0 comments/ 6313 views/ 0 favorites Seperation and Rejoice By: ImpofSexualMagic Chapter I His name was Zsaal Kilra and he was a slave. Locked in a dingy dungeon beneath the castle of Lord Ascal of Kirni, penned with the other gladiators that were to be used tomorrow in a reenactment match where all of the fodder, such as he was classified as, were destined to die for the crowd's glory. This wasn't the first time Zsaal had been a slave. In truth, he had been born into slavery, though few would purchase him. An oddity in his home land, here, he was nothing more than a freak. His hair was a sky blue and hung all the way down his back, though now it was dirty and grimy from being locked in the pens for weeks on end without a proper bath. His ears were not human, nor elvish, as his companions were. They were those of a cat, blue-furred and pink within, though now they were drooped down against his head. And unlike the other gladiators around him, he had a tail, the same color as his hair beneath the grime. His only clothing was the gi upon him, a dank blue now that it was dirty. He had travelled far, seeking a life for himself, free as he had been from slavery, only to be captured once more by men who wished to see him suffer. Zsaal sighed within the relatively quiet prison, leaning back on the straw pallet that was ridden with bugs, hooking his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. He remembered like it was yesterday... *** "Get ye up, ya furball!" a male voice snarled at a young catperson, a sharp kick to the ribs bringing him awake suddenly with a startled yowl. A hand gripped him by the hair, jerking him up onto his feet, dragging another yowl of pain from his lips, a powerful slap silencing him. He finally got his blue eyes open, blinking away the dazzling light in the harem court of Lady Amilin. Before him was the Lady's Weaponsmaster, Iyan, whom kept the slaves in line, a big, balding man of middle years who had once been said to have been the finest blademaster the Courts of Ruinia had ever seen. "Quit yer puddle-brained starin', ye flea-bitten mongrel! The Lady's waitin' with 'er trainin' crew! I be expectin' to hear more than screams from that room!" The Weaponsmaster chortled and shoved the young Zsaal towards the ironbound door at the opposite end of the hall, which stood open. Within, the catboy, no older than ten, saw many sharp objects and a table of steel, and the Lady, bound up in leather with a crop in her hands, waiting for him beyond it. Looking around, Zsaal saw the many male slaves the Lady kept, lounging naked, talking idly, but none of them saying anything. All of them were clean-shaven, head to toe, as the Lady liked her men smooth as silk. They lounged on poufs or rested in warm waters, but the talking stopped as the new blood came by, watching him go. His young body was unappealing to their eyes, trained as they were only to be interested in females, but a few of them remembered their own youth in this place somewhat wistfully. Just beneath six feet in height, his body more mature than a human child's, the catboy carried himself quietly and with dignity towards the training chamber. He was scared, and inside part of him was screaming, but he silenced it as best he could to keep from trembling visibly. He had been born for this work, and now its day was upon him. He wouldn't back down. A part of him would always lay screaming, though, deep inside, even as the ironbound door swung shut and he was lashed down and tortured, bound, gagged, used in every way possible, with every appendage he had. His tongue, rough like sandpaper, seemed to become an instant favorite amongst the Lady and her female retinue, while his tail was worked until it was flexible and could lift small objects. Throughout the long hours of torture and abuse, he never made a sound other than to respond to commands verbally when ordered and ungagged. And even though he was teased again and again to a point of release, the trainers left him aching, saying that he had to earn such an honor. All the while, the terrified part within him never stopped screaming, but he learned to ignore it within the first hour. And never did it cease, all through the long years of his slavery. Chapter II "Get ye up, slaves!" snarled strong, harsh male voice through the pens of slavery. Caught up in his dreams (or nightmares), Zsaal thought for a moment he was back within the slave pens of Lady Amilin's harem. As other voices roused themselves, Zsaal heard the unmistakable sounds of men arming themselves, and relaxed. The voice had started screaming again, but, as usual, he ignored it, and once it realized the truth he had, it too, calmed, though it made the occasional whimper. As the men were lined up for their deaths, the man who had woke them, Quartmaster Rinnen, shoved a blade into Zsaal's hands. The cat-like humanoid looked up through his angular, blue eyes at the human, whom sneered. "Take the weapon, freak, or ye'll be dyin' out there faster than yer comrades," the Quartermaster sneered, just before a glob of spit struck him in the eye. "GYAH!" The man wiped his eye and threw the blade to the floor, grabbing the freak by the front of his strange clothing, pulling him close. "If ye weren't a purchased an' valuable slave to me master, I'd kill ye right 'ere and right now for that little stunt." "Try it," Zsaal replied softly, his voice near-inaudible but carrying with it a growl of challenge. The Quartermaster slung the slave back against the wall, where he collapsed. "Piss-shit of a little slave thinkin' he's a man," spat the ugly, scarred man. "Let's see how big of a man he is. Guards! Take him to the front of the line." Zsaal offered no resistance as the guards unshackled him, picked him up by his armpits, and carried him to the gate leading out into the arena proper. The herald of Lord Ascal was explaining what the dramatic reenactment was all about. Oh good, I get to see the floor show, thought Zsaal wryly. "...on this day ten years ago!" called the Herald, whose words were greeted by cheers of the audience. He waited for them to settle before continuing. "The hordes of Minua were fierce combatants, some say wrought by the Lord of Hell himself! But the brave men of Kimi battled them back, though each fought like ten men!" More cheers for their country. "Now we bring you the first of the Horde, against ten of the fiercest, most battle-hardended warriors of Kimi, and see if they can stand up to their ancestor's name!" The crowd went wild. A guard shoved Zsaal in the back, spitting on him as he did so. "Get in there, slave. They're waiting for you." Zsaal looked over his shoulder to see the guard smiling a cold smile, and knew what he was thinking. Scrawny bastard won't last a minute. Probably true, Zsaal thought wryly as he walked of his own free will, unbound, into the arena center. The crowd went silent at this odd slave, and began to chant "Kimi, Kimi, Kimi, Kimi!" The gates on the other side of the arena opened, and out charged ten big, burly humans, armed with spears and shields, with blades at their sides. Zsaal just smiled. If he was destined to die this day, he would do it with his past life on his mind... *** Nine long years after that day the voice had started screaming, Zsaal was being sold as a pleasure slave. After all that the Lady and her retinue, and her friends, and the friends of their friends, both male and female, had taken from him, he was no longer 'Zsaal,' but merely, 'Kitten,' as Lady Amilin had taken to calling him. So many acts of sexual pleasure (inflicted on others, never himself) had gone by, he no longer thought, he merely obeyed. Led by a collar that wasn't necessary, except to prevent theft, the guard led him into the block of some random city the Lady had ordered him shipped to to be sold. He was marked as Lot 1152, and waited for his turn to be sold. "Come, ladies and gentlemen, for this fine slave! Trained hard and cold, he's an excellent pleaser, or so I've been told!" called out the slimy auctioneer on the grimy stage as Zsaal was led onto the block for his turn. Stripped bare, the auctioneer called attention to his toned body, pale but hard to bruise, as he demonstrated by lashing several strikes of a cat o' nine tails upon his back. Only a single scratch remained, and the formal bidding began. With no interest in it, Zsaal merely stood, docile, as his price slid up further and further. A woman with dark red hair and green eyes was bidding continuously, as others lost interest, and his natural curiousity, something inherent from his catlike nature and never subdued, brought his eyes to finally seek her out. Eventually, she won the auction, and led him off the block, exchanging a pouch of coins to the guard who had brought him here. She jerked on his leash and led him away from the auction, out of the city, to a quiet inn in the middle of nowhere. There, she unbound Zsaal, and brought him into the house, after throwing away the implements of his capture. She couldn't know that his chains were bound deeper inside of him, and her talk of freeing him was falling on deaf ears. "What does my Lady wish of me?" he asked woodenly, looking up into her eyes. "Don't call me that," she snapped. "My name is Jazzai. Tell me yours." "...Zsaal." *** Jazzai. The name sparked in his mind. It'd been four years since he'd seen her last, but he knew he had to go back to her. His head raised as the battle was called to begin. His blue eyes gleamed like unnatural flame. He had something to live for. One of the battle-hardened warriors launched a spear at Zsaal, but his reflexes, quick and honed by training, spun him out of the way, his body lowering to the ground as he assumed the stance of the Streaa Dokk style, the Death Fist. His body tense and rigid, the warriors looked frightened of him. Baron Julan was stunned, as were his comrades. He was the best shot with a thrown spear, and he never missed, and nobody ever could dodge his throws. In truth, he had only slain men in the gladitorial ring, men so frightened that they couldn't move when all they saw was their own death around them, so the pomped-up Lords had inflated ideas of their own skill. More spears flew at the freakish gladiator, but his movements were too fast. He twisted out of the way, ducked, rolled away from a spear, and each one missing him, some by a wide margin, some by a large amount. The ten spears quivered in the ground, and still, he never took one. As one, the suddenly frightened men, these so-called "Lords," petty men with petty titles, drew their blades and charged the gladiator. The first to reach him was Julan, whose downward cut had too much weight in it, and he led too far out with his arm. The catperson's hands were fast, and his lean, tanned body was strong. He caught Julan's arm by the wrist and elbow, sliding smoothly beneath the arm, kicking the back of the lord's knees with two quick slaps of his right foot, knocking him to the ground. His hand shot up, catching the man on the side of the neck with two fingers, twisting nerves and paralyzing him. The lords raced forward, and the next bore right down on Zsaal, whom leaped up, flipping backwards over the Lord and slamming his feet into his back. Unable to stop his momentum, the terrified man sliced off Julan's head. Before he could react, his world exploded into pain as the quick-moving cat-demon caught another man in the same way he had caught Julan, only instead of paralyzing him, sent him sprawling into Julan's beheader, his blade slicing deep into his skull. It descended into a terrified battle, the lords fighting aggressively when they should have fought defensively. The cat-slave used the men to kill their own comrades, a truly demoralizing and humiliating thing. He never was struck, and not one of the lords got clear. Up above, Lord Ascal, Ruler of Kimi, watched in amusement. The petty lords down there had no use in Court, merely lordlings in truth, whom spent their days in idle pursuits, such as hunting and dallying with their chambermaids behind their lady wives' backs. This gladiator, though, was strong and lean, and was decimating what was supposed to be the winning side. When the crossbowmen lifted their weapons to shoot down the offending cat, Ascal lifted his hand to forestall them, ideas fermenting in his mind. Zsaal truly fought like a demon. He whirled amidst his opponents, of which now only four were left, and though they'd have liked nothing better than to throw down their weapons and shields and run away, to do so would be ultimate dishonor, fleeing from a slave. In honor's name, they charged. In honor's name, they died. The battlefield soaked, Zsaal looked up at the ceiling, his eyes still blazing that blue fire. Jazzai. I will return to you. Chapter III Jazzai tried for days to try and get Zsaal to believe he was free, but nothing she said got through to him. He kept repeating what he had been trained for, and every time she brought up the subject of his freedom directly, he requested leave to return to his former mistress, saying that her money would be returned, and he would be sold again. Frustrated, she finally left him alone. She had an inn to run, after all. It wasn't until a week or so after the last incident that she started thinking differently. Zsaal had finished bathing one day, and his gi had fallen apart from disrepair. He wandered into the inn nude (thankfully, to Jazzai's thinking, it was before opening) and she got a full glimpse of what she had purchased. Turning scarlet, she averted her gaze and told him to put clothes on. "I have none," he had replied. "My only clothing fell apart in the stream as I washed it." Wooden, emotionless. It broke her. She purchased him a new one, a darker color than the original, but still blue, and he wore it indifferently, as if it made no difference to him whether he went nude or clothed. Two nights later, Jazzai returned to the incident in her mind. She tossed and turned in her sleep, groaning as dreams filled her, never giving her what she needed. It had been a long time for her, indeed. She woke slowly to the feeling of bliss, a tongue inside of her. Rough and coarse, she thought she was still dreaming, her body shaking on the bed. She writhed and moaned, dropping her hands down, then pulling them back, afraid to break the dream as the harsh tongue continued its deliberate licking within her. Curving neat little pathways inside of her, it seemed to know each and every sensitive spot, leaving her panting heavily. She came like a blast of thunder, noise and shakes, her hands sliding down into the hair of her mystery lover and gripping, twisting. The tongue never slowed, pushing her up over the edge again, and again, and again, each stronger than the last. Finally, she could lie to herself no longer and pretend she was asleep. She opened her eyes slowly, expecting to see some stranger having heard her tossing and turning and come to ravage her. She blinked at the shock of blue hair and unwound her fingers from it, and Zsaal stood slowly, licked his lips, bowed, and left her room for the one she had given him. For days after, she avoided meeting Zsaal's eyes or even speaking to him, though he didn't seem very active on either. Finally, one afternoon, while business was slow, she cornered him outside his room upstairs. "Zsaal... why did you..." she blushed furiously. "My Lady was in need. I am trained to relieve that need," he responded woodenly. Jazzai took Zsaal by the hand and led him back into her room, closed the door and shoved him up against it. She stared him right in the eyes, reaching down and beginning to fondle him. "I see my Lady has need of me, at last," Zsaal said, the first smile coming to his lips. "I told you to stop calling me that," she muttered as she went down onto her knees, jerking the pants of his gi down from his waist. She almost wept with lust as she saw him, thick and erect, and took him into her mouth gingerly, slowly. Soft purrs came from him, and she glanced up, having never heard that sound from him. Obviously, she thought, he was enjoying it, and upped the tempo, and again as the purrs grew louder, and again, until she was taking him like she'd never done a man before, giving him the best she had ever given in her life. It took her almost twenty minutes before she was rewarded by a gush of his fluid into her mouth, and she swallowed it quickly, greedily, the taste of it in her mouth making her realize how close she was to her own. Again, a powerful orgasm struck her body, causing her to cry out around the flesh in her mouth, falling back panting to the floor. "Does my Lady require anything else of me?" Zsaal asked, looking down at her as if asking she wanted more tea. To her amazement, she saw he was still stiff, and morality had gone out of her mind when she had closed the door. She stripped out of her clothes and went to the bed, sitting upon it, crooking a finger towards Zsaal. He automatically responded, but the screaming voice inside his head stopped its incessant screams. It, along with the rest of his mind but that drilled into him, had melted. For all that he had done, he had never been coaxed to his own release before. It was a new sensation, and he went perhaps a bit more eagerly to her bed than he had any other in the past. It was well past dawn when the screams, yowls and groans stopped, as they covered almost fifteen different positions. Each time, Jazzai pushed him off and took her into his mouth, swallowing what he offered, gulping it down greedily, then resumed in another position. Each time, she was blasted into near insensibility by the intensity of her own orgasms, and brought back to reality by the realization that he was still hard, starting the whole thing over again. Finally, too weak to move, she had flopped down on her side and curled her legs to her chest, to keep the randy tom from getting at her again. "No more," she cried out, giggling, drunk with pleasure. "No more!" "Yes, my Lady," responded Zsaal automatically, though there was a bit of drained pleasure in his own voice beneath the wooden reply. "Shall my Lady require anything else of me?" She did. She pulled him down into bed with her and cuddled up next to him, and they slept, long and peaceful. Chapter IV Zsaal had been brought to Acelain Throddri, the Capital City of the Five Provinces. His victory in the arena had not bought his freedom; things like that only worked in stories. Instead, he had been gifted by Lord Ascal of Kimi to King Olin, Ruler of the Five Provinces. Today was his testing day as a Royal Gladiator, honored above slaves if successful, relegated to a shallow grave if not. He kept his spirits up with thoughts of his beloved Jazzai, how she had slowly stopped the screaming in his mind, reignited his personality, given him freedom. The memories pained him, too, for she had sent him away numerous times, and his heart ached each time she did it. This time, it burned, knowing that he may never see her again. Some nights, along the road, he had literally sobbed himself to sleep over the memories, but today, he thought of none of that. He needed to be thoroughly focused today, for he was going up against the King's Royal Bodyguard. If he survived the bout, he would be granted a reprieve from his slavery, perhaps managing, sometime in the future, to escape back to her. If he didn't, then the pain would stop anyways. It was a win/win situation. It was time. A page brought him to the Royal Arena, confined within an elevated dungeon within the King's castle, lined with spectator's seats. It was a place of celebration and death, where the best of the best were honored with reenactment battles, and holidays were celebrated by much bloodletting, common and noble alike, in tournaments. Seperation and Rejoice Zsaal stood at the far end of the arena, the 'dishonored' spot, where he was far from the King's gaze and the gaze of any noble-born. He was pelted with rotten fruit and vegetables as he stepped into the arena, and knew he could be slain outright by anybody who found his appearance too disgusting, and nothing would be done about it. At the other end, the King's Royal Bodyguard, an eight foot tall giant of a man, wearing burnished plate armor and wielding a massive flamberge almost as large as he, which he swung easily with one hand. "My lords! My ladies!" called the Herald. "May I present the Royal Bodyguard, Lord Hughtan of Analia, Slayer of Horde Scum, Defender of His Majesty, King Olin!" Cheers and applause went up. "Today a slave tries to win a position by surviving a battle with Hughtan of Analia." Boos. "He must survive for three minutes, as the hourglass falls. If he is still alive by the end of the match, he shall become a Guardian of the Provinces, against the Barbarian westerners! Let the battle, BEGIN!" He upturned an hourglass and the sands began to fall. Hughtan placed his flamberge on his shoulder, waiting for the foolish slave to strike. Zsaal waded in slowly, his body rigid, tense in the style of Streaa Dokk. When he came within range of the flamberge, Hughtan swung a massive horizontal blow towards the skinny slave, whom moved with incredible speed as he slid beneath the blade onto his knees. Hughtan recovered quickly, though, using his momentum to bring the blade up to his other shoulder, his other hand clasping the hilt and sending it screaming straight down. His blade sunk into the ground, the slave nowhere to be seen. A hollow rapping could be heard on the back of his armor, as Zsaal knocked three times on the armor, causing Hughtan, enraged and ashamed, to yank his blade out of the ground, spinning and bringing the blade to bear. As his legs turned, however, a thin wire, strung about his ankles loosely, tightened, and he lost his balance. Lord Hughtan, Defender of His Majesty, King Olin, fell upon his own blade as surprise jerked it from his grasp, and the slave snapped a kick at the flat, so that its point was directed upwards. The Royal Bodyguard gasped as he sank down on his blade, shuddered once, and died. The crowd was silent. The King's face, as Zsaal looked up, was blank, though he thought he saw the king's mouth twitching. In anger, or hatred? In Caesarian fashion, the King rose, his hand extended in a fist, his thumb halfway out. The crowd began to chant "Kill, Kill, Kill!" as if they could influence the King's decision. His hand turned... and his thumb extended... up. Alternative boos and cheers rippled through the crowd, and the Herald called the crowd to silence. "By decree of King Olin, Ruler of the Five Provinces, this slave shall be known as Duke Xyalin, Defender of His Royal Majesty!" Zsaal's shoulders sank, and he bowed his head, and wept. A royal bodyguard. He was doomed. *** Zsaal woke slowly in a satin-covered four-poster bed, blearily looking about. Where was he? What was he doing here? This wasn't the bed he shared with Jazzai. The mere thought of her name brought everything screaming back into him, and again he wept. Unfamiliar breathing reached his ears, slow and rythmic, and he looked down, seeing a nude woman in bed with him, looking at him concernedly. "Who... in the Nine Hells are you?" he growled. "Anna, my Lord. The King's daughter. He bid me to spend the night with you," the girl responded, sitting up in the bed, exposing herself to him. "What did we do?" he asked through a tight throat, thinking of Jazzai. "Nothing, my Lord Xyalin," she responded, blinking innocently. "We spoke, that's all, and I lay in bed with you. You were drunk, my Lord, and told me... many things." Drunk... that explained the searing headache. "We just... talked," he asked as much as said. "Nothing else?" "No, my Lord. But I thought it best, as did you, to sleep in your bed, so my father would not be suspicious." She smiled slowly. "You told me of your love, and I could not in good conscience bed you, nor could you me. This Jazzai of yours is lucky." That broke him. He bowed his head and wept again, and Anna wrapped her arm around his shoulders, petting him and trying to soothe him, whispering soft words into his ear. Chapter V Zsaal woke one morning to find that Jazzai had not slept in bed with him. The room smelled strongly of their lovemaking, but she was nowhere to be found. He slowly rose from bed and dressed, walking quietly down the stairs, on the alert. The inn was closed for now, as he had just returned a month before, and he and Jazzai had spent the time most lucratively. So why had she not been in bed with him when he awoke, to resume their lovemaking activities. So he was surprised to find her sitting at the door, his things in a bag, and a sorrowful expression on her face. He saw it coming. "I'm not leaving, Jazzai," he said as he walked over to her. Neither of them had said anything real about their feelings for each other yet, but he thought she should know where he stood on the manner. Thus it angered him for packing his things for him as a silent attempt to get him out. "Yes, you are," she responded immediately, standing. "You need to go out and make a life for yourself, not just sit around here all day." "We've been over this, Jazzai. I want to stay here." "No. You're going, and that's final." "Is it?" he asked and closed the distance between them. She melted against him as his arms closed around her, and his lips locked against hers, their tongues, one rough, one smooth, tangling together. The kiss seemed to last forever; to Zsaal it did, because he knew what was coming, as it had come before. When they parted, he saw unshed tears in Jazzai's eyes, and she pointed out the door without a word. He picked up his things, and left down the road he had walked five times before, four in this direction, five in the other. He never knew that four days later, Jazzai woke nauseous and vomiting, six weeks late. She was pregnant. She never told him that there had been nobody else since he had come into her life. Never told him she was pregnant with his child. She cried herself to sleep that night, knowing she would never see him again. *** Six months passed, and Zsaal had fought in numerous battles, been awarded many accolades by the King himself. He passed the time in a wooden haze, fighting when told to, mostly killing usurpers to the King's throne in ritual combat. The King was old, and his Royal Bodyguard was his Champion to those who claimed rite of combat. He had a harem somewhere, girls he spurned, forgoing everything pleasurable in life, except for losing himself in booze. The King's daughter, Anna, came by almost every night to console him in his drunken tears, speaking of things that were going on in the court. He had but one friend, Riktanus by name, Commander of the Royal Guards. Though common-born, Riktanus was the wisest and best man in the court, and Zsaal knew that he had eyes on the throne. It was only a matter of time before he tried the ritual combat, and Zsaal had no wish to kill his friend. He used Anna to keep Riktanus from going for the throne, for he knew the two were secretly in love, from the late-night talks with Anna while he was drunk. He knew he had to get out of here, somehow. This was going to kill him, eventually. It came, then, when he had just made his mind up to leave. He had not seen Anna in some time, and Riktanus had become elusive. His friend, Lord Riktanus, delivered the challenge by Rite of Combat to the King, to take his throne. Zsaal stepped into the arena slightly drunk, having feared this day since he first learned of Riktanus' designs. He waited for the Herald to finish annoucing him and Riktanus both, then turned and stared up at the King, his back exposed to Riktanus. Riktanus had no wish to kill Zsaal, but he had to, if he wanted the throne. Bearing himself down, he advanced steadily on Zsaal's back, blade in hand, his shield at the ready. Zsaal looked over his shoulder at Riktanus, then looked back up to the King, then to Anna, seated at his side. "Fuck it," he muttered under his breath, finding, in his drunken state, the one out. He leaped smoothly up onto the King's dais, shoving the Royal Guards out of the way and down into the arena, hearing bones break. Screaming for help, Zsaal's hands closed around the King's windpipe, and began to choke. He felt Anna grabbing at his hands, but he ignored her, sealing his fingers firmly around the King's throat, choking the life from him. It took less than a minute. Old and feeble, King Olin succumbed to the lack of air, and died, his face black. It was then that Zsaal had turned and screamed out at the court; "I claim this throne by Rite of Combat, and relinquish it to the one person who deserves it! Lord Riktanus!" Stunned, Riktanus had fallen to one knee as King Olin had died, but rose, as all the Royal Guards who could stand sank onto one knee, those who could not supported by their brothers and their swords, all facing Riktanus, who had just become king with one statement. Riktanus stared up at Zsaal and bowed his head, even as the Royal Bodyguard sank to one knee. The new king mounted the steps to the throne, and bowed to Zsaal, whom came up to see him. "Marry that damned girl, and get a new bodyguard. I'm getting the hell out of the Five Provinces," Zsaal said quietly to Riktanus, whom looked shocked, but nodded. Zsaal left then, some say vanish, and began the long walk home. Epilogue This was where it all began, and where this tale ends. Zsaal came quietly up to the door of the inn, trying to think of what to say. He felt for the oblong package in his gi, a final gift from Riktanus before he left, using its presence to bolster his courage to knock upon the door. She came to the door, opening it. "Who is it?" she asked, before looking up to see who it was. "Remember me?" he asked softly, his blue eyes piercing into hers. A smile made her face broaden, and she leaped into his arms. Laughing and crying together, the two of them swung into the tavern, kissing each other all over. Later... much, much later... Jazzai leaned against Zsaal, feeling his familiar warmth. They had spent a long time talking, apologizing, kissing. Finally, she leaned her head up to kiss Zsaal on the neck. "What do you think of children?" she asked. "Why do you ask?" he replied. She smiled and led him through the toy-strewn main area of the tavern. He looked around, smelling another scent, but it wasn't male, and he followed. She led him to a room near to the one they had shared in the past, opened the door, and crossed over to the bed to a child who was dozing. She picked up the child and held her in her lap, a child with blue ears like his but her mother's features. "Zsaal... this is Lana. Our daughter." And the tears flowed from her, as all of her sorrow was replaced by joy.