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Although he had ridden the river's length twice in between the rain break, Thatcher and Drum now stood with the west bank forest waiting for the newest break to appear. The rain poured in sheets in the early morning light. The black clouds thrashed against one another in deep booms that rolled across the land and sent shivers down Thatcher's spine. Small streams of water poured off his hood after he arranged his cloak to completly cover him. With a sigh of grattitude, Thatcher silently noted his need to write the knight who he had squired under for such a gift. The cloak, although it appeared normal and weather worn, was quite a precious gift indeed. A rain mage had blessed the dark brown doeskin as a favor to his knight-master who in turn gave it to Thatcher. Thus, it explained the wather that rolled from his back as it would from a duck's As for the rest of Thatcher's attire, it annouced to the world his status and family. The crest, a blue moutain wolf silootted in a yellow setting sun on a cream field, was doubled ringed with the inside black and the outer blue. The black ring denoted him a knight of the crown as the other declared him the sole heir to his family's lands.

His family's crest was one of the few with a sun on it. The marking of a sun on the family crest declared them as protectors of the holy lands and the keepers of the religion. Only two other family's held such a marking on their crest. The crown and the keepers of the south. The borders of his family's lands were vast even though he resided in the monestary which was located near the northern border. The northern monestary held all the orginal holy records, saw directly to the uncorrupted printing of more, preserved all the history and census of the land, and finally contained all the laws and principles of the land. The church itself was the moral strong port for the majority of the people of the land. It soothed the contentions of its people between the crown. It supported the crown in it's obediant and honorable standing. Long dead ancestors had been choosen to protect that which would be entrusted to him apon his father's death. He too would be responsible for keeping the physical keystone of that national religion safe and preserved. It was not his devotion to the religion that Thatcher had sworn to do so, but rather his stronger sense of duty.

Ridding nearer to the west bank breech of trees, Thatcher removed his bow from his back. He was quite skilled in all manner of weaponary, but his heart belonged to the bow. Even as he pulled back the nocked arrow with muscled arms, the rain dwindled into nothing. The chill in the air, occompanied by a bitter wind, pulled ginerly at his cloak with icy fingers. Sighting a mark, a favorite aged maple tree, Thatcher steadied his aim. A long mournful howl touched the air as if the wind itself was crying as the arrow embedded itself deep in the flesh of the tree. Shrugging back the hood to expose to his face to the blast of wind, Thatcher's eyes narrowed slightly before shaing off the sound. A dawn wolf, he assured himself, catching a delayed meal. Though deep in his heart, he heard Faye's bell like voice repeating her prophecy.

Thatcher pulled another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. His warm breath rising in clouds of mist before him was the only movement after the second arrow slammed only slightly above the pervious one. Pulling a thrid arrow, Thatcher now reasonsed that he had heard nothing at all. Sap leaked from the injured point as blood would from a wound, but instead froze only inches below as the cold air kissed it. Pulling back the bow, Thatcher sighted the tree once more. Prepared to release it, a close unmistakable howl from a hound called out that it had caught a scent. The call of the hound rocked Thatcher as the released arrow missed it's mark. It seered past the tree and the few of it's fellows behind it. The power behind it sent it across the river and into a tree across the bank. The shot was followed by a splash that preceded a smally yelp. The noise reached Thatcher's ears as if to dig into his heart that he could not be mistaken at this point. Rolling his eyes, Thatcher silently prayed for his forgiveness of his stubbornness and that he needed no more signs. Spurring Drum, Thatcher dashed to the riverside where he saw a body begin dragged downstream. Wilde eyes looked past him to the east bank where the hounds patroled searching for a new set. Pulling herself underneath just as a small party crashed through the forest on the opposite side of the river.


(sorry for the delay. . .more coming soon.)

"No. That is the last I will here of that!" Thatcher's voice was lined with irritation. He placed the saddle blanket over his gelding's back. The gelding was a strong animal with rich brown coat. He had been dubbed Drum by Thatcher.

Faye, who stood beside Drum, stared at the ground in dismay. She had dressed quickly in boy's attire that had once belonged to Thatcher. A long red scar, that held her doll to her back, tied across her chest and matched the handkerchief that held her curls from her face. A stern glare from Thatcher more than convinced her to close her already objecting mouth. Faye's lip trembled in a silent pout as she watched her brother saddle his horse. "But Amis packed a lunch for two and you will get lonely."

Thatcher took the lunch sacks she offered and placed them in his addle back, "If I find this dream of yours, then I won't be lonely and she will have food to eat."

Faye scowled in response to this as she stomped her foot. Thatcher chuckled at the stubborn creature beside him. Adding the last of his equipment to his horse, Thatcher turned to comfort the small, upset child only to find that she had silently slipped out of the stable. With a frustrated grunt, he silently noted how much she was like Amis.

Thatcher pulled Drum from his post and arranged the cloak on his shoulders. The dawn clouds hung dark and low foretelling of rain. Leading Drum back into the bark, Thatcher checked his equipment for this all day event once more. Hooking his quiver to the saddle gear and strapping his bow over his back, Thatcher noted that there was no reason he shouldn't keep in practice even if he was not actively in the King's service. "Especially since I'll spend the whole day looking for nothing."

"She IS out there, Thatcher," Faye said, her tiny voice hard as stone. Thatcher flinched in a manner of a scolded child. Faye stood before him in front of the barn doors holding her own thick blanket that Mother had made for her. It was rolled and covered by a waterproof canvas. Leading Drum by the reins, he walked over to take the offered gift. Faye placed it gently in his hands, her face somber and still pouting, "And she WILL be cold."

Ashamed that she had caught him in his disbelief, he kissed the top of her head in an apologia. Rein fell from the clouds as if the kiss had been a signal that they may release their hoarded treasure. Faye grinned as the cold, heavy drops fell on her tan shirt. Thatcher returned her smile as he climbed atop of Drum. Adjusting his hood over his head, he pointed to the monastery, "Yes. Now get inside before you catch cold. Now, don't look sullen, if you go with me, who will prepare for when I return with her? Hmm"

And with that Faye's sullen face lit up and sprinted to the monastery with a half wave to Thatcher, who was already speeding off to the river.

"Rhy!" A sharp voice command above his head.
in the same manner that he woke up eariler that night, Thatcher shot up and fell to the floor in a mess of blankets. A soft voice giggled behind the white robed preist who loomed over the young man. "Heaven's Bless, Amis! Must you always give my heart a jump! "

"When you sister could not wake you, she roused me. I am abliged to pass on such a service. I believe you have a promise to keep."

Why his endearing mother has suggested that they reside with her crazed brother was still beyond Thatcher's comprehension. He stood up from the twisted sheets to glare at the towering priest before him. The religous devotee was inches above the young misplaced knight. Thatcher bore into his uncle's eyes, that were similar to Faye's, in a very poor attempt to establish his own position. With an equal glare, Amis was able to remind his ever restless nephew that he held the postion of authority both in the monestary and in the family.

As thatcher opened his mouth to yawn, Faye face blanched. She had mistaken the gesture for an attempt to deny what he ahd promised. She held out her pinky finger in a manner that brought a smile to her brother's eyes. Finshing the yawn he went down on one knee to eye level with the small imp, "Let me wash, dress, and eat. Then Drum and I will be on our way."

"Dress and eat if you must, Rhy. You needn't wash. Why change your habits now?" Amis laughed as he moved swiftly from the room to raise his brether for the Dawn Worship.

"Thatcher. . . "Small hand gripped the sleeper’s sleeve. When the whiner received an unintelligible mutter as the rather large boy rolled over onto his side, yanking his arm way from the small hands that gripped it.

The angelic face that watched the rather noisy sleeper. Her tiny bow shaped lips turned into an adorable pout. Her lower lip jutted forward as her tiny eyebrows tilted inward creating a small little crease between them. The small squeak that escaped the small lips was the only warning for the following wail.

"Faye!" The sleeper jumped shot from his bed so quickly that he found himself in a tangle of sheets and heavy blankets and abruptly found himself on the floor only inches away from the feet of the girl in tears. Thrashing around until he found himself released from the blankets, gasped for air with a disoriented look on his face. His large tan hands found themselves on the shoulders of the little one before him. Her shoulders were heaving as the sobbing continued. "Faye, what's wrong? Are you hurt? What's going on? Shh . . shh it's okay. It's okay."

Swallowing in gulps of air in between her incoherent utterances of words. Finally, when her ear piercing wails subsided Thatcher hugged his small little sister to his rather large chest. "Oh, Faye. Another dream? Was it another dream? It's okay, Faye. It's okay. Now," He moved the small golden ringlets that hung in her eyes and tucked them behind her ears. Her eyes were brilliant blue with ageless wisdom buried deep behind the liquid stars that cascaded down her pale face, " tell me what's wrong."

With a still trembling lip, the small child fuddled with the string of her soft off white nightgown, an old shirt of Thatcher's, which hung at least three or four inches off her feet. Her voice wavered, " She's . . so cold. So cold. . . Thatcher, she can't get out. . . oh, and the dogs, they chase her until . . and the rain. . . . " The tears flowed softly down her rosy cheeks as her brother now sat on his bed. Lifting her up he placed her down on his knee and rocked her back and forth. "And. . . and she cold, so cold."

"Shh. . .it's okay," he repeated softly hoping to calm the tears of the shaking four year old in his lap. Her small, soft hands were lost in his. Aching to ease her pain, but at a loss to do so Thatcher continued to rock the tiny angel in his arms.

"Thatcher, she is so close. She is in the river. She's. . . she needs you. . " the words came softer now from her. Her eyelids fluttered as they came to close. Her chest rose and fell in soft waves. The unruly crown of gold on her head fell once again into her eyes. Rising from the bed, he lifted his little ward in his arms.

He raised his head towards the door to see Brother Amis standing before him with a quaint smile on his lips. "It's a gift you know. Not just dreams, Rhy. These are divine visions from the One. You should listen."

Thatcher glared the priest before him. His eyes were the deep brown of his father's and were quick to judge what he did not understand. " You shouldn't encourage her. Our faith is strong. Simple, but strong. Don't encourage her fantasies. She just misses them."

"You should trust in her," were his final words before his disappeared back into his dormitory. Thatcher dismissed him with a shake of his head before returning Faye to her room.

It was much like the puff of smoke from grandfather's pipe, Trist decided as she studied her breath. The air lifted from her mouth and hung in the air for only a few second before sliding back into nothing. Her thoughts of warm winters by the fire listening to Grandfather retell the same tales disappeared as quickly as the chill rushed through the trees. It seemed to slap her already cold, wet skin. In a useless attempt to find some warmth, Trist wrapped her long arms around herself. The only things that clung tighter to her were her wet clothes. Her clothes, or rather, the rags that remained of them were not designed to keep out such conditions. They were the remnants of her riding clothes, made to heat and wind pass through them.

She had wanted to pity herself. She wanted to remain in that very spot under the oak tree until she froze. It wasn't fair was the mantra she continued to spill through her head. It wasn't fair. She had done nothing. Nothing. Her family had committed no crime against the crown. , She had never even been to her own country's royal court since she was a child. The tears that she had held at bay for so long joined seamlessly along the rain drops that remained on her high cheekbones. The heat from them almost seared her skin. Wiping the tears away with her forearm, Trist felt a wash of guilt and shame. Showing emotions was a weakness and unacceptable according to the years spent away at the Stayan courts. A sob escaped her lips as she remembered again why she was no longer at those courts. Biting her lip, she swallowed the ever growing knot in the throat to choke back the pointless tears. "No, it's not fair. It's not, but that's the way it is. That's. . ."

Scolding herself was cut short as a hound to the south of her howled. Her hand flew instantly to the nasty infested burn on her left shoulder. They had pressed the hot iron to the tender spot of her shoulder marker for what she was not. A traitor. A dark cloud, similar to the ones above her head that threatened to release another burst of heavy rain, settled in her eyes. Voices joined the hounds and horses made their presence known as those who reined them shouted to follow the dog that had caught her scent. With soft, but quick, movements Trist started to move west, towards the river. A familiar pain nagged her right ankle as she moved ever forward, pushing the pain to the back of her mind until it became a low buzz. Her earlier despair was replaced with a renewed ambition of survival. She would not be caught, again. No. Not this time.

The hounds would lose her scent in the water, Trist reassured herself. Another smile crossed her lips as she heard Grandfather's voice return to her mind. "We lost him. Lost him, we did. Oldest darn trick in the book. Are you listening, little'un? You know how we lost him? You do? No, you weren't listening. Let me tell you, bright eyes. We lost him, that dirty little scamp. He climbed up the stream. You hear me? Against the current. The hounds can't track in water, but it was the last time . . ."

His voice was replaced with the flowing river. The river reached across to the other bank in a matter of a few short miles, but the rain stretched and excited the river from its normally calm flow. Stopping at the river to take off what was left of her boots; Trist knotted the ties and tossed them over her shoulder as she stepped in the river. She didn't even glance at the swelling of her mangled ankle, but only took care to make sure that her shoes would not loosen from their draped position. Hidden in the sole of her boot was the only trinket she has left of her family name.


Running and swimming in the rivers during the summer time back home in Suthland was more of a leisure activity that she had enjoyed as a child. Nothing prepared her for the cold of the Northland winter. The rush of the cold water dulled the buzzing pain in her ankle and she sighed as she no long bare so much pain with each step. Gritting her teeth she moved up the shallow side of the river, any thought of swimming across was gone completely at the icy touch of the water. She physically shuttered as the water reached her above her knees. As her feet numbed completely, another howl of the hound sounded as the movement from the trees indicated that they, the soldiers of the crown, were now heading west. Her frozen movements turned into a death chased sprint up the stream. The water now reaching her upper thighs soaked itself deeper into her thinned breeches. Her thoughts turned to the soldiers who soon would be breaking the breech of the forest trees that paralleled the river. Just as she was turned at a sound of on the west side of the river, an arrow flew in front of her face missing her by inches. Jerking back as a warm feeling spread across her cheek that the sharp feathers left before embedding itself into a tree on the east bank, Trist's ankle shot with pain as she slipped on the moss covered rocks below her bare feet.

The water enveloped her like a deathly kiss, filling her with a shock from head to toe. Out of reaction, Trist shot her head above water as she struggled to stand up, but was felled again by the offending ankle. Only this time, she fell into the body of the river. The current, although not usually strong, was spurred on by the earlier day's rain. It pushed her back along the route she had so carefully pushed against. Her head slipped underneath as she was pulled yet further down the river into the rapids. Pulling above the glassy surface she saw the bewildered hounds searching for any trace left at the river’s edge. Unwillingly, she ducked back in the water as the horses that bore her seekers broke through the wooden stretch.

A haze of darkness seemed to loom over her. Whether or not it was the effects of the cold water or the hunger pains from a few days unfed, she didn't care. She surrendered the will of her body to the river for a time, how long she didn't know. Hoping just to sleep into the next realm, she could run no more. Just as she felt the last bit of warm ebb away and the little bit of hope with in her flicker a strong, large hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her from the water.