#Dark# Chapter I

The dirt under her fingernails surprised her. She woke up to find the stubborn blackness under her nails as a reminder of what she had done last night. Ah, yes.

She grimaced. Beltane.

She looked around the clearing; found her clothes scattered on some bushes nearby. That also was a testament to the previous night's activities. The calling of birds could be heard in the glen, the soothing rush of running water that pooled nearby. The man she had lain with on the festival eve in a surge of mindless excitement was nowhere to be seen. She scowled. So what? She could only blame herself.

Grunting softly, she lurched to her feet, and almost fell down again. Well, maybe the reckless behavior she had displayed last night wasn't #entirely # her fault. The splitting headache reminded her cruelly of her over indulgence of ale and sweet mead to celebrate the new season. Arri had always been partial to ale. And mead. Hell, any liquor since she was sixteen held appeal for her. She rarely got drunk however. That was unusual, and required further thought.

She groaned and staggered towards the water. She could think while she washed. Why #had # she gotten drunk? It was very unlike her to give in to alcohol so thoroughly that her senses were knocked askew. Most of the time the places she worked in were still dangerous enough, even after the Conquering, to require she keep a good watch if she wanted to stay alive, or at least keep her purse intact.

She wiped the icy water she had splashed on her face off with her fingers. Her thoughts and gaze flickered to the pile where her discarded cloak and money bag lay. She shook the remaining droplets of water from her fingers and hair and padded back toward her stuff. The soft deerskin bag crumpled easily in her hand. Not a single coin left. She cursed lowly.

A good lesson, she admitted finally. Overdue, but still a shock. Like the time one of teachers had held on after she had made her block, held on until she had seen the grim reality of her predicament. Show no mercy, was the slogan. The techniques, more brutal and precise as the complexity increased, would only be used against one with the same intent. Her purposes had come flooding back then, when her block was useless in the iron grasp of her opponent. Just like now, when reality knocks.

All it takes is a one-night stand and an empty money bag to tell you where you're at, she conceded. Good. I guess I was due for a tumble, I just wish I didn't have to take two at once. She went about collecting her clothes, and despite her pride's attempt to keep her heart on the weakness she had just been shown, her conscious pulled her to find their source. A question lay unanswered. Why #had # she gotten drunk?

A flash of gold through the trees roused her muffled mind. The sun, perhaps, on a finch's golden breast. The rustle of a yellow leaf falling to the ground. Whatever object in the realworld triggered the image from the past, she didn't know, and didn't care to, engulfed as she was in memory.

His smile, she remembered that most, and the grin he showed in his eyes that accompanied it. His pale complexion arose before her, striking against the black thatch of his hair; the smooth redness of his lips, the high blush of color along his cheekbones. She shook her head to clear it, and only managed to see more. Tall, so tall he was, and solid, so she felt small in his shadow. Her already small hands were tiny compared to his, hands strong and sure and surprisingly gentle. She breathed in sharply, looked down at her own dirt-embedded nails. What a stupid thing to do! She pounced on a rock and sat quickly, flicking the dark earth out from underneath her slender nails. With each finger cleaned, she remembered some other small anecdote.

How he insulted her artwork, then picked up each piece to study it meticulously.

His games he played, finding some object, some taunt, some position to draw her close to him, then let her twist away just before he had her in his grasp.

How pleased and surprised he looked when found out she could flirt aggressively, yet retain the innocence she kept from lack of experience.

How he couldn't sit still while he talked to her.

How he couldn't be serious.

She got to her feet and strode toward the lake. It was over, dammit! Hadn't she seen so already? He had told her hadn't he?! She kept her eyes on the trees, looking for an opponent to fight. What had she learned? What had she learned? She had to have learned #something #, dammit, or it wasn't over.

She jumped into a technique, the one she had learned on that fateful day of training. The iron grasp technique. And instead of waiting for that energy to take her, she took it. She dove for forward into a C strike, head low, stance solid. She brought her knuckles down savagely on the ghost fighter, scraping across their chest. Her forearm shot out to strike the inside of his leg, and almost instantaneously came back up to elbow out and up, smashing his floating ribs and exploding his torso outward. She backed away, barking shortly and snarling at the imagined foe, her stance low and well defended.

'Aggressive', he called me, she thought. She stood up, disgusted, but not quite sure what at. It's depressing, dammit! And lame. Love life is so lame. Grumpily, she put on her clothes, gathered her belongings, and headed back to town.

She was just at the dairy barn when the youth she had "celebrated" Beltane with the night before stepped out of a shed carrying an armload of hay. His eyes widened in recognition and shock, obviously he didn't think she'd come back. He'd thought wrong.

As he grappled with his load to keep it from falling, she nodded her head to him and raised a hand casually, tiredly. He must have thought she would come for the money, because he did drop his load as she walked past, her eyes on the path straight ahead. When she paid him no heed, he scooped up the hay and crossed nervously to deposit it in the barn. He peered curiously at her receding figure, and put a hand to his own aching head.