rivendellrose | a brief whine, and more fic

I think I need a weekend to recover from my weekend.

It was mostly good - hen night / bachelorette night on Friday night (hooray for awesome drinking and dancing debauchery with my fantastic friends), followed by a craft day at

shadawyn's on Saturday, and a birthday party for

tavern_wench1's adorable little monster today.

Less awesome was the fire alarm that woke us up at 2:30 this morning, which turned out to only be our apartment and, upon investigation by some very nice and patient firemen, also turned out to be caused not by fire (fairly obvious) or by carbon monoxide (the less obvious second guess), but rather by the roof above us leaking into the smoke detector and causing it to go off. Maintenance has been notified and a bucket placed to catch any further dripping, but I hope it doesn't rain any more until we've got things settled. :P So yes, I need another darned weekend. Too sleepy.

Anyway! More of the fic.

Title: In the Light of Two Moons, pt 3
Previous parts: Part 1, Part 2.
Authors:

hearts_blood and

rivendellrose
Rating: PG
Pairing: Delenn/Neroon
Word Count: 10781
Notes: Pre-series. Words/phrases in Minbari are inspired by the Jumpnow Minbari Lexicon, but we've played extremely fast and loose with some of them.

"But I don't need to study second-century poetry!" Mayan protested.

"You do if you want to specialize in poetry," Master Firell informed Mayan calmly. "Especially if you want to go to the conservatory I've heard you talk about, Mayan, you must have a general background in the poetry of all major eras. You do want to apply to that conservatory, don't you?"

"Yes, but--"

"Then I recommend you begin a study of the works of the second century masters." Firell smiled. "I'm not without sympathy, Mayan - I realize the second century is not so... exciting, perhaps, as some of the areas you favor. The ancient poets, for instance. But in this temple, a serious scholar of poetry cannot simply pick and choose."

"But I have less than a year left, and the poetry of the second century is so... dense and unemotional. I can't make any sense of it!"

"I've assigned one of our senior tutors to assist you." Firell dug around in the piles of paperwork and scrolls on her desk, and eventually found what she was looking for - a small scroll marked with Mayan's name. "He left his initial studies and came here four years ago from a temple in the eastern continent. Ever since then, he's made it his business to know practically everything in our libraries, with a particular eye to the histories and writings of the early post-Valen era. He will help you find the recommended texts listed here, and assist you in interpreting them until you feel comfortable handling the subject on your own. He is expecting you this afternoon, as soon as I dismiss you," Firell added, anticipating her student's protest that she would deal with the second century when she had finished with her other - and more interesting - studies. " I am sure you will not be so rude as to keep him waiting."

So there was nothing for it - Mayan tucked the little scroll into her sash, picked up her books, and wended her way to the library, feeling very ill-used. Everyone who knew anything about poetry knew that the works of the second century after Valen were nothing compared to those before or after that era - they lacked emotion, vitality - their language and imagery were so cold as to be nearly clinical. And if this senior tutor was a specialist in those eras, he would no doubt be just as dull. But when she arrived in the library, she couldn't find anyone but a handful of students younger than herself whispering over some project or other. How perfect. The tutor must have left, and Firell would blame her for not arriving promptly for her appointment. And she still wouldn't get out of reading the second-century boredom. Well, that wouldn't do at all. She walked toward the back of the library, scanning the aisles as she went.

"Hello? Master... er..." Mayan frowned, realizing Firell had never given her the tutor's name, and changed tactics. "Master Firell said someone here could help me with my poetry study?"

"Ah! So sorry, I must have lost track of time!" A tall young man who looked like he'd been cobbled together out of too many limbs and joints and too little substance emerged from the stacks at the back of the library with an armload of scrolls and books. He wore the white and tan robes traditional to an acolyte priest, but his own were smudged on the sleeves and chest with dust, and another grey streak had been rubbed across his cheek. He had a long, slightly flat face, and hands that seemed too large for his bony wrists, and he spoke with a slight stutter. Mayan suppressed the uncharitable - but highly accurate - thought that it was not much surprise that this young man had chosen to lock himself away with ancient books for his life. He seemed almost stunned to be talking to someone alive. "You... you must be Mayan."

Mayan bowed, and had to bite the inside of her cheek so as not to giggle when the tutor bowed back, nearly spilling some of the scrolls balanced precariously atop the pile in his arms.

"Ah... I-I'm Ashan. You, er... you wanted to study second-century poetry, then? Very interesting, a very... interesting, period. One of my favorites, actually." He smiled.

"I... am sure it has many good qualities. But it is not a period I would chose for study myself. Master Firell requires me to study all the major periods."

"Oh. I see. Well, that's.... that's quite good then. Very thorough. Yes, good. Ah... won't you sit down?"

Mayan suppressed a sigh, and sat.

"We'll start with the basics." Ashan awkwardly levered his pile of texts onto the table and sat down across from her. "What have you read before now, from the era?"

"I've read Dirshak's 'On Absence,' 'The Songs of Winter and Want,' and the first three chapters of Nattar's 'Fifteen Meditations on Salvation.'"

"Good, good..." Ashan smiled. "'On Absence' is rather a good one, don't you think?"

Mayan stared at him. "Are you asking my honest opinion, or is this part of my tutoring?"

"Oh, honest opinion. I think it's very important that you have opinions about the works you study, and that you feel comfortable expressing them openly. It builds academic confidence, and a dialogue that--"

"I hated it."

"Ah. Well. That... is not precisely the most academic expression of..." Ashan frowned and started over. "If you could perhaps explain why you... 'hated' it...?"

"It was dull. Pointless. Unemotional and utterly unfeeling. It... left me feeling as though Dirshak either had never felt loneliness and sorrow at a loss, or that she was so callous and insensitive to true depths of feeling that she simply couldn't express what she had felt."

"Mmm." Ashan nodded slowly. "That's... slightly more for us to work with. Here. Let's... return to the text, here, and..." He fumbled through the old pages of one of the books until he found the correct poem, and then pushed it out to the middle of the table where they both could read it. "This, then, the first stanza. Read it again, and look carefully at the language Dirshak uses."

Mayan did so, casting a quick eye over the words. "It's cold. It's... she's not even writing feelings, she's just talking about them. The words sit there on the page, and nothing comes out of them. I feel nothing in my heart from them!"

"And, if you'll forgive me, if Dirshak were writing a song to evoke the memory of suffering in her listeners, that would be a great shame. But this is not teela. This is... a contemplation. Have you read any of the history of the poem, of the author's life?"

"No."

Ashan nodded, as if this was precisely what he had expected. "Dirshak was old when she wrote this poem. Her two children had grown, and one of them had died in childbirth and the other on a winter hunting expedition. Her husband, a man she had loved very dearly, died many years before, in a fairly pointless skirmish with another clan. Dirshak outlived all her contemporaries, and eventually retreated to temple for the end of her days, studying with one of Valen's own disciples and learning to overcome the anger she felt, the feeling of betrayal, that the universe had taken all she loved from her. By this time of her life," he tapped the paper with a blunt, ink-stained finger, "she had given up her anger. She no longer blamed the universe for her losses. But still wrote from the sorrow that filled her."

"I shouldn't have to be told the author's life in order to understand her poetry," Mayan scoffed, though some of the fire seemed to have burned out of her belly at the story.

"No, but until you learn to look for the signs of it on your own, you may need to in order to know what you are looking at. Read the first stanza again."

Mayan did as he asked... and was surprised to discover that the words were not as dry as she had remembered. "But they're still so cold," she said. "It's like... like words carved in ice. They don't reach out to me. They stand aloof, as if they don't want me to know them."

"If I may make the point, shaimira Mayan... you are young. And... I hope you have not suffered in your life more than a tenth what Dirshak had by this time. I told you before, this is not teela. This is a newer form, one that was highly in vogue in the first centuries after Valen. This poetry doesn't seek to reach out and bring forth strong, passionate emotion in its audience. It is a work of restraint - of intense emotions held tightly under the author's control, and held out as an example of the way that suffering wears down our strength. Dirshak does not need to wail her pain - she whispers it, and that is enough to be heard by others who have truly suffered great loss... or who know how to look closely enough."

Mayan reread the first stanza again. This time, she felt as if she could nearly hear the old woman's low voice, whispering as her tutor had said, like wind through ice crystals. "It is cold," she repeated again, her own voice suddenly hollow. "It cuts like ice."

"Yes." Ashan smiled at her. "That is precisely what I have often thought."

***

Neroon set himself to his evening pike practice with decided ill grace, moving through the familiar forms with uncharacteristic mechanical motions. Strange, he reflected, to go from so disliking Delenn's company in the dusky hours to disliking when her attention was diverted away from him, even if only by a letter from home. "I hope your parents are well," he ventured, speaking solely so that she would have to answer.

Delenn looked up with a surprised little smile. "My father is in excellent health, thank you."

"Does he write of anything in particular?"

"This and that. Nothing special... the same things your mother writes about, I expect."

"My mother," replied Neroon blandly, "has not written me since I arrived here."

"Oh." Delenn quietly folded up her letter and stowed it away. "Is she... very busy?"

"Very. She is captain of a warcruiser, the Ava'gati, and is rarely on Minbar, so she has little time for recorded messages—and she's always been disinclined to write." He spoke with the lofty pride of a boastful son, and manage to keep most of the worry from his voice. "What of your parents? What do they do?"

"My mother is a Sister of Valeria. I have not seen her since I was small. But my father is a priest at a temple in Yedor."

"You are from the capital?" Neroon's black eyes lit up. "It must have been exciting for you, growing up in such a place."

"In some ways, perhaps. But my father's home is in a very quiet section of the city." Delenn smiled, remembering. "But it is a beautiful place, and I miss it."

"Why did your father send you to this poky little place? Surely there must be larger teaching temples closer to Yedor, or within the city itself."

"Larger and closer, certainly, but none quite so well-regarded. And we are not so very far from Yedor, you know. I used to visit my father very often when I was younger, and the journey there takes only a few hours."

Neroon stowed his pike away and sat down beside her. "You are very fortunate. After I went to the training camp, my mother took command of her ship. I see her in person perhaps once or twice a year. I used to spend breaks and holy days with my grandparents, but they have all passed on." He grinned a little. "My mother has often threatened to have me on the Ava'gati when I am fully trained, so that she can undo all the 'bad habits' the camp has fostered. I think she just misses me."

Delenn touched his hand gently. "Do you miss your mother?"

He searched her face for any hint of taunting, but found none. "Yes. I do. But please, do not tell her that. She would never live down the embarrassment."

***

Second century poetry was still hard going for Mayan - it was neither the free, expressive modern poetry whose style she favored for her own writing, nor possessed of the rhythmic, heartbeat-like wildness of the ancient pre-Valen songsmiths who warmed her heart and made her dream of open skies and rough, black mountains against the white glaciers and blue sky. Its pacing was sedate, its language obscure, and its grammar often incredibly complex. But Ashan, despite himself, was not a bad teacher. When he could get past his nervousness and awkwardness with speech, he was often overcome with enthusiasm over the subject at hand, and even if that meant she occasionally had to wait through a soliloquy of information she didn't understand before dragging him back to the last bit she'd followed and forcing him to go more slowly, it was oddly engaging having someone to go through the texts with. Delenn was always too busy with her own studies, having abandoned poetry and other literary studies for the deeper examination of theology and ethics as she progressed toward her chosen field, and none of Mayan's other friends were willing to engage with her on the subject, either. So, without meaning to, Mayan began to find herself spending more and more time with the awkward librarian and tutor.

They moved easily through the rest of "On Absence," and into "Songs of Winter and Want," an anonymous piece written early in the second century, and generally understood to have been written after the winter of the 205th year after Valen, one of the longest and worst winters in Minbar's history. The poem described, at great length and in excruciating, distanced detail, the slow and painful annihilation of an entire village in the southern mountains. Mayan did not pretend to find it anything but desperately depressing.

"Can't we read something else?" she begged on the third day that she met with Ashan to discuss the piece. "Anything else, I promise you. I'll happily read every other poem Dirshak ever wrote, if you'll let me leave off this."

"Only thirty-four stanzas to go," Ashan told her.

"In a hundred and sixty-seven pages."

"Yes, well... What about this - if you finish this, I'll give you a rest before we start Nattar. We can read Burli, first. I think you'll approve of him. There is an energy to his writing that borrows from the old epic poets of the pre-Valen era. I know you are fond of them."

“I am, but…” Mayan broke off and moaned. “I don’t think I can take any more of this, Ashan. Isn’t there suffering enough in the universe without reading so much about it?”

“I have always thought,” her friend replied in a stolid but gentle manner, “that reading of sorrows reminds us that the difficulties we ourselves face are not solitary or shocking. We do not suffer alone, but only continue through the same trials that our ancestors and others shared for thousands of years. And we, after all, are here, to prove that they managed.”

“But none of these people managed! They’re all dying around Dirshak’s feet! Old people, children, pregnant women - everyone!” None of those people have descendents now, because they all died off in a single, horrible winter!”

“I know, Mayan. But life goes on. Do you not believe, as we are taught, that the dead are reborn into the succeeding generation, to continue the universe’s exploration of itself?”

“Of course, but… that doesn’t make it any better for these people, does it?”

Ashan smiled sadly at her, and reached out and took the book from her hand. “Perhaps you are right. We will continue Dirshak another time.”

Mayan hung her head. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you? You think that if I were a real scholar, I would be able to put aside my feelings and read the worst of Dirshak’s writing without complaints or tears, because it is enlightening.”

“No.” Ashan’s fingers brushed lightly over her hand as he sat beside her, having returned “Songs of Winter and Want” to the shelves. “I think you are a very feeling soul, who cares deeply about people. Even people who have been dead nearly a thousand years.”

“It’s foolish, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. I find it highly commendable.”

***

Branmer looked curiously at the small package in his hand. It was not the first such that had arrived at the school, addressed to Neroon in a plain, unadorned hand, but Branmer had no notion of what they contained. They were light for their size, as though they contained no more than parchment. He carried the parcel into the Annex and laid it down on the table next to Neroon's right hand, where it rested as the boy studied. Neroon took no notice of it. "That is the fourth such parcel you've received since you arrived here," said Branmer, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"It's nothing," Neroon muttered, his cheekbones flushing slightly. "Just letters from school."

"Letters, eh?" Branmer sat down opposite his foster-son. "From your legions of female admirers, no doubt."

The boy dropped his eyes. "Not exactly," he chuckled, reaching for the package. "Although some of them are female..."

"You do not have to show them to me--I did not mean to pry."

"It is not what you think." Neroon folded back the covering of the small parcel and extracted a sheaf of small folded pieces of parchment. He glanced through the top one, grinned, and handed it to his clan-brother.

Whatever Branmer had imagined, the childishly scrawl missive in his hand was not it. "'Hello Neroon. I miss you very much. When are you coming home?' How old was the girl who wrote this?"

"Eleven or twelve."

"Are they all like this?" the big man asked softly.

"More or less." Neroon passed over the letters as he read through them. They were all the same: bad penmanship, poor spelling, some with drawings or little trinkets tucked in the folds of the parchment, and all from children no older than thirteen--second- and third-years badly missing their best friend and tutor. "And body pillow," Neroon added, grinning. "I'm usually the go-to person in the barracks when it's storming out and the young ones can't sleep."

"All of them?" Branmer coughed. "How do you fit fifteen or twenty first-years into a student's bunk?"

"I don't. We usually end up on the floor, and they all claim a section of limb to use as a pillow." Neroon grinned. "I don't get much sleep on those nights."

"I'm not surprised."

The boy's smile faded as he collected the small slips of parchment. "I miss them as well," he murmured. "My teachers write to me sometimes as well, and some of my friends..." He tucked the letters back into their covering, to put with all the others he had received. "I'll answer them later." He hesitated. "Have... have you heard from my mother recently?"

"A day or two ago, yes."

"She did not... wish to speak with me?"

"It was just briefly. She was in something of a hurry... something about border incursions near Centauri space." Branmer touched his foster-son's arm lightly. "She has not abandoned you."

Neroon shrugged off his hand. "Perhaps not, but she certainly has better things to do than be bothered with me." He looked down at his book; he felt the tears behind his eyes, but refused to give way. "Do you think she will ever forgive me, va'malid? For shaming my father's memory?"

A muscle in Branmer's cheek spasmed, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse and soft. "It is not you," he said, with forlorn patience, "that she is ashamed of."

"That why won't she write back to me?" Neroon demanded? "Why won't she answer any of my messages or ask to speak with me? I know I did a terrible thing--and I am being punished for it! Am I not contrite enough? Is this exile not enough for her? What more does my mother want?"

"What she cannot have."

"She wants me to be my father."

Branmer looked at Neroon with a steady green gaze. "No," he said firmly. "Not that."

"Then what?"

Slowly, the older man shook his head. "You would not understand."

Neroon slammed his book and stood abruptly. "Of course not," he all but sneered, trying to hide the quaver in his voice. "After all, I am only a stupid Warrior. I couldn't possibly understand the words of a wise priest, not even one who choses to waste his life in a dusty temple." His black eyes were anguished, and angry. "And nor would I want to." He stalked from the Annex, making for the outer door of the temple.

Branmer sighed. He took the sheaf of letters from its cover and began to read through them again, as though they might hold the answers to dealing with the troubled son of his dead cousin.

He went through the motions of the afternoon offices, but Neroon did not come. A message arrived from Master Velier, saying that Neroon had not gone to his philosophy class, and finally after supper, a very worried Delenn appeared. "I have not seen Neroon all day. Has something happened?"

Branmer concentrated on lighting the candles that decked the altar atop the circular platform. "I expect he's out on the grounds somewhere. We had a disagreement." He set down the last taper and found himself faced with a very surprised young woman.

"But Neroon--forgive me, Master. But... he adores you."

"I know. Though I frequently find myself wondering why." Then Branmer forced a smile onto his face. "We are family, he and I," he reminded Delenn, laying reassuring hands on her shoulders. "It would be unnatural if we did not argue once in a while. Now, be about your business, and do not trouble yourself. All will be well by morning."

She went, as she was bidden, but she did not look convinced, anymore than Branmer felt at his own words.

The evening prayers complete, he turned his eyes towards the outside. For a hour, he walked the grounds in search of his wayward charge, and found no sign of him. Now very worried, Branmer turned back to the school... and as he came closer to the buildings he saw Neroon, a huddle of black and gray, sitting on the roof of the Star Temple, staring out over the city. Branmer offered up a silent prayer, and then went hand-over-hand up the trellis, as Neroon must have done. The boy looked reluctantly impressed at his teacher's strength, but Branmer only smiled serenely. "There is a stairway leading up here, you know."

Neroon shrugged, and looked away.

Settling himself beside the boy, Branmer too looked out over the city. He took a deep breath. "I was beginning to be afraid that you might have run away," he said, "as you used to when you were small. You were always trying to run away from the training camp, in your first years--to your grandparents, to your mother. But never to me. As though even at that age, you knew that I was not what you needed."

"That is nonsense."

"Is it?"

Neroon gritted his teeth. "I am... sorry for what I said to you, this afternoon. It was rude and unkind, and disrespectful."

"Yes. Yes, it was... It was also very likely true." Branmer bent one leg up to rest his clasped hands on, and let the other swing freely over the edge of the roof. His voice was calm, introspective and not even the slightest bit angry. If anything, it sounded mildly reproachful, but only a little and only of himself. "I have been a poor substitute father to you, and for that I apologize."

"But... that is not your fault! My mother would not--"

"That should not have stopped me. I have a legal responsibility to you and a moral one, and I have my cousin's memory to uphold. In all of these things, I have failed. I should not have let Sinolin stop me from doing what I knew was right. But I did. I did. And gladly!" Branmer's smile was wide and mirthless. "I was ridiculously grateful that she wanted me to mind my own affairs and stay out of your upbringing."

The Star Rider boy looked sideways at his cousin, chewing his lower lip nervously. "Was I so much trouble, even as an infant?"

"No. Well, you were, but we were all glad of it--you were a fine healthy boy. No... I was only terrified. Nerahel was always the brave one, and the dutiful one. He could see his duties clearly and then do them, with no questions or hesitation. Marriage, fatherhood, soldiering... At least he'd had time to get used to the notion of being a father. I had it thrust upon me, and then just as suddenly taken away. Slothful and indolent as I am, I do not take kindly to change. You know that."

In spite of himself, Neroon smiled. To him, it was a ridiculous notion. "But you are not like that."

Branmer looked him over with a strange expression. "You must be the only one in the world who thinks that. Nevertheless, it is the truth, at least as far as you are concerned. Sinolin dropped an enormous responsibility on my hands and then said I did not have to fulfill it. I was too confused to be anything but grateful. And yet... I was disappointed. Nerahel was like my own brother, and I wanted to have some role to play in his son's life. But you had your mother and your grandparents, and then you went to the camp and began garnering all sorts of accolades... and I wondered if perhaps you'd outgrown the need of a father."

"I..." Neroon groped for words, but none would come. He scrambled to his feet, turning away and locking his hands behind his back. "I tried to, sometimes. When the other parents would come to visit and I had no one, I tried very hard to not want a father or a mother. But it never worked. I tried not to be ungrateful for the mother I do have, for the father whose memory I honor... for you, Master. But it..."

"But it never worked." Branmer smiled sadly. "Perhaps it is a blessing that no one would have me as husband. If I've done so poorly with you, I'd hate to do worse to a child of my own getting."

"You haven't done poorly!" Neroon burst out, whirling on him. "But you haven't... You haven't done anything! You've been friend, and teacher, and brother, but not father."

"I'm sorry, Neroon, but I... don't know how."

The boy stared at him in naked disgust, then sat down heavily, quite close beside him. "Well, we're two of a pair, then, since I clearly do not know how to be a good son."

The priest put a comforting arm around Neroon's shoulders. "All right, now who's talking nonsense?"

"Then what have I done wrong?" Neroon demanded sulkily. "And do not tell me I will not understand. I am not a mental deficient."

"That was not what I meant, ah'malier. It is simply that your mother's behavior is difficult for a person of your age and condition to understand."

"But you clearly understand her."

"I do, in a way. I don't agree with her, but I understand."

"Then enlighten me."

Branmer smiled against the side of Neroon's crest. "She and I are responsible for you to your father. It is as simple as that. We have a duty to Nerahel to see that you are raised well. Your only duty is to yourself, to your soul and your future. And so long as we each remember that, I think we may rub along the rest of this year quite well." He squeezed Neroon's shoulder. "Come along now, boy, you must be starving."

***

There was a surprise holiday declared at the temple school, and the students spilled out into the grounds and into the town like water during the spring floods. Delenn was rushing to meet Mayan and some of their friends by the front gates, when she saw Neroon, standing awkwardly by himself as the rest of the youths flowed by, intent upon making the most of their short spell of freedom. His black eyes lit up a bit as she approached, and fell again when he saw the bag slung over her shoulder. "You are going into the city?"

"Yes, with Mayan and some others." Someone passing by jostled her, and without thinking Delenn shrank against the Warrior boy. She blushed hotly. "Umm... aren't you going out?"

"I wouldn't know where to go." A spasm of loneliness flashed across his face. "It's all right. I'll enjoy the quiet. I'll have the practice rooms to myself."

Delenn gripped the shoulder strap of her bag thoughtfully. "Would you... would you like to come with us?"

Neroon snorted. "I doubt any of your friends would be pleased to have me in your little party. But," he added, his sardonic voice softening, "thank you. I wouldn't wish to cause any trouble for you, but... thank you. Go. Enjoy yourself."

She took a step back, turned... and turned back to him. "Would you like to come with me? Just the two of us?" She took his sudden astonishment for a good sign. "I could show you the city. It is small, but it has its beauties."

"I--what about your friends?"

"I have had many outings with them, and they with me. We can easily do without one another." Delenn didn't realize it, but her grey-green eyes were sparkling as she laid a light hand on his wrist. "Please say you'll accompany me."

It took Neroon a moment to find his voice, but when he did, it was in the form of a soft, rich laugh. "Then I shall."

"Wait here," Delenn told him, and ran through the halls and out the great front door to where Mayan and the others waited for her.

Most of them were males and females whom she and Mayan had entered the school with as small children, and though they had grown apart in studies, all were the same age and on friendly terms with one another. "Where have you been?" asked Mayan brightly, reaching for Delenn's hand. "We've been waiting for you for ages."

"You will all have to go without me this time," Delenn said. "I've promised the Star Rider that I would show him the city."

"'Show him the city?'" repeated Avaier, an expression of extreme displeasure on his haughty face. "He can see the entire city from the second story balcony. You're very forbearing to spend so much time with the barbarian, but surely you deserve some reward for your good behavior."

"Yes, and I will decide what that reward is to be," Delenn retorted, not liking his lofty attitude. Avaier had been a nice enough little boy, if somewhat pompous, but now that they were all nearly grown, whatever good qualities he had once possessed had been completely subsumed by his awareness of his own good position in the world. "If I choose to show Neroon the city, I do not see that it is any business of yours, Avaier."

Some of the others sniggered behind their hands; most just looked surprised that small, timid Delenn ra'Mir had cut off the most high-ranking boy in their year at the knees.

"Come along, Avaier," said one of the other boys, trying to smother his broad grin. "Her time is her business and ours is our business."

Her friends moved off, all but Mayan. The young poet stared at Delenn, not even bothering to conceal her dismay. "Was this Master Branmer's idea?"

"No, it was mine. I offered to take Neroon around the city."

"Why?"

"Because he is lonely, Mayan! Because I enjoy his company. Why is that so difficult for you to accept?" Delenn felt her cheeks begin to redden in anger and embarrassment. "You go and have a good time, and Neroon and I will do the same."

"But, Delenn..." Mayan hesitated. "I want to go with you."

Delenn's lips tightened. "Then I am sorry, because I am going with Neroon. Good day, Mayan." She turned and walked away from her friend, but had to try very hard not to look back.

"Tell me the truth," Neroon said as they walked out. "Why did you want to go with me instead of with your friends?"

She hesitated, then took the arm he offered her. "I did not want you to spend the day alone... and I would rather go with you." Delenn lowered her eyes then, so she did not see his look of wonder. "So. What would you like to see first?"

"I'm not sure. I had not thought that so small and obscure a city as this could possess much in the way of amusements."

"Then why did you agree to come with me?"

"Because you asked me to," he replied quietly. Delenn looked up at that, saw his expression, and quickly looked away again, warmed and confused. "Are there any historical sites? Any monuments, honored places, things of that sort?"

She thought for a moment. "There is a small shrine dedicated to Turann, the explorer, near the heart of the city."

"That will do."

When they arrived at the elaborate shrine, though, Neroon was less than impressed by the desperate grandeur of the place. "But... this makes it seem as though Turann lived and died in this town." Neroon shook his head in disgust, but remembered to keep his voice down. "Turann lived in the east. He explored some sites near this place but he would have spent, at most, six hours here. This is appalling."

Delenn tried not to grin too much. "It is a little... tawdry."

"It is cheap and misleading. And all this... stuff... for sale..."

"I have seen far worse places in the capital city. I believe the council of elders here is trying to make their city a tourist destination."

Neroon snorted. "They would do better to highlight their school, and leave history to the historians. You said this city had its beauties? Then I sincerely hope you have something more interesting to show me."

She took his hand. "If there is one thing that living in Yedor taught me, it was that the most interesting places are the hardest to find." She led him out of the shrine and on a long, winding route that cut through the Worker district and looped back around to the outskirts of the western quarter.

"Please tell me this isn't a temple," Neroon pleaded, looking up at the carved, forbidding facade.

"It is not. It's the city museum."

The Warrior boy's face brightened considerably.

The museum was almost empty; most of the other students did not consider a visit to the only local museum to be an amusing excursion, not when they had all already been through the exhibits enough times to memorize them. The sleepy curator was clearly surprised to see a pair of young students in her museum on a school holiday, especially when one was Religious and one was a Warrior, but she hid her curiosity as best she could.

Delenn bowed respectfully to the elderly woman. Neroon's bow was more perfunctory; his attention had been drawn by a display of antique armor off to the right of the entrance. Delenn reached out and took his arm. "The museum is arranged in two chronological parts," she explained, "and the Religious caste comes first."

He grimaced and opened his mouth to protest.

"If we were to explore the Warrior side of the museum first, you would become so excited that you would end up spending most of the day there, ignoring half of the exhibits, and then make us late for curfew. This way," Delenn smiled, steering him towards the left side of the museum, "you shall save the best for last. It is very prudent of you," she teased.

At her all-too-amused smirk, Neroon could do nothing but swallow and press his thin lips together. "Lead the way, shai'mira," he sighed.

Her hand firmly on his arm, Delenn half-led, half-dragged her reluctant friend through the museum. She did not linger too long beside any one display, but nor did she rush through. It had been some time since she had been able to visit the hushed, quiet hall and marvel and wonder at the physical remnants of centuries gone by. Neroon was obviously bored, and Delenn saw that while her teasing might be trying his patience, she had wanted to find something that he would enjoy. She began pointing out some of the artifacts and ancient tomes and drawings that she thought he might find especially interesting, becoming more animated and talkative as she warmed to her subject.

She broke off once when she realized Neroon was staring at her. "Is something wrong?" she asked, blushing.

"N-no, no! Nothing." Neroon blinked his black eyes and grinned a little. "You are... I do not often see you so excited about your field of expertise."

"It is more of a hobby," said Delenn, with a shy smile. She turned to touch the glass cover of a small statue, talking easily about its discovery and doctrinal import, watching Neroon out of the corners of her eyes and trying not to think about the significance of the soft and steady gaze that the Star Rider boy rested on her.

It seemed to her that he followed her more docilely after that, attending to her every word, listening but not actually hearing what she was saying about the collection of crystal carvings meant to symbolize the original nine members of the Grey Council, and watching her with an expression she had never seen in him before. She might almost have attributed it to admiration of her intellectual gifts, but she knew he put little store by the subjects she preferred, and besides, it was too warm and gentle an expression for that.

She pondered it intently as they moved from one side of the museum to the other. It was easy for Delenn to subside into thought then, as Neroon took over the duties of being impromptu tour guide. She had slightly more interest in his preferred areas of history than he had in hers, but for the most part only about half of his words made any impression on her.

His black eyes were alive with excitement as he pressed his gloved hand to the glass case of a particular set of time-worn armor. He caught sight of an ancient weapon of unfamiliar pattern, explaining in great and loving detail its good and bad points and how he had once tried to teach himself to wield it. His angular features were more relaxed than she had ever seen them before. His smile was brilliant, and his white teeth and thin lips looked friendly and inviting instead of threatening, the way his usual expression made him seem.

"Delenn?"

She jumped, and her cheeks flushed at being caught with her thoughts wandering. "Yes?"

"Now you were staring at me."

"No, no, I..."

"And I was trying to be so interesting in my historical accounts, too..." he teased. "Come now, what it is?"

A fist seemed to close around her chest and throat, cutting off her ability to speak, but instead of shrinking into herself, Delenn pushed through her embarrassment and found the words. "I was only thinking of how much more handsome you look when you smile."

For a moment, he seemed dumbfounded, and she held her breath and silently prayed that he would not be offended. And then to her shock, he lifted a hand to her cheek. "How strange," he said softly, with a hesitation in his voice that she could only describe as shyness. "When I was thinking of how much more beautiful you look when you are..." He hesitated, then shook his head. "No, that would be an untruth. You are always beautiful. If you were more so, you could not be real."

Delenn's cheeks flushed afresh, but she barely felt it; her skin was too intent upon the feel of his smooth, leather-covered fingers on her face. She pressed a tentative hand to Neroon's sternum, and gazed up into his dark, dark eyes. His free hand curled around hers, and there they stood for who knows how long, surrounded by the relics of the past, heedless of the future, caught up in the wonder of the unexpected moment.

"When I was sent here," Neroon murmured, stroking her cheek, "I never thought..."

Delenn squeezed his hand tightly.

They walked very slowly through the rest of the museum, barely noticing the relics or the artwork or the fact that they had not encountered any other visitors. When they finally emerged from the museum, blinking in the sharp late winter air, Neroon looked to the sky in some surprise. "It's later than I realized. The first sun's already set."

"We should head back," said Delenn, rather reluctantly. "We do not wish to be out after dark." She shivered badly; without a word, Neroon swept off his heavy cloak as he often did and put it about her shoulders. But this time, his hands lingered a bit longer than necessary as he fastened the thick dark fabric around her throat. "We've already missed supper... Are you hungry?"

He grinned. "Delenn. I am always hungry."

Neither of them had much money, but in a town all but supported by its student population, there were always inexpensive places to find food. They stopped at a stall selling fried vegetable dumplings, and Neroon paid for a bag of the greasy street snacks. "Very polite," said the old stall-keeper, winking at Neroon. "Makes a good impression on the lady."

The Star Rider boy scowled and looked anywhere but at Delenn, who was trying hard not to blush.

They wandered slowly back through the streets in the general direction of the school, talking and munching contentedly, licking their fingers and paying no further attention to the time. The bag had long since been crumpled up on Neroon's pocket when they finally got back to the school, and the front gate was locked and cold. "Around this way," the Warrior tugged at her sleeve, and they slipped around to the side. Neroon helped Delenn over the low garden wall that separated the school grounds from the side street, and then they went inside through the Star Temple's door.

The temple itself was dusty, cold, and empty, and the door to the Annex was closed, meaning Branmer had chosen to retire early. The two students kept their voices low out of respect. "I'll sleep out here tonight," Neroon said. "It wouldn't be the first time, and I wouldn't wish to wake him."

"Are you sure you'll be warm enough? Surely there is room in the males' dormitory--"

"I'll be fine. It's not often I get to sleep out under the stars anymore."

"I had meant to show you more of the city," Delenn apologized, handing Neroon back his cloak. "Not that there is very much to see, but there is more than a museum and a sorry excuse for a historical shrine."

"I don't know," said Neroon with a warm smile, "I thought it was a very interesting museum. I certainly learned more about the Religious caste than I'd expected to."

"About our history?"

He rolled his eyes a bit at her teasing, as he spread the cloak out on the circular platform in the center of the temple. "Not exactly." He dropped easily to the floor and held out his hand. "Don't go just yet." Delenn spared a thought for her warm bed and her doubtlessly disapproving roommate, and gladly sat down with him, rubbing her aching calves.

"I can't remember the last time I walked that much... and you probably don't hurt at all."

"Hurt? No... no, that's not what I'm feeling."

Delenn's mouth went dry, but before she could think of anything to say--indeed, before she could remember how to speak--Neroon leaned back on his hands, looking up through the open dome of the ceiling. Delenn curled up beside him while he sang, a long and lyrical poem about the first Star Riders, how they had conquered the skies and ridden across them in blazing waves.

"Are there many such songs in the Star Riders clan?" Delenn asked, after the last words had faded into the air.

"More than I know, as yet. Enough for a lifetime." He smiled at her, a wide sudden flash that took her breath away. "I mean to learn them all."

Perhaps it was the smile, fierce and alive, or perhaps it was the brash fervor in his voice. Either way, she gathered her courage in her heart, pulled his head down to hers, and kissed him.

She was not sure what to expect—she half-thought he would push her away, or at least be startled. Instead, his tall frame relaxed into a grateful, easy slouch, and his arms were snug and warm against her back. When Delenn pulled away, his dark eyes were... she had no words. He touched her lips with his leather-clad fingers; until the end of her days, she would always associate that smell with him, and with that night. "I've wanted to do that," he confessed, "since the first time I saw you."

"Neroon. The first time you saw me, you thought I was a timid child."

He smiled, and kissed her again. "No, Delenn. I did not."

In spite of herself, she was surprised at how gentle and soft his lips were, and at how easy it was to burrow into his embrace and let him wrap her in his cloak and hold her against his chest, and talk about everything and nothing in between kisses that were as sweet as they were shy. And she was amazed at how reluctant she was to leave his company when he finally sighed and told her she should go.

"You want your sleep, I suppose."

His heart did strange things inside his chest at the sight of her forlorn expression. "I have never felt more awake in my life. But you do have lessons tomorrow. And," he added, "your curfew was nearly an hour ago."

Delenn's hands flew to her mouth as she stared at him in shock.

"Run, girl," Neroon said, pressing a fleeting kiss to her lips as his laughter threatened to bubble over. "I'll see you in the morning."

Watching her run out of the temple was like watching a fiber fly from his body. Sighing, Neroon went to his hard bed and slept.

***

After slipping through the darkened silence of the open dormitory, Delenn was surprised to push open the door to her own little room and find a lamp still lit. Mayan, who was seated on the floor in a posture of prayer, flew to her feet before Delenn could speak, and threw her arms around her friend.

"Delenn! Where have you been? I was so worried for you, I couldn't sleep, but I didn't know whether I should tell anyone. I didn't want you to get in trouble, but I was so frightened, Delenn! What were you thinking of, staying out so late?"

Delenn hugged her friend back, breathless and giddy. "I'm so sorry to have frightened you, Mayan. I lost track of time. But I was perfectly safe, I was with Neroon the whole time."

"Neroon." Mayan did not seem at all comforted by this.

"Yes, of course. I told you I was going into the city with him."

"I didn't realize you meant to stay out with him all day and night! What were you thinking? Anything could have happened, he could have done... anything to you, don't you understand?” Mayan’s brown eyes were wide and her face pale. “Alone in the city like that--"

"You and I have been alone in the city a hundred times or more."

"But that was you and I, Delenn, not some savage Warrior boy you hardly know! He could have hurt you."

Delenn gritted her teeth and pulled back from her friend's embrace. "He would not have hurt me, Mayan. I trust Neroon. He... is a friend."

"A better friend than the ones you've had all your life, apparently."

"No. Not better. Different."

"Then why spend the day alone with him? Why leave me to be with him? I thought I was your dearest friend!"

"You are! But he..." Delenn trailed off, helpless, trying to sort out what had been said and what only implied, and what she could safely and honestly say about the strange feelings she'd held in her heart ever since Neroon's arrival among them. "You are my dearest friend, always, Mayan. But he is... also becoming dear to my heart, in a very different way."

Mayan, her brown eyes wide and aghast, covered her mouth and turned away. A high moan escaped her lips nonetheless, and her body twisted in something like silent agony. "You cannot mean this," she hissed. "You cannot. Delenn, it's too dangerous - he's too dangerous."

"He is not."

"Then you are deluding yourself."

"I don't want to argue, Mayan..."

"Then be sensible! I've never known you to miss curfew before, I've never known you to take unnecessary risks... I don't know what to think, anymore."

"I won't miss curfew again," Delenn muttered. "But if by 'unnecessary risks' you mean spending time with someone I consider a friend, then yes, I will do that again. I am sorry, though. I didn't mean to be out so late, and I didn't mean to frighten you." She reached out a hand to her friend. "Forgive me?"

Mayan regarded her suspiciously, and then, after a moment, sighed and relented. She clasped Delenn's hand to her heart and squeezed it, pulling her friend back toward the bed. "Of course. I forgive you, Delenn. But please - do be more careful. And come to bed. I already feel as if I might fall asleep in prayers tomorrow morning."

***

The next morning Mayan didn't mention the curfew-breaking or her concern about Delenn's time alone with the Warrior boy - her friend's shadowed eyes, stifled yawns and shamefaced looks indicated that she was regretting enough, and Mayan considered that it would be cruel to push her under such circumstances. Perhaps by light of day Delenn would see that the boy was a bad influence on her, and back off on her own. And as the day went by, Delenn gave all indication of genuine remorse for their fight, sitting and chatting with Mayan as they had always done before, and spending only a little time with the Warrior, and that public.

Consequently, Mayan was in a good mood that afternoon when she made her way into the depths of the library archives to meet with her tutor, and it took her several moments to realize that her tutor did not seem to share her cheerful outlook. The tall young man was waiting at their customary table in the library when she arrived, and the change to the dim interior of the building from the growing brightness of the sunlight outside fooled Mayan into thinking that perhaps it was only her own unwillingness to be indoors that made her think he looked tired and that a frown weighed his normally calm features downward.

"I was hoping we could go over the thirteenth stanza of Burli's Epistle to the North Wind, first," Mayan began. "I'm having some difficulty following the devices he's using. The footnotes don't indicate whether the letter was actually intended for someone that he might be using the North Wind as a cipher for, or..." It occurred to Mayan suddenly that Ashan had not yet lifted his eyes from the table, and that his hand resting upon the table was clenched in a fist. "...Or we could start with whatever you like," she suggested weakly

Still nothing.

"...Ashan?" Mayan tentatively reached out and touched the dusty sleeve of the librarian's robe.

He looked at her, his eyes slightly narrowed and his jaw extremely tight. He seemed to recognize her, then, and his features loosened back to their usual mildness. "Mayan. I'm sorry, I... am distracted, this afternoon."

"Is something wrong?"

He made a slight huffing noise. "One of your year-mates. I am not a man given to violence, but thought I might strangle him if he stayed longer here."

"Who?"

"A young man named Avaier."

"Oh." Mayan laughed and patted Ashan's arm fondly. "That's normal. Everybody feels that way about Avaier. Even Delenn hates him, and she even likes that Warrior boy. It takes a lot to be more of an arrogant pain than a Warrior. What did he do?"

"He said," Ashan relayed in a tone in which fury was tightly controlled but clearly raging just below the surface, "a great many insulting things."

Mayan winced. "Like what?"

To her shock, Ashan actually growled. The sound was soft, but low, and... oddly charming. "A great many unpleasant things. He said that poetry was a dull and unworthy subject of study, that he had no interest in reading the dry ramblings of women and men long dead, and that only a socially inept stone pillar like myself would waste their time on such idiocy when there are more important matters to attend to."

"Did you point out to him that he would be studying that idiocy whether he wanted to or not, if his adviser sent him to you?"

"I, er, started to. And he interrupted and told me that if he told Master Midiri I was doing a poor job of teaching him, she would give him an exception and... put a highly unfavorable note in my transfer when I finish my research here. Young Avaier, it turns out, is the beloved scion of his clan, of which Master Midiri - and you did not hear this from me - is the matriarch."

"How did you find that out?" Mayan whispered.

Ashan looked almost insulted. "I checked the archives."

"So he's really... but just because he's of her clan..."

"Not just of her clan, Mayan. He is the last of her clan. Avaier is of an ancient and noble line that can be traced back to a dynasty of powerful queens in the eleventh century before Valen. Once, they were numerous and immensely powerful. The clan has dwindled over the last seven or eight centuries, however, and in the current generation, Avaier is the sole offspring. He is the child of Midiri's distant cousin, but..." He paused and glanced around the library, as though afraid one of the two would appear from behind a shelf to spy on them. "With no other chance for the clan to continue, I have no doubt he is not lying about Midiri's partiality, or about the potential consequences if he were to manipulate her into believing that I had misused her clan-child."

"So what will you do?" Mayan asked, enthralled. Who knew that such excitement could be found in the dry and dusty librarian?

"What can I do? I will push him as gently as I can toward actual study, and... where I cannot, I must make it appear as though he has succeeded. I cannot risk the possibility of a poor review at the end of my work in this temple. It would ruin my career, such as it is."

"So... you don't always want to work in the library?"

"Not this library," Ashan corrected. "I want always to be a librarian and archivist. But here... no. I would prefer to go elsewhere, somewhere where fewer scholars have had their hands in the records - the trouble with large teaching temple like this is that every scroll and slip of parchment has been examined, documented, interpreted, and categorized a hundred times already. There are no surprises to be found, no discoveries to be made. What I wish for... when I have completed my training, what I would like best is a small temple somewhere obscure, where the archives have been relatively unexamined and I might find things out for myself. Truly contribute to historical thought, and to the preservation of our history. I... suppose it sounds very boring, but that is my hope for my future."

"What sorts of discoveries could one make in a library?" Mayan asked. "Surely everything even in the greatest library is known - that's why it's in a library! If it weren't known, it wouldn't be there."

"Known at one time, certainly." Ashan smiled. "But not necessarily to this generation. For example, some years ago there was a scholar in the east who found records in his archive of an ancient city, long lost to the light of the suns. He gathered all the information he could on that city, but very few people believed him - they thought the records no more than legends, and believed that he was foolish and gullible to be so taken in by them. But the scholar persevered, and eventually convinced a few others to continue the search with him, including a few archaeologists, and eventually, with their help, the original and ancient city of Kan'oore was found."

Mayan's eyes went wide. "Kan'oore?"

"The jeweled city, yes. I can find books for you about its history and discovery, if you like..."

"No, no. You don't need to do that." Mayan laughed. "I know all about Kan'oore - all except the story of how it was discovered, it seems! My parents were part of the archaeological team that excavated it."

Now it was Ashan's turn to stare at her, stunned. "Your parents worked with Darenn and Baraia? That's astonishing! I have read all their papers and books, studied all their excavations - they're among the best archaeologists and historians of the last century!"

Mayan blushed under the brilliance of his sudden admiration. "Actually, my parents are Darenn and Baraia. And I thank you for your kind words," she added with a bow. "I will tell them, next time we speak, that I have met a great admirer of their work."

For the next hour, Mayan was obliged to answer questions about her parents and their studies, eventually admitting that she had herself accompanied them on a few digs when she was a child, or while at home with them on holidays from her temple studies. "Archeology doesn't suit me," she admitted when he pressed her about why she had not mentioned this before, "but I enjoy hearing the stories my father tells me of what they find, and I love to walk through the ruins and place my feet where the ancients did, see the same walls that protected them from the winter storms."

Ashan smiled - a true, brilliant smile that she had rarely seen from him before. "I understand. I have visited a few such sites, while I'm at leisure from my own work, and... it is a remarkable feeling."

"That isn't something many people seem to understand." Mayan regarded the librarian with no little amazement. He seemed to have come to life over the course of their conversation that day - his brown eyes were bright, and he had hardly stumbled over his words at all as they talked. More than anything, she realized, they had been conversing not as student and teacher or as tutor and pupil, but as friends with a shared interest. It seemed strange to think of him as such, at first, but as they gathered their books and papers and walked to evening prayers in the pale purple light of the setting suns, Mayan was pleased to think of their new-found companionship... particularly when she saw Delenn once again walking with the Star Rider boy. If Delenn insisted on making friends with the Warrior, at least Mayan herself had a new friend to distract her somewhat from her best friend's lack of attention.

***

The dormitory was still dark and silent as Delenn slipped in from the hall outiside. She counted beds and alcoves until she reached the door to the tiny room she and Mayan shared, and pushed it open, pushing up slightly on the old stone so it wouldn't grind. Mayan lay tightly curled in the middle of their bed, the blankets wrapped around her. Delenn sighed, and pushed at her, tugging at one end of the blanket as she did.

"Delenn?" Mayan's voice was a sleepy murmur.

"Who else? Move, I need to get into bed." Satisfied that her friend was at least awake enough to give her space, Delenn peeled off her outer robe and folded it as neatly as muzzy fingers allowed, and toed off her shoes before crawling into the covers next to Mayan.

"You're freezing," Mayan grumbled, scooting away. "And you smell of that Warrior boy."

"Don't be stupid, Mayan. I don't smell of anyone, just the Star Temple."

"Leather and blood." Mayan sniffed disapprovingly, and wrinkled her nose. "I don't know how you tolerate it. I should make you get up and wash."

"You wouldn't." Delenn pulled the blankets up over her head. "I have only two hours until--"

"And whose fault is that? Not mine. His. Really, Delenn, I never thought you the type. Out at all hours, neglecting your studies, skipping lectures... all for an oafish boy who can't sit still in temple?"

"He's got better."

"Hmm. Remember, Delenn, I didn't grow up cosseted in the city like you. I know Warriors - real Warriors, not the tame ones they keep in Yedor. They're all the same. Brutish, arrogant, thick-headed, half-illiterate--"

"Not true. And I'm not listening, either."

"You'd better listen, if you're going to waste your time on this boy. I'm older than you--"

"By six months," Delenn muttered.

"And I'm telling you," Mayan continued right over her, "that this boy is trouble. Look at him. Hard little black eyes, thin hard lips that look like they were carved from stone purely to scowl--"

"They're not."

"...Not what?"

Grateful for the darkness, Delenn blushed furiously. "Scowling. You've only seen him scowling because you only see him when he's frustrated or trying to concentrate."

Mayan scooted closer suddenly, one pale hand reaching out to turn Delenn's face toward her. "I don't think that's what you meant at all, Delenn. I think you meant they aren't hard. Didn't you?"

"What if I did? Just because someone has thin lips--"

"And how would you know, hmm?"

Silence. Mayan snorted, and when she spoke again her voice was torn between friendly mockery and horror. "You did. You kissed him. Delenn! My beautiful friend, always so delicate and refined, caught up in the brutish embrace of a Warrior. I can hardly believe it. Rough as he is, as... as coarse as he is..." She fell silent, shaking her head. "He didn't hurt you--"

"Oh, by Valen, Mayan! He is a Star Rider, not a monster from some old story. Of course he hasn't hurt me!"

"If you say so. There's not that much difference, from what I've seen... I'm just joking, you don't have to get so mad!"

Delenn sat up, and pulled the blanket with her to wrap around her shoulders. When she grew cold out on the grounds with him, Neroon often gave her his cloak, draping the heavy black over her small shoulders. Feeling the heavy weight of the fabric now made her feel more confident, somehow, as if some of the boldness she found with him rubbed off from the memory of his closeness. "I'm glad you're joking, Mayan. Because I am very fond of him."

Mayan stared, and then shook her head and rolled over, turning her back to her friend and wrapping herself tightly in her side of the blankets. Delenn followed suit, but sleep took a long time to claim either of them that night.

(to be continued... Click here for Part 4)