<html><head><style type="text/css"></style></head><body><div style="font-family:times new roman,new york,times,serif;font-size:12pt"><div><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><style>  </style> Egland was almost wary of sitting upon the heavy-framed, plushly upholstered lounging couch that Dream guided him toward.  The marten’s residence was considerably less garish than the wardrobe he favored but it was still astoundingly luxurious.  The lounge alone, near twice as long as Egland was tall, was trimmed with soft buttery-hued leather and adorned with thick cushions of wheat colored silk.  Beside it were matching chairs all of which loosely faced a low table fashioned from thick planks of an ivory pale wood set upon a single pedestal of heavily engraved white marble.  On the table was a silver and alabaster tea service and crystal liquor service.  The crystal decanter was perhaps half full but not in use while the tea service was missing one cup and the pot steamed.<o:p></o:p> The floors were rough-faced tile laid out in some mostly obscured mosaic and covered with heavy, ornate rugs.  There was not a rush in sight nor for that matter dust or cobwebs.  The walls were hung with ornate tapestries save where carved wooden pillars rose to the gables above.  Those, too, were fashioned in pale wood and artfully worked.  The roof looked to be freshly thatched.  A single curtained doorway lead to another room.  In a pool of sunlight was a music stand and the dulcimer whose voice had called to Egland.<o:p></o:p> Dream’s hand pressed lightly at the small of Egland’s back again.  “Sit, Yacoub, you shant break it.” Egland did as he was bade and settled gratefully into the soft embrace of the lounging couch.  Dream paused a moment to tie the sash of his robe before taking up teapot and cup.  “Your arrival is precipitous, I’ve still got some heat in my tea.”  He poured a cup and handed it to the elk.<o:p></o:p> “Dor Avhenes.” Egland raised the cup in a toast to honor in the same language Dream had spoken in mutual accord for their link from the past.  “My thanks, Dream.”<o:p></o:p> Dream moved to sit on the arm of the couch and waved a hand in a complicated gesture of acquiescence.  “Jae, jhu.” He reiterated, “The door is ever open, as I said.  What brings you from the healer’s fief?”<o:p></o:p> Egland cast his eyes down and stared into his tea for several long seconds but Dream did not push his inquiry, merely waiting patiently with a slight forward lean and tilt of his musteline head.  “At least someone’s door is open.” Egland said at length without looking up.  “I am lost.”<o:p></o:p> “In your wanderings?”<o:p></o:p> Egland shook his head.  “No, I’ve been cast out.” He heaved a sigh as the tumult of emotions rose up in his breast with renewed heat.  “Bishop Vinsah turned me away and the master healer sent me from his hospice.”  His large, clumsy hands shook and he hastily set down the fragile alabaster and silver cup.  Tea lapped over the edge and to puddle upon the pale wood of the table but Dream made no move to dab it up.  Egland looked up at the animalistic musician in anguish as the emotions he had tried to quash welled up anew.  “I almost struck him, Dream.  I raised my hand to an unarmed man for no other reason than wounded pride.”<o:p></o:p> Sensing the crushing weight of despair falling about his visitor’s shoulders Dream slipped from the arm of the lounge to sit alongside him.  The elk was taller than he by a couple of hands and out massed him by a measurable sum but side by side upon the lounge they were of comparable size.  The marten put an arm across Egland’s broad shoulders.  “Almost, my friend, you almost did such a thing but did not.” He churred reassuringly, leaning close.  “I have witnessed the theft of life for much, much less.”  Egland reached up to place his hand atop the marten’s on his shoulder.   “What of this turning away?  I avoided as much of the visitation as I possibly could, but for plying my music at banquets and the more rewarding music we shared before your departure.”<o:p></o:p> Egland’s regal head dropped and he stared down at his free hand.  Thick digits of pale earthen brown tipped with blunted hoof-like finger calluses of burnished brown.  Upon the green of his tabard his hand was an ugly thing the hue of dog droppings.  He clenched the offending hand into a fist.  “Today I learned that I was being lied to.  Each time I had asked about the Bishop’s health I was told that he had yet to awaken from the severity of his injuries.<o:p></o:p> “Today I learned that he has been awake as long as I have.  When I tried to speak with him he sent me away as if I were a mere petitioner.”  Egland’s voice trembled through a broken tenor as he laid out the details of his disastrous failed audience.  “He banished me away like some child of no import.”<o:p></o:p> Dream squeezed the elk’s strong shoulders consolingly with his arm and let the distraught knight lean against him.  “And the healer, Coe?”  Egland could only look at dream with one eye because the marten’s face was very close; keen brown eyes alert as they gazed upon him.<o:p></o:p> Close, so very close.  Egland could follow the contours of his musteline muzzle and jaw; see how the rich red-brown of his facial fur faded to the cream hue of his chin and the broad swath of cream-on-brown that lead down the front of Dream’s throat.  That band of pale fur flared broad across his upper chest and vanished beneath the collar of the marten’s night-robe.  He felt strangely aware of the marten’s proximity and it only added another layer to his already chaotic emotions.<o:p></o:p> “Coe would not let me in to see the Bishop, he blocked the door.  When I tried to force my way past him and he did not move I almost struck him!”  The elk dropped both hands to his lap and wrung at the finely woven cotton of his knightly tabard.  It did not entirely fit well but none of his old garments fit his new body at all and he had not gotten them altered or replaced.  “He became justly wroth and ordered me from his hospice.”  Egland’s throat ached, his breast ached, and his eyes burned with the tears he refused to shed.  “Now…<o:p></o:p> “Now I’ve no where to go!  No one to serve, no purpose.” He moaned brokenly.<o:p></o:p> Raising his free hand Dream lightly touched the side of Egland’s strong cervine muzzle.  “You’ve here, ts’amut.  Service and purpose can be found later but for now you’ve this place.” The musician crooned softly as he stroked the elk knight’s jaw.  “And me.”  Egland turned his head into the touch and closed his eyes.  Dream leaned close to raise his muzzle toward one of the road, scalloped ears and whisper; “Weep, my friend, none here shall gainsay your sorrow.  Let it free.”<o:p></o:p> Egland’s tall ears slowly backed and his head dropped to Dream’s chest.  With a single strained gasp for breath the elk clutched at the minstrel and wept as he had not done so since learning of Namir’s death.<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> When he returned to himself the room was dimly lit by the last fading rays of sunlight dropping behind the western peaks.  Dream was stroking his upper back lightly with one hand while his other supported the elk’s head against his chest.  Egland found his nose buried in the cream hued fur of Dream’s chest and the musician’s scent filled his breath.  The marten smelled of florally fragrant soap foremost with the dryness of fur underlying that.  Hints of a deep, earthy musk tickled Egland’s sensitive nose; a masculine scent.  Mingled amongst the lot was the acrid odor typical of all mustelids.  As a bouquet the musician’s personal scent was not unpleasant.<o:p></o:p> Egland blinked and raised his head slowly.  “I’m sorry.” He croaked ashamedly with grief-roughened voice and released his drowning man’s grip upon the marten.  He saw dark stains upon the fine black silk from his tears and damp smears upon the marten’s roughed chest fur.<o:p></o:p> “Do not be sorry for grief, Yacoub.” Dream lightly stroked the elk’s tear-stained cheek fur.  “Grief withheld leads to nothing but a cancer of the spirit.”<o:p></o:p> Egland turned his head into the touch and took a deep, shuddering breath.  “I have not – allowed myself that weakness in many years.”  His body felt drained and boneless, weak from the mightiness of his released sorrow.  “Your robes –“ The marten’s whiskers tickled his nose.<o:p></o:p> “Can be laundered, and fur washed, ts’amut.” Dream admonished gently and inclined his head to brush fine whiskers and soft fur across the elk’s nose and lips.  Egland shuddered.  “You do no one service by not allowing yourself to grieve, Yacoub.   Even if you only do so in empty solitude.”  The marten’s short cheek ruff and stiff whiskers crossed along the line of the elk’s jaw slowly and Egland raised his hands to Dream’s upper chest in a futile gesture to push himself away but could not find the strength.  “That is what your Bishop is very likely doing, hiding behind his fear and grief in the solitude of his recovery room, brooding upon it and allowing the dark wound to fester.”  Dream drew his head back and raised his gaze to meet Egland’s, nose to nose.  “It is for him you should embrace your own grief, gain strength from it, and be there when he can no longer hold his to his breast and needs someone to help him release it.”<o:p></o:p> Egland stared into the minstrel’s gentle brown eyes and heard his words but felt no comprehension.  His ears slowly turned back and a quickness that was not grief stole into his breath.  The hands lain against Dream’s chest to push him back turned to catch at the open lapels of his robe.  One of the marten’s hands raised to rest lightly in the center of the elk’s upper chest.  Egland leaned close against the pressure of Dream’s hand while using his grasp upon the musician’s robes to pull him in.<o:p></o:p> The elk’s kiss was rough, desperate with the intensity of urgency for the pliant, compassionate musician in his grasp.  A pained moan escaped Egland’s throat as their lips met and his hands released the silken fabric of the night-robe.  Without breaking his kiss, breath gusting swift and hot from his nostrils, his hands slipped under the silk.  The texture of Dream’s fur was as silken as his robes, deep and lusciously dense under Egland’s fingers as they slid up across Dream’s shoulders.<o:p></o:p> “No.” The word was as gentle as the marten’s touch, muffled by the rough intensity of the elk’s hungry kiss and went unheard.  Egland’s hands slid over Dream’s shoulders and drew back the neckline of the robe spilling it down the marten’s back.  It pooled at his elbows and waist, held only by the knotted sash about his midriff.  Dream’s hand pressed more firmly at Egland’s chest but beyond that he made no attempt to break the kiss or escape.  “No, ts’amut.”<o:p></o:p> </div> </div> !DSPAM:4c3959d8169521804284693! </body></html>