful I am."

I felt his grin widen against the hollow of my throat.  "Don't tell me.  Show me."

Rising over him, still tangled in his legs, I started slipping the buttons of my blouse out of their holes.  His fingers brushed mine down the path of bare chest and stomach, then reached inside to caress and play, pushing the fabric away to expose more breast to his view. 

With his other arm, he dragged me on top of him so that my nipples were within reach of his tongue and lips.  He captured one, rolling it between his teeth and tickling the tip with the point of his soft tongue, then attacked the other.  Adrenaline erupted in a shower of fireworks in my skull and I whimpered into the blanket beside his head.  "Terry..."  His answer was a firm palm cradling me against his stomach, preventing me from moving away if the torture became unbearable.

"You're okay, baby."

I was dizzy, hovering between mindless animal lust and wanting to savor every touch and kiss in case other opportunities were not forthcoming.  But I was also acutely aware that it would not take much more to drive me over the edge into orgasm.  Terry's rapt focus on my breasts and the heat of his erection through our clothing that spread fire into my own aching organs were intoxicating.  My body was already opening to let him in.

Gods, his mouth tasted so good when he mined my kiss; a heady mixture of the beer he had drank that night, the slight flavor of nicotine, and man.  I pulled at his tongue, thirsty for his breath, starving to sate my need with him.

"Please," I moaned, wriggling against the tip of his cock, outlined against his pants.  There was wetness inside my own.  "Please."

"Are you sure?  There's no rush."  He lifted my face, judging what I might want, hoping it would not end in anger or resentment, tightening his grip below. 

"It's been a long time for me."  

"Then maybe you don't need any regrets."  I rewarded him with a kiss.  

"There won't be any.  Besides, you might have to put your skills where your mouth is.  'All night,' remember.  Just let me..."  He was already yanking the rest of the shirt down from my arms and deftly unfastening my jeans.  Warm fingers crept under the waistband to take my buttocks while we both worked at getting them down my legs and off to the floor. 

"Boudicca.  Shut up."  He folded his hands beneath his head and watched me through half-lidded eyes as I stood over him, suddenly not sure of myself.  His legs were crossed too.  If I wanted it that badly, his pose told me, I would have to take it for myself.  Does he ever give it a rest?

My fingers danced down his face to his lips, tracing the shape of them, and delighting when he caught them and sucked at the tips before I pulled away and continued over his chest to his ribcage to his stomach.   With one hand I slipped his belt out of its buckle while unzipping him with the other.  He shifted when the heel of my palm reached his testicles, opening his legs and bracing himself against his reaction.  Another time, another place, and the game of self-control might have been a fun one.  But now was just a moment of take and give, show and tell, and games could wait.  His cock was free of confinement, engorged and waiting to be sheathed inside something warm and willing.  The telltale rivulet dripping from the tip was all the signal I needed that he would not last long either. 

The springs under the mattress creaked with our combined weight as I straddled him.   One long stroke of my hand, another with my wet cunt, and then I settled over him, biting my lip against the shock of the first impalement.   His hands tangled in my hair and brought me down to snuggle against him, even as I lifted myself to drive down on him again. 

He held me like that; gasps mingling with sighs muffled by the closeness of our bodies, set to the rhythm of our bodies falling and rising in sync.  The friction of clit on coarse hair set my body quivering with the need to quicken my pace.  His fingers clutching at my hips and trying to bring me on faster screamed that he was ready for it to be over.  I raised up, drawing my vaginal muscles tight around him, pulling almost completely off, then gripping at him on the down stroke.  My nails raked over his stomach through his thick belly hair, leaving frantic pink tracks against his light skin.  The buzzing in my ears was broken by the rasp of his voice, begging for me to give him all I had, to make it quick and...did he scream?  Did I?  I do not even remember now. 

All I recall is that we lay entwined, shuddering and whispering, neither able to move or think beyond assurances we were still alive (Terry) or all right (me).  I listened to the beat of his heart while I lay on his shoulder, breathing to the sound of his spirit through his veins under my fingers where they rested on his wrist. 

"Stay with us," he breathed into my hair, enfolding me in his arms.  "You don't have to wander anymore."

"I need to think on it."

"Don't waste too much time then, love.  You can't get it back."  I nodded in agreement but said nothing else.  I will not make a promise I might not be able to keep.   A haunting of experience past?   Probably.   But neither was Rome built in one day.   

I fell asleep on Terry's chest, safe from the dark, safe from my fear.  He told me truths that I must learn to show I believe.  But I do not lie to myself.  It is still a long road to walk.  And in the end, only I can walk it. 

-Boudicca