DrowMemoriesPart15

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I think an "R" rating is enough; they do have sex but not explicit really.

These are the memories Keith experiences when he blacks out in the bath. This happened a long, long time ago. Talking multi hundreds of years here. So the style is more archaic, and it's not really happening through Keith's eyes. He is just an observer here, and not in control.

Important clue per religion: Although most Tribal guys swear by the Northern gods, Thor etc, the religious set of the world of Khesh is pretty open. People believe what they believe; only the Southerners try to force their religion on anyone. Ancestor worship, and the belief in the reincarnation of the spirit of a powerful forebear to a current descendent, is just as common as Norse mythology in the tribes.

Warnings: These are two half brothers pairing up here. Me and the elves don't consider it incest, but you have been warned. (If you've read this far I can't imagine you objecting anyway. Right?)

This is more the flowery fantasy style than anything I've ever written; don't know if it works or not. I don't do this type of writing often, because I just can't keep a broomstick up my butt for that long. <g> Everything I know about Drow elves I learned from the excellent R.A. Salvatore and his Drizzt series; I use none of it here, though, except I bow to the master as far as a full Drow elf's appearance goes, ebony skin and white hair. Mr. Salvatore would probably thank God for my discretion if he knew anything about it at all. <g> And I hope he never does.

Sorry for the long disclaimer/intro. I really am an insufferable windbag. One of the perks of writing original fics online.

Drow Memories

A long, long time ago, in the Year of the Screaming Cat

The warrior watched, amused, as his half-brother tore free from the thicket he had dived into to escape the slashing razors of twin scimitars.

The boy's face, usually a pale gold, so different and exotic from the normal Drow complexion of stark ebony to silver-grey, was flushed almost to molten bronze with exertion, and from the light of the Wolf moon. He was swearing in frustration now, and his grasp of elven cursewords was extensive. Perhaps some of his annoyance came from the scratches he had suffered from the prickly bush. Small patterns of blood on the cheeks. Once larger cut across the cleft chin, a dripping mess that the warrior would have been proud to lick clean for him. The long loose hair, the color of polished amber, was filled with twigs and leaves.

"Again?" the boy demanded hotly, slanted blue-green eyes blazing at his brother and sword-teacher.

"Again and again," the Drow warrior purred. "And yet again, the result will be the same. I have hundreds of years of practice on you, little brother." And how easy you are to anger. This will teach you to deny me, lovely one. Although your reasons, I cannot but honor.

As expected, the half-Drow flushed. Even in the crimson dark it was noticeable, especially to one who saw in infrared, who could track the body heat. Especially to one whose second eye was demonic.

"Again until you truly best me, Storm. I saw that one coming," the boy called Sunshadow boasted. "If I escape the blow, it's not trulydamn you!'

He got his dragonhilted sword up barely in time to block the swirling wicked wind that was Stormblade's attack.

The two danced and played under the haunted disk of the red moon, winding effortlessly through the thick undergrowth, the moss-weeping oaks and pale ash trees. The half-elf long ago had thrown off his shirt, and his upper body shimmered with the oily sweat of exertion.

The warrior elf did not sweat. He was nearly invisible, his ebony skin lost in the night. The moon turned the ice-white hair, pulled up in a high ponytail held with a silken tie sewn with jewels, to the color of old blood. One of his eyes blazed just as crimson. The other was an oval fire opal, changing color with his mood.

Its color now was a smoky blue, despite the mock-battle, despite his history of battle-rage.

Half-human, the boy's muscles were stronger, but the speed and fury of the attack he could not best or even equal. He could only block, until he misjudged and one of the dark weapons shot under his guard and nicked his chestonce, twice, three times. Before he could even count the beats of the blade.

"Yield," said the soft and musical voice behind the scimitar.

Good sense deserted him; the human curse, the fiery temper. "Never!" he howled, and threw himself forward, intending to smash the warrior beneath him. In a wrestling match, he couldn't help but win. The elf was quick, not weak by any means, but small and fragile-boned. And the boy couldn't help but be proud of his greater strength and bulk. Only nineteen human years he had, yet the mightiest of elves was nearly puny beside him.

Of course, he knew in a real battle that curved blade would already be through his belly and out the other side. Twisted, probably, as the cold-hearted elf watched him die in agony.

But he trusted Stormblade, as he trusted no one else. For some strange reason, hideous as he was, his brother loved him. Wanted him, even.

So he roared, and leaped, expecting to crush the smaller one beneath him.

He should have known, of course. The damned human temper would be his bane.

Stormblade wasn't there to be tackled. And then he *was* there, a silken tiger slamming into one's body, a savage fist to the chin that knocked one's head back and ripped many twinkling stars to one's brain.

Sunshadow came to fuzzy consciousness to find the Drow atop him. Fully atop him, holding him down, licking his chin gently. A shudder went through him, fear and arousal warring with each other.

"That was foolish, little brother." The Drow's voice was a velvet purr.

"I amsorry," the boy breathed. Oh gods and demonshow beautiful his sword-brother was. That thin-featured face hovering so close above him; perhaps he couldn't really see it, the dark skin blended with the night as it was meant to. But every line of it was etched in his mind forever.

And the eyes, he could see. The crimson one, that smoldering color that was sign of Drow blood not only pure but also royal. The other

Many among the Dark Elves feared their greatest warrior. He was strange, even among the Oldest Ones. He had lost the left eye in battle; seemingly impossible, given his skill. But the human scum he fought had a knife of the naga-metal, the ugly grey-green substance that killed magic. And that opponent was one of the greatest human fighters, had even managed to stab the elf. A scratch only, and because Stormblade was not so much a mage as other Drow it had not poisoned him badly. But slow him it had, enough for the other's sword of cold iron to slash across his face.

The human had died, and horribly. But the Dark Elves were not talented at healing magic, and the eye was lost. The beautiful face scarred irreparably.

Except Stormblade called some of the Lordly Ones friends. And the dragons, if not so much stronger in healing than the elves, were masters ofwhat had Storm called it? Ah, yes. Technology.

The Drow's left eye had been replaced. With what the dragons called acomputer? In appearance, it was an oval gem colored of moonstone when inactive, yet flashing a thousand colors when working.

It was working now. It burned a violet-blue touched with golden sparks. The half-elf shivered again, but the fear had gone completely.

I am a fool. If he asks me now, I will

"Still and all, you fought reasonably well. So I have a treat for you, little brother. A reward, if you will."

Sunshadow closed his eyes, felt his body arch. "Yes," he whispered.

And then his brother was laughing at him, that soft elven laughter that was something caught between a serpent's hiss and the music of crystal chimes. "Not that, foolish one. You have made your position clear."

Too damned clear, the half-breed thought disgustedly, as he felt his brother's body pull back from him, release himdamn! He blinked his eyes open to find a slim, ringed hand reached out to him, a mocking look from eyes now both carefully matched scarlet.

"Up," the warrior commanded regally. And so he groaned and arose, needing the offered assistance as he suddenly discovered all the bruises and stiff muscles that sheer adrenaline had masked.

Soft laughter again, at his moans of discomfort. Still, the amusement was affectionate. And Storm had said he fought "reasonably" well. From the usually dry and sarcastic elf, the equivalent of a glowing compliment. Pride filled him, and love, and the restless desire that came so much more often now. He remembered to search and find the sword that had flown from his grasp. Close by, and still glowing silver-black. The blade clean and sharp despite the rough usage he had given it, blocking blows instead of giving them.

A magical sword. And his. His nameday gift. The Elders still were in a frenzy over that; a blade of Drow magic, a named sword, given to a half-human!

It was a measure of their fury, that they dared even protest to Stormblade. Who had told them, coldly, publicly, and with a danger in his voice that would have frightened a cave troll, that the sword was his to bestow as he saw fit.

"You've given me enough, brother," he murmured now, as he slipped the slim runesword carefully into its sheathe of silk and black ivory.

Lazy, hooded eyes ran up and down his body, with an arrogant satisfaction that made him shiver for a third time. "Oh, not nearly enough. Truly. But what I have given, I think you will repay. Soon. You are more than ready to kill a human."

His eyes widened and glowed at the praise, even as his blood turned to liquid fire at the promise. For that was the price of his acceptance as a Dark Elf, according to the Elders. And that acceptance was the price of something better.

Never would he touch the elven warrior, he'd vowed, until he was worthy. Until he'd proven himself truly one of the Dark Ones, by killing a human enemy.

And Storm had eyed him cryptically, laughed a little at the fierceness of his sworn oath, and backed away. Not seeming displeased, even though the Drow had been the aggressor. Oh, yes. Still Sunshadow could barely believe it had happened. The most deadly and beautiful of the dark warriors touching him. Wanting *him.*

Their first kiss had been their last. Sometimes at night he tossed sleepless, burning at the memory. Cursing himself for a thousand kinds of fool. But he had a stubborn pride, probably as human as his temper. He would not revoke his vow.

That his father had been human was not something that troubled this vow. It was almost irrelevant, in a sense. The Northern Riders were so unlike the Children of Light that most elves sometimes forgot they were a *kind* of human. And the Golden Wolf, he who was called Sunsilver, had followed the elven woman he lusted for into the very caves of the Dark Ones. Had won their respect, and hers, with the absolute foolhardiness of his daring.

She had wed instead of slain him, royal though her blood was, witch queen and priestess of the Starlords. And he had been one of their fiercest warriors, until age claimed him. But he left behind his half-breed son, two half-elven daughters, and a treaty of sorts between the Dark Ones and the Shadow Riders.

Many 'breeds had come forth in the Battles; since seduction was an elven weapon, it could not be helped. Although the number of children engendered in this way was a startlement to them; elves as a rule were long-lived, some of them even immortal. But they produced few offspring. The mixing of their seed with the hotter human blood caused their birth rate to double. A problem, since the Dark females were usually the seducers and killed the besotted humans as soon as the deed was done. Those 'breeds who grew enough to determine their loyalties were also quickly culled if they seemed too human.

Sunshadow was, he supposed, lucky. Even though he was still was not fully accepted Drow, his father had been a fierce warrior, and loyal to the elves. His mother had been a mighty sorceress, an elven princess--although she did little for him besides give him noble blood. All her strange, obsessive love had been given to the laughing, rowdy Sunsilver.

His father he remembered with a wistful curiosity, a big man with strange pale skin, even paler than his own, and long braids of dark golden hair shot with silver-grey. The dancing blue-green eyes he had inherited, and a love of practical joking that more than once had offended some of the more rigid elven nobles. Even though his human side showed in his ugly appearance, half his name was not a mockery. And he had been let to live. He had spent the years of his life trying to prove his furious loyalty to his adopted race.

No. He must be honest, for lying to *oneself* was a thing of humans.

All his loyalty was only to one Drow. To the feared, grim warrior who had smiled at his half-breed brother from the first moment the little boy had toddled up to him, eyes wide in wonder at the splendor of jewels and velvet. Who amazingly enough shared his often bizarre sense of humor as he grew, although Storm's notion of a joke could take a bloody turn. He had once calmly sliced open a foolish elf who dared to tease his younger brother in his very presence. Then gave the half-horrified, half-giggling boy a quick and thorough anatomy lesson, using the dying one as a handy tool for evisceration and explanation.

No one crossed Stormblade. Not even the Elders.

Now, his brother smiled at him again. Stripped first the rings, then the dragon leather and silk fencing gloves from his small elegant hands. Sunshadow grinned as Storm carefully replaced each sparkling ring, a jeweled circlet for each finger and two plain silver thumb rings. To say that his older brother was something of a dandy would be an understatement. All elves were more vain than less, but there were times Storm preened like one of his cats. And to battle--by the Nine Hells, he went to battle arrayed more like a bridegroom than a warrior.

Perhaps, though, it was a tactic. Surely many humans had underestimated the lightly armored elf, who sported more silk and velvet than leather, who wore feathers in his hair and jewels on his elegant hands.

Finished arranging his rings, the Drow pocketed his gauntlets and began checking his garb for damage. As if my blade got near him once! the half-elf thought impatiently. "So. What is my reward, for fighting so reasonably well that I never even touched you?" he asked waspishly.

Instead of the deadly wound that such a tone would have gained anyone else, for Sunshadow there was a rare flash of very white, sharp teeth in that dark silken face. "Humans have no patience, and they talk more than they think or see. Look up at the Moon, little brother."

He had been vaguely aware that Storm's demon eye had been rippling through a green on black shimmer of symbols, a sign of communication tosomething. Now he looked up as instructed, and gasped.

"It is time you learn to ride," Stormblade said softly.

Against the copper disk, the winged shadow appeared as some bizarre butterfly, all dark lace and delicate as the black silver jewelry worn by the elven elite. But he knew that was distance only, that what was approaching was huge.

And impossible. Dragons did not come at the beck and call of even the highest elf lords.

But this was his elder brother, who could do anything. His lover soon in fact, not just in restless fevered dreams. He dropped widened blue-green eyes to that beloved facenow openly grinning at himand prayed fervently to all his elven ancestors to send him a human to kill very, very soon.

His ancestors must have heard him. And twisted his words maliciously, as all gods are prone to do.

They sent him a thousand humans the following week, and at high noon, the time of day when the dark elves were weakest. Among them too many wizards, and far too many warriors armed with the naga-metal.

Now he rode the frost dragon, circling high above the battlefield, using his bow when he was close enough. He must have shot two score of humans. Before Stormblade had called Mor'gwaine and ordered his brother to flee with the dragon, at least five had fallen beneath the elven blade.

So easy, they were to kill. But there were so damned many of them. And they had finally pushed what elves remained back to the caves. The great iron doors, woven with many wards, had been shut. But the damned human priests and wizards were chanting spells of opening upon them, while warriors battered with great rams against them. Strong though the doors were, they have not been meant to withstand forever.

"We must leave, boy. Nothing we can do here, and if their arrows are also tipped with the death metal, they can shoot me from the skies like a sparrowtwit. Dragons are mostly magic, y'know. Hell of a thing, to be bested by a little bit of

priest-infected metal, but no help for it. And your little peashooter can't take out all of 'em. Risking my neck and yours every time you make me swoop. All out of ice breath, too. Need to rest."

"But Storm" he cried, gripping the riding straps frantically. "We can't just leave him!"

The dragon snorted, and decisively began to climb into the sky. "And just what would you do to help him, eh? He's old and crafty; he'll survive if anyone will. Craftier than the Council, by gad. He told them to attack the humans in their lair after the elves won the last battle. But no. 'The humans are utterly crushed', sez they. 'Offend our dignity to march against mere humans,' they sez. What they meant was, their lazy arses didn't care to march South and leave their luxuries! And so they let it slide, and the humans grow strong again and come with twice the numbers and with knowledge of where your weak points is to boot. Except for yer brother and a few others, the elves are gettin' what they deserve for bein' sheer damn fools."

Sunshadow cursed. Sometimes he could barely understand what the dragon was talking about. It was because dragons were both time and space travelers, Storm had told him. It amused them to pick up odd idioms in these travels. One green dragon spoke with such an appalling "Australian" accent even Stormblade could barely understand him.

Stormblade. Oh, gods, only the night before they had been sitting together at some windy elven banquet, filled with malicious chatter and quick-witted insults. Sunshadow was not good at this game, and kept silent rather than be made a fool. Stormblade, though he could cut any elf to ribbons with his tongue, got bored at such social banter quickly. He applied himself instead to the ghastly beverage he got from the Riders, for which he traded the light honey mead most elves had a taste for.

The first the half-elf realized how affected his brother was by the Blue Death was when a light hand caressed his hip under the table, gently but possessively. He nearly spit his food back into his plate, and turned to stare at Storm, who was smiling at him. Definitely tipsy, crimson eye narrowed and watering a bit, the fire opal sparkling in the violet-gold of arousal.

"Shall we give these quacking ducks something to talk *about* instead of their usual mindless dribble? Oh, don't worry about your vow, brother; this you'll get on account. I learned the concept from a human innkeeper," Storm confided brightly. Just before leaning in and catching his surprise-opened mouth in a kiss thatoh gods and demons. Tongue curling up around his so sweetly, yet demanding everything he possessed. He tasted dangerous, like fire and lightening; probably the miasma of the Rider's hellish brew, but at that moment it had felt like the taste of power. Sunshadow could only grab the Drow's shoulders to keep from falling stunned and give the kiss back again and again, until suddenly he was feverishly taking instead.

His hot human blood seemed to boil through his veins as the elf's hand wandered from his hip to his lap, deftly exploring and approving the straining proof of his desire. He thought he heard the sound of a wineglass falling as he writhed against that light touch, aroused almost beyond bearing.

"You will be a fierce lover, my own," Storm had whispered to him when they finally broke apart for air. "Almost am I frightened." And the boy looked up in the total silence at all the shocked and disapproving elven faces, and for the first time grinned at them wickedly, not caring what they thought.

Storm leaped suddenly up from the table and bowed mockingly to the assemblage, blatantly erect in his dark velvet and satin. And Sunshadow trembled at the sight. Elves enjoyed the small games of seduction, the foreplay, but they were slow to rouse. Once stirred, though, their passions were hot, animalistic, intense. For Storm to lust for him so quicklyoh, yes! For him to hold it back, even to be able to speakthat was a measure of the elf's iron control.

"Your pardon, I'm sure. Come, little brother; since we cannot fuck we must definitely fight to take this edge off. More entertaining it will be than dinner, anyway." A few of the elven faces were smirking behind their hands, now, rather than looking shocked, as Storm dragged his dazzled brother away with a firm grip on his sleeve.

Not all the elves, it seemed, were so against their union. The thought was a joy to Sunshadow, for he possessed the human trait of preferring approval to censure.

And nowoh gods and demons, how could the world shatter so totally in so few hours? How could he lose the better half of his soul before even claiming it? He could not.

Weak human tears were pushed across his face, then dried by the wind of the dragon's flight. "We'll come back after you've rested, find Storm and kill them all!"

"Oh, no doubt, no doubt." The dragon wheeled away toward the distant hills past the forest. "But for now, I'll take us to the place where the tunnels exit; the escape hatch as it were."

"Escape" He had never known of this. He couldn't imagine the Drow so overwhelmed they would need to escape. It was a nightmare. He would awake soon, to a memory of killing many humans. To someone in his arms, proud of him, eager for his touch.

He would awake soon, please the gods, and they both would laugh at this mad, impossible dream.

Instead, they reached a small clearing behind a high hill; the dragon hovered, muttering as he sought a place large and clear enough to land. Finally, he swooped to the lakeshore nearby, which boasted a wide beach more than adequate for his forty-foot length. He settled, then snaked his head back to Sunshadow, who was already attempting to slide the distance down the dragon's side, forgetting to release the silken climbing ladder.

He nosed the boy gently, nearly knocking him off the rest of the way. "Calm yourself. You'll break your pretty neck. Slowly down, now, and I'll show you where the entrance lies. Oh, lord love a duck! Here, let me, you great clumsy"

Mor'gwaine reached around with a long-taloned foreclaw and gently circled the half-elf's waist, then lowered him to the ground with care. As soon as the boy's feet touched earth he was running back towards the shadowed hill, the pearl-white dragon huffing irritably behind him and pushing brush and trees aside like straw.

He didn't intend to tell Sunshadow where the entrance was immediately; for one thing, it would take him at least twenty minutes to transform so he would fit into the Drow's foolish tunnels. And he'd be a grass lizard if he intended to let the fool boy go in alone; for another thing, Storm would have his head for a wall trophy if he even thought of leaving the lad unprotected.

He knew the older elf was alive, but badly wounded. The faint, quick shimmer of his thoughts in the strange circuitry their brains shared told him this. But with the boy's emotions so on the boil, to even say the word "wounded" might drive him to foolishness. Yes, look at him now, like a flaming topaz in the setting of the coal-black battle leathers, frantically running his hands over the rocky side of the hill as if he thought there'd be some physical opening device.

And to the dragon's amazement, before he could tell the young fool to stop wasting his time, a large, door shaped crack appeared in the hillside some twenty feet from the boy, and opened.

Sunshadow heard the soft grinding of the opening portal, and ran toward it with a cry. The dragon turned his own steps in that direction, roaring a warning; he knew it was nothing the boy had done that had opened the entranceway.

It was well that he did so. The Drow archer who led from the cave mouth already had an arrow nocked and let fly, but managed to change his aim at the sound of the dragon's voice. The arrow sizzled over the half-elf's shoulder; he didn't even notice it. Young fool.

"Frostmoon!" he cried, trying to look behind the cursing archer to the other elves now emerging from the opening. "Where isoh!"

He saw the sparkle of jewels on the limp form that two other Drow were carrying from the cave, and with a harsh cry tried to push his way past the archer. Who quickly had a knife drawn and pointed at his gut.

Sunshadow froze; the dragon growled, and the elf called Frostmoon glanced at the glimmering, fire-eyed beast quickly. "My pardon, ancient one; I would not harm him. But he will never listen to reason without, and I cannot wrestle one so muscle-bound to a halt." As if that was settled, the archer turned his yellow-green gaze to the boy.

"Young fool, calm yourself. He is not deadyet. And do you think he would wish you to behave so, like a weeping human maiden? Be an elf for him, at least."

The boy swallowed, and with conscious effort wiped his face of emotion. He would have ignored the words of most other Drow, but Frostmoon was a friend to Storm, and even had sympathy for the two of them together. Perhaps because he was one of the albino elves, raven-black of hair, dead-white of skin. He had known his share of scorn and prejudice before proving his worth in battle.

"Young idiot," Frostmoon muttered, but in a kindly way. He lowered the knife. "Quickly then. We go to the Circle of Stars; this world is poisoned for us, by these madmen who believe those not like them must perish. Those not slain or too badly injured have already taken that path."

"The Circle of Stars! You can'tyou flee this world for another? Because ofof humans?" Even as he spoke Sunshadow hurried to his brother's side; the elves carrying him were lowering him down to the thick grass of the clearing. The gentleness with which they handled the wounded one, as well as the sickly grey tone to his normally sable complexion, made it plain that his wounds were grave indeed.

Instead of answering, Frostmoon turned to the dragon respectfully. "Ancient one. I would seek a favor."

"I can see it. He wouldn't survive the journey through the Circle; damn thing has quite a kick on the other side, anddammit, boy! Don't howl like that; break a dragon's earbone, you will!"

He didn't care. He couldn't care. At the words "wouldn't survive" he felt a scream boiling up from someplace deep and cold inside of him. He couldn't stop it from escaping, even though he clamped back on it hard enough to change a mindless shriek to a sort of loud, keening whimper. Not survive. That meantdie. He felt another scream giving birth to itself. Why the hell was Storm the only one injured? And so very injured; now that he was close enough, indeed he could see the dark velvets were sodden with blood. Why were these other cowards up walking, breathing, making ready to flee to a new world? He flashed a glare at them all as he dropped to his knees by Stormblade's side, longing to touch, but not knowing if he should. If it might not make things even worse. As if they could get any worse.

Frostmoon's voice was gentle and matter-of-fact at the same time. Some of his thoughtsno, all of themmust have been too easy to read on his expressive human face. "You know the Blade in war-frenzy, boy. One doesn't get too near to him. On a wide battlefield, it is a gift. In the tunnels, it turned out badly. The way too narrow, for more than one to guard our escape. Can you doubt he insisted on being that one?" He touched Sunshadow's shoulder lightly. "You would've been proud of him. He must have killed two score of them before even being touched himself. They'll be climbing past stacks of their own dead if they are crazy enough to try following us."

Sunshadow jerked viciously from the pale one's touch. "I would have been prouder if he came out alive!" he spat hopelessly. "What use is a dead hero? Damn him for a fool! Why couldn't he be as cowardly as the rest of you?"

The trio of elves stared at him as if he had grown nine heads and spoken blasphemy from each of them. He didn't care. He had more things to sayoh, he would never be done pouring out the poison in his soul. But before he could open his mouth again he was surprised by a rusty chuckle.

"Little brotherhow infernally rude you can be when you try. Truly I have taught you well."

Storm's voice was not as weak as it should have been, given the amount of blood, the unhealthy complexion. Both his eyes were open, and there was a slight smile touching the cold, expressive mouth.

He forgot the other elves, the dragon, the humans, the battle. His world spun, then steadied and focused to one knife-sharp point that began and ended in his half-brother's dancing eyes. He reached for one of those gauntleted hands, was thrilled beyond thought when the pressure of his grip was firmly returned. Not as bad as it looked, then. Surely not.

"So." His brother's voice might have been somewhat breathier than usual, but it still was strong. And surely if he were hurt to the death, he couldn't sound so amused. "Tell me. Many opportunities there weredid you finally kill a human, boy?"

One of the other elvesDarkstar, he thought it wasanswered for him. "Before we were backed into the tunnels, I myself saw him down three. And easily. The boy did well, Warlord."

Storm's eyes were warming him with, oh, such a look. He wanted to boast, wanted to say that he had killed many more than three, but suddenly knew it wasn't necessary. "They are easier to kill than I would have thought," he admitted shyly.

"Truth. It is a shame they breed like rats. Even rats can be dangerous in packs so large. And it is a shame," Storm observed dryly, "that the Elders were the first to pick up their skirts and run to the Circle. I am afraid they cannot proclaim you Drow from such a distance."

"Skewer the Elders," observed the short, somewhat ugly elf Sunshadow didn't know. "He's Drow enough for me, and who needs the windy ceremonies of that pack of cretins and wand-twitchers to make it so?" He dipped his head cordially towards Sunshadow. The boy returned the gesture, wondering privately if this elf was so liberal because he obviously had dwarf blood somewhere in his background.

But Frostmoon and the other elf echoed their companion. "He is Drow." The boy bobbed his head twice, thanking them. This should be the happiest day of his life. Somehow, though, he barely cared about the honor.

Nothing in the world mattered, except the hand gripping his, and that it remain in his forever.

The long, bloody day was finally dripping to twilight. Frostmoon shifted his feet and said urgently, "Warlord, I am sorry, but we must find the Circle before it's closed from the other side. You are sure you do not wish to risk it? To stay in this world with the Southern rats boiling up from their sewers, chanting their One God at all who live; that will be unpleasant indeed."

Their Warlord locked his gaze with that of the silent dragon, and for a moment that unnatural eye and Mor'gwaine's were the same baffling swirl of colors, black symbols chasing faster than thought across an emerald background. Then he returned his gaze to the other elf and said calmly, "No. Go, and luck follow you, and the Dark Lady bless you. I would stay even were I uninjured." And he shifted his mismatched gaze to Sunshadow before adding softly, "My heart is in this world, I think."

The dragon snorted, saving the half-elf from a damningly human burst of emotion. "Very pretty speech, that. Yes, go, you others. I'll take your Warlord to the Caves of Healing, as he wishes. And when he wakes again, if there are still Southern humans in the world they will be sorry ones."

Caves of Healing? Wakes again? "Then he won't die?" Blurted, in a flood of relief, of gratitude, of joy so pure and fierce he felt he might lose consciousness.

He felt his hand squeezed, but gently. And the dragonwhy did the look on that saurian face suddenly seem almost sympathetic?

"Die?" the dragon huffed, not meeting the boy's eyes, pretending to watch the other elves as they faded into the trees like ghosts, lifting hands in farewell. "Stupid boy, your Warlord is in direct descent from The Starlords themselves, which you'd know if you spent as much time on your genealogy as your swordplay. Of course he won't die"

"Old friend," Storm said, quietly. "If you can give me an hour, I will tell him."

"Tell me what? What are you"

The dragon studied the wounded elf quietly for a long moment, and then heaved a sigh that blew through the long grasses like a gale. "An hour, is it? Better make it two, for an elf with that in mind. But that is all, you hear? Our healing skills are not so immense to give you forever, alas. Stand aside, boy."

He didn't want to. He wanted his questions answered, wanted to know why his first surge of joy had faded to a dark, horrible premonition. But the quick pressure on his hand before he was released ruled him as nothing else in the world could have done. He stood up, stepped away from his brother as the dragon stalked closer and looked down at the slim form. Their eyes communicated again, and then Mor'gwaine parted his jaws, revealing teeth like the long daggers the elven women used to kill humans.

The dragon breathed, gently. Not frost breath. A sparkling emerald fog poured from his mouth to bathe Stormblade in ocean light, a soothing cool glow most pleasant to look on.

Most pleasant to feel also, so it seemed. For the green had barely faded from the light around him before the elf was sitting up, albeit cautiously. His color was better, almost normal in fact. Why had Mor'gwaine not done this before?

"Two hours," the dragon said sternly, and pushed past the boy hastily, refusing to make eye contact as he rustled toward the lakeside where there was room to launch himself into flight.

"Come here, my own." The Drow's soft voice was a witchery of seduction, and when his brother knelt beside him, that slim jeweled hand was instantly tangled in the bright amber-gold hair, pulling his face close. "Three humans?"

"Ten times that, at least. Elder brother"

"Ah. That will be many kisses. I had best get started."

The first kiss was lightening, sudden and shattering, breaking his thoughts to pieces. The second was water; slower, somehow denser, and filled with a sweet liquid that made him drunk on the instant. And he knew the next would combine the two elements into a storm that would madden him past any chance of speech or questioning.

He pulled away from that sorcery of lips and tonguethe hardest thing he had ever done in his young lifeand stammered, "First. Please. Tell me about these Caves of Healing."

Stormblade growled and pulled back, obviously angered. For a moment both his eyes seemed to glow a cold yellow, and Sunshadow feared that in balking a Drow elf in lust, even one who cared for him, he might have performed his last dangerous act of life.

Then the elf sighed, and his eyes returned to what for him was normal, crimson and shifting fire opal. "Very well. It is fair. I will not dishonor you with lies, little one. I am very badly injured, deep inside. It will healbut I must sleep."

"Sleep," he repeated stupidly. "In, in these Caves?"

A slow nod. "Yes."

"Forhow long?" A few days, a week, he could tolerate. A month would be awful, but he could stand it. Surely the dragon would keep him company, he could wait near the caves, wherever they were. He was a clever hunter, he would survive, even if Mor'gwaine chose not to stay with him. But whatwhat if it was a year? Or even two? He would go mad. He would.

And Storm was, for the first time since he'd known him, not meeting his eyes. Taking his hand again in a tight grip. Stroking his leg, lightly and sensuously, with the other hand, those clever ringed fingers strolling up higher as if meaning to distract him. Not meeting his eyes.

"How long, elder brother?" His voice was a dry harsh whisper, empty and drained of hope. Even before the elf sighed, and admitted what the boy's heart had already known was true.

"Longer than you have years left in your life, little one. Even if you lived out three human lifetimes." And then he focused on the stunned, wide-eyed face and said almost gently, "I am sorry. This was not what I planned. I wished to bond with you."

"Don't tell me what you *wished* to do," the half-elf whispered harshly, his voice as frozen as his face. "Not when you first tell me my life is over."

The Drow sat up more fully, wrapping his arms around his knees. "This is human dramatics," he said in a gentle voice. "And very close I feel to sharing them. But neither of our lives are over yet. Instead, Mor'gwaine has given us two hours. Would that be long enough, for you to give me a memory to dream of for three times a hundred years? Or will you sit and whine of your loss until our one chance to touch has passed? The choice will be yours; never have I felt a wish to force you."

The boy gazed at him, wide-eyed and stricken. "But I love you," he said in a wretched voice.

Storm stared back at him implacably, though the swirl of that mechanical eye to violet-blue and gold bespoke some softening. "So? And you will talk about it, like a human?" His voice softened, then, to a velvet purr. "You are Drow, younger brother. Don't talk. Be an elf. Show me."

The golden-skinned boy with hair like muted flame swallowed. Then, very slowly, he reached out and took the elf's hand again. Pulled him closer, and into that third kiss.

Which led, as he had known it would, to a storm for them both to drown in.

The dragon spent a bit less than two hours, hunting then feeding on the incautious deer that had blundered across his path. Scrupulously, the beast refrained from accessing Stormblade's mind during this time, although curiosity about the sex life of other beings was strong. And with all the Drow now gated to another world or, like the Warlord, taken to the Caves for healing, never again would there be a chance to observe the reputedly fiery and savage lovemaking of the race. Oh, well. It would be most improper to spy upon an old friend and his fledgling lover.

He was not so honorable, though, as to announce his return to them. He landed as silently as possible, slithered through the undergrowth with more stealth than his bulk should have been capable of. Magic was, after all, a dragon's very essence.

Just his luck, they were already finished, and waiting for him. Although the Drow's position, his head pillowed comfortably in his brother's lap, was far more intimate than it had been when he left. And Sunshadow was looking down at the elf as if he held the world and all its treasures within that space, stroking the dark, contented face gently. Playing with the loosened ivory hair.

"I was wrong," the Warlord said; softly, but not too quietly for a dragon's ears to hear.

"Wrong? About what?" The lad's voice seemed deeper somehow, smoky honey.

The slight grin was audible in the musical elven voice. "Wrong to think that nothing good would ever come of that big, human mouth of yoursdamn, young fool! Perhaps I forgot to mention my injuries?"

There was a soft, surprising growl from the young one; then an even softer and more surprising whimper of pleasure from the Dark Elf. The white dragon quickly rustled the undergrowth, hating to do it. But there was no more margin to spare, if they were to get the Drow to the Caves of Healing in time.

He expected some outcry, some bitter complaint, from Sunshadow at least. There was none. With a face like iron, the youth gently lifted his elven brother, and continued to hold him tightly as the dragon gripped them both, and placed them on his back. The Drow was beginning to nod and doze. The dragon chose his fastest pace then, flying the many leagues to the far West in under an hour.

It was the boy who lay the elf in the crystal chamber, and watched expressionless as the many-colored tendrils slipped around and through his brother's body. Before the last, though, the elf's eyes flickered open, and he studied his lover intently. "Remember," he said softly.

"Always," Sunshadow promised. His face remained expressionless, but the look in his eyes was gentle, warm, and tortured.

"Visit sometimes. I shall know you to be near, although I'm afraid I shall beunableto show it."

"Yes."

The dark face was relaxing as the strange fibers meshed with his flesh, began the long process of healing. "You do not need to do as I suggested. If you do not wish it."

"I wish it." I will never wish for anything again, except this. "I will do it." I will kill them all. Not for the Drow race, though. For only one Drow.

A faint smile touched the soft cruel lips. "I was right in one thing, little brother. You werearea fierce lover."

And then there was a soft, mechanical hum and Stormblade's right eye slid closed. His left eye turned milky, and then began to reflect a slow swirling of rainbow colors as he dreamed.

"You were right in that, elder brother," the boy said softly to the emptiness around him, inside him. "And now we shall see how fierce a hater I can be."

When he left the caves, the dragon was waiting for him. Insofar as lizard features could mimic human ones, he seemed almost sorrowful. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go, little one," the beast offered.

The boy studied him.no, not a boy. Not with that darkness in his eyes, that faint, chilly smile that looked strange on lips so lush and soft. "Want. There is nothing and nowhere I want. But I will go to the Northern tribe, the Shadow Riders. To claim my birthright, as son of their Lost Warchief."

The dragon's ears pricked. "Did your brother tell you to do this, Sunshadow? How did you find out your father"

"From now on, you will call me Bloodwolf. That other person is dead." The young man's voice was remote and cold, but with a power in it that the dragon recognized.

"Very well, Warchief," the beast said mildly, settling the half-elf on his back. "Bloodwolf it is. And what the devil will you do with a tribe full of humans, I'd like to know."

The half-elf smiled coldly. "What else do you use humans for? To kill other humans." He settled himself on the pearl-scaled back and gripped the riding gear in white-knuckled fists. "Southern humans. All of them."

It seemed a bit ambitious to the dragon; half the land was filled with Southern humans, and he doubted the ability of one cantankerous tribe of a few hundred barbarian warriors to crush that might which had driven the powerful Drow from the land. But he was prudent enough to not mention this. "As you wish," he agreed, and lifting in the air set his wings to the northeast.

Long ago, in the Year of the Screaming Cat, the warrior known as Bloodwolf came to the lands of the Shadow Riders, claiming to be the son of the Lost Warchief, Golden Wolf. Since all knew that warrior had disappeared almost half a century before into the lands of the Dark Elves, his tale was credited by few. But the power of his blade could not be challenged. Perhaps it was truth, that he had been trained by Drow, for no one before or since could fight like this cold-eyed demon.

He became the tribe's Warchief in the simplest way, by killing all who opposed him. And after enough had died, it was suddenly noticed that he did indeed have something of the look of the one he claimed as father; big and golden-fair, with blue-green eyes in the face of a warrior angel. Although the Wolf had always been a laughing lord though fierce, a rowdy man who enjoyed his drink and his lovers in about the same degree.

There was no laughter in this one. But he was a strong leader, and long-lived beyond belief. In the first fifty years of his rule, he managed to unite the Twelve Tribes, a squabbling nation of petty kingdoms who before had answered to none save their individual warchiefs.

From a band of a few hundred, then, Bloodwolf became ruler of a nation of thousands. He was also a handsome man, youthful-looking at even the age of nearly seventy. Many were the ones who sought his favor now at the height of his power, despite the joyless and cold nature of him, the empty spaces in the slanted eyes.

He chose a woman, though only for the purpose of breeding sons; he was honest about that, and she was not too displeased. He was as strong in bed as in battle, and if there was no love to be had in his arms then neither was there cruelty. He simply did not care for anything, aside from his one goal.

And in the year of the Dark Rider, he brought the thousands of his now disciplined and well-trained warriors howling down like wolves upon the main cities of the South, and crushed them utterly. Although the Southerners would gradually regroup and rebuild their kingdoms slowly over hundreds of years, they were never able to rebuild their Empire, which had once ruled the known world and some said even had driven the Elves from the land.

In the sixtieth year of his reign, Bloodwolf conquered the Southerners. And here his tale turns utterly to the mythical, for it is written that when he was certain the cities of the self-called Children of Light would never rise to power again, he handed the rule of the tribes and the runesword known as Sunkiller to his eldest child. Although still a strong warrior and looking more the age of forty than eighty, he seemed indifferent to the power he could now wield.

Some said he sent a message into the haunted western lands, by a means no one could grasp. And then he simply waited. For days, for weeks. Until suddenly there was a thunder of wings above the tents of the Riders, and a white dragon with eyes of crystal fire came for the Warchief. And despite the pleas and protests of his tribesmen, who had come to love their ruler despite his cold, grim personality, he mounted the dragon without a backwards look, and they flew into the far West together.