?We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine.?
(Eduardo Galeano)

Twelve Years Ago...

With a stiff shove to his back, a chuckle, and several loud whoops, Locke was pushed into the tiny bedroom closet that was already occupied by a girl. Before he could turn around, a hand snaked inside to shut off the light, then back out to close the door. A voice, muffled behind the wood, called out to the pair inside. ?Seven minutes, mates! Make 'em count.? Locke only had a split-second to memorize the contents of the closet: various unopened cardboard boxes; a laundry basket; hangers laden with dresses, skirts, sweaters, blouses, and coats; a shoe rack full of boots, tennis shoes, sandals, high heels, and flats. Then, blue eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the lack of light turned to examine the girl in the closet with him. Toria.

She was a couple years older than him, but was only a grade ahead of him in school. Locke couldn't remember what she'd been held back for. Truancy, probably. He had nearly been held back himself for skipping school, and had first met Toria during one of the times he had decided to play hooky solo, instead of with his usual group of friends. They'd had fun, ducking and dodging their way through the various alleys and back roads of the city, avoiding the shopkeepers and city guards after he'd shoplifted their lunch from a produce cart. Her outfit had changed only slightly from before, though the changes shifted her from the usual laddettes into something a bit more...cultured. Instead of a jean jacket, she wore a cream-colored sweater with hip-hugging jeans that flared at the bottom, revealing a simple pair of black flats (also different from the beat-up pair of running shoes she wore previously). For his part, Locke was wearing pretty much what he usually wore those days, when he wasn't garbed in his ninja-like thief's garb. A black leather jacket and fingerless gloves (the better to show off his array of silver rings, most of which he'd stolen), boot-cut jeans, and a pair of Doc Martens. He held the look together through sheer force of will, and lots of sneering. The sneer, though, was mostly gone at that moment, as he got a good chance to study Toria's face. A bit hard-edged in places, with a sharp nose and slightly sunken cheekbones, but she had full, pouty lips, plenty of dark eye shadow, and a set of emerald eyes that he couldn't take his own off of (even if he couldn't quite see the color there, in the darkness). He sucked in a sigh, and heard her breath catch in her throat as well.

?Oy, Toria.?

?Oy, Locke. Fancy seein' you around here. Didn' know you knew Trent.? Locke flashed his teeth, still bright and white in the lack of light.

?I don't.?

?Crashin' a party? Naughty, mate.? She clucked at him, wagging a finger.

?What about you?? In response to Locke's question, Toria bit the nail of her index finger, a gesture meant to be equal parts contemplative and seductive.

?Not nice.? She looked at him for a second, then slid in closer. Locke swore he could hear both their hearts thumping in the small space. ?Never snogged an elf, to tell the Babe.?

Her proximity led him to gulp a little bit. The tough guy act was gone, replaced by clear vulnerability. He could smell her hair and what shampoo she might've used (something with coconuts, apparently). Then, a faint whiff of a clean, neutral scent that was soon overpowered by her perfume, a mix of vanilla, sandalwood, honey, and other rich scents that blended together until they were indistinguishable to his nose. In the face of that, he cracked.

?Never snogged, end of, mate.?

?That's what we're here for, right?? Another step closer, and he could feel her breath, warm and redolent of cigarettes, brush against his cheeks.

?Aye.? Before Locke could say anymore, Toria had ducked down a little, the better to press her lips against the shorter elf's own. The kiss was brief, but the way Toria nipped at his bottom lip before withdrawing suggested it was merely a prelude. He could feel the slight indentations on his flesh, taste the waxy apple flavor of her lip gloss. The walls within him were crumbling, tumbling down. What was it Granaff had said? ?Each person you care for is a dagger in the dark, waiting for your heart.? Locke had to do something, but there, in the closet, alone in the dark with his first crush, his palms shaking and sweating, the crisp taste of her still in his mouth, it was difficult. So he did the only thing he could think of at that moment. He tippy-toed up, put his hands on either side of Toria's face, and kissed her fiercely. He felt their teeth click together briefly, then part ways, as she surrendered to him.

The pair were still snogging when the closet door reopened again, spilling light over them. Another series of loud whoops went up at the sight of them. Locke stepped back, ran his fingers through his hair, and winked at the rest of the party attendees. It wouldn't do to show them how much the kiss really meant.

((To be continued...))

((Author's Note: This post contains sexual content and language. Parental discretion is advised))

?It is an infantile superstition of the human spirit that virginity would be thought a virtue and not the barrier that separates ignorance from knowledge?
(Voltaire)

?It is regarded as normal to consecrate virginity in general and to lust for its destruction in particular.?
(Karl Kraus)

March 1, 1999 R.S.C.
Dockside

Out of a rundown Dockside brothel and into the foggy and lamp-lit streets the quartet of thieves staggered, arms around shoulders, hands clutching tightly to paper bags bulging with forty ounce bottles. The springtime warmth was still weeks ago, so the lads were bundled up for the weather as best they could. Charlie stubbornly wore a black track jacket with white stripes on the sleeves, but even with a dark wool cap and gloves on his head and hands, his teeth chattered (when he wasn't taking swigs from his bottle of malt liquor). The leader of the group, King Arthur, wore a tattered and frayed navy blue peacoat, with a similarly colored hat on his head and a Burberry checked scarf tied tightly around his throat. Wessex, the largest of the four teens, had the misfortune of wearing a black puffy coat that made him look even larger, with a bright red hand sewn winter cap and mittens that did little to take the flush of cold (or maybe that was the drink?) from his chubby cheeks. Locke, though, seemed to pay no mind to the weather. His outfit was much the same as it always was, when he went out. Ripped up dark blue jeans, black leather jacket and fingerless gloves, prematurely white hair spiked up haphazardly. Suddenly, he pulled away from the group, leaving the other three humans walking shoulder-to-shoulder for a couple of footsteps before they thought to stop. They were slow to turn around, and Wessex nearly tumbled to the ground before Charlie caught him and pushed him to his feet.

?Oy, Wessex! Don't be gettin' paralytic on me!? Charlie gave another rough shove to Wessex's shoulder, and the other lads laughed.

?Wotcha doing, Wethrin?? King Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow at Locke.

?Watch'n learn, mates.? Locke stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, then lifted the bottle to his lips and tipped his head back as far as he could. His friends hooted and hollered as he downed the remainder of his drink, dribbling some down his chest as he did so. He held the empty container high above his head, then tossed it to the ground as hard as he could. The sound of shattering glass echoed up and down the narrow street. They applauded, Wessex more reluctantly than the rest, as Locke took a bow for them. Wessex's lack of enthusiasm earned him yet another push, this one from Arthur.

?What's the big?? Wessex wheeled around to face King Arthur, the hurt plain on his face.

?Ye weren't clappin' enough, Wes," Arthur said. "Ain't sportin'.? Wessex opened his mouth, then quickly shut it before he could be punished again, deserved or not.

?Wethrin! 'ow was it?" Charlied asked, calling over to the elf. "Was she gaggin' for it?? Locke said nothing in response, just flashing a bright smile to the boys as they chortled uncontrollably.

***

The room was barely furnished, the wallpaper yellowed and peeling, the desk and nightstand both scuffed up and carved on by a multitude of blades. The bed barely looked comfortable enough to sleep on, with no comforter or blanket, just thin white sheets and a pair of lumpy pillows. Of course, sleeping was the last thing the bed was for. There were thick iron bars over the windows outside, in contrast to the thin walls and door. At some point, someone had kicked it, punching a hole in the plywood that covered the hollow frame.

Hand in hand, she opened the door for Locke, who had to pause and squint at the surroundings for a second. With a gentle tug, she pulled him into the room, wasting no time with pleasantries before stripping out of the short red dress she was wearing. What little had been left to the imagination by her dress was soon revealed. Locke gaped awkwardly at her, before she sat down on the bed, legs folded demurely. She took off her black stilleto heels and began to rub her feet, sighing in relief. She gestured to the closed bathroom door.

?You can change in there, if you like.?

?No-no worries. I can change here.? Locke altered his accent, trying to sound more sophisticated, even though he was dressed in leather and jeans. He struggled to remove the clothing, but the prostitute didn't make a move to help him, instead pulling a drawer open from the nightstand and removing a pack of cigarettes and lighter. As soon as his clothes were off, he looked up at her right as she was about to ignite her smoke.

?Please don't do that. I have terribly sensitive lungs.?

?Okay. Ready?? She patted the side of the bed where she was sitting, in a gesture that seemed oddly maternal, given the circumstances. Locke just gulped and nodded his head, before half-numb legs carried him over.

He tried to kiss her, but she gently pushed him away. ?No, luv,? she murmured. Her pinched face smiled sadly. He blinked, staring at her in a fervent attempt to remember what she looked like. The freckles, on her face, down her shoulders and neck, on her breasts. The red hair, half-way down her back. The brown eyes, sad, dull, and doe-like. Eyes that refused to look straight at his. He blinked again, and she was on top, the ceiling spinning ,and part of him wanted her to leave him alone with the dizzying room and his head full of drunken thoughts, but the more primal part of him wanted this, didn't want to be alone. So he clung fiercely to her, tried to focus on an imaginary point above him to keep himself from getting sick, tried to listen only to the faint creak of his bed's springs creaking, and tried to ignore the sounds of the other amorous lovers in nearby rooms, filtering through cheap drywall and plaster.

When he was finished, she got up and headed for the bathroom. Soon, the sounds of running water could be heard through the shut door. Locke lay on the bed, eyes squinched shut, then slowly rose to a seated position, bare feet resting on the ugly berber carpeting. He leaned over and pulled his clothing off the floor, wriggling into his jeans first, then his white t-shirt and jacket. After he donned his gloves, he dug into his pants pocket, removing enough silvers to pay for the services. He silently placed them on the nightstand, before putting on his socks and boots. After one last backwards glance at the bathroom, he exited the room and stumbled into the hallway. He paused, to see if she heard anything, to see if she'd come out. The sound of the shower still going made up his mind. Despite his state of intoxication, he was able to silently sneak down the hall and out into the emergency stairwell, with none the wiser.

***

?A gentleman never snogs and tells, mates,? Locke finally replied, smug smile plastered on his face. He fell back in with his buddies, singing lusty songs to the night skies, flipping the bird to anyone who opened their windows to yell at them about disturbing the peace, and laughing at dirty jokes as they headed for the abandoned warehouse they were currently calling home. When they finally made it back, and had snuggled into their bedrolls on the hard concrete floors, Locke spent most of the night staring at the wooden rafters, willing them not to spin while simultaneously searching for a pattern in the whirl, in the steady snores of his sleeping companions, of the lingering ache in his body.

Once upstairs, Locke's keen eyes spotted more clues about the villa's current state. Layers of wallpaper, reduced to a black-grey hue with the lack of light and only recognizable by their differing patterns, had been scraped off the wall. Near the top of the steps, in a corner where two walls met, sat a short metal tray with rolled edges, like a painter would use to roll paint. Instead of a paint roller, though, there was a scraper, barely longer than Locke's hand, with flecks of wallpaper still stuck to it. Besides that, the rest of the hallway was empty, save for lights in seashell sconces along the walls. One of Locke's compatriots started pointing at the rest of the thieves, then indicating with a wave of his index and middle fingers which rooms they should approach. The shortest one was directed towards the room immediately closest to the stairwell they had climbed up, while the tallest one was sent to a room located behind the stairwell. This left the two larger rooms, at the other end of the house, to Locke and the apparent leader. Locke went left, while the leader went right.

Locke couldn't help but stop briefly when he saw the smoothly polished mahogany rail that stood between himself and a story fall down into the living room. The lofted space only seemed to magnify the emptiness of the house, making the statues seem much smaller than they actually were. He could easily imagine his voice carrying throughout the entire villa, bouncing off the walls and ceiling, were he to speak at that moment, but the urge to do so was easily suppressed. No need to get caught now. He stepped away from the railing, doubling back and walking silently to his appointed room. With a quick twist of the doorknob and a quick push, he opened the door without a sound.

A whole family was sleeping in that room. The parents had set up a crib in the corner opposite where they had set the mattress on the floor. They had hastily put on sheets and a bed spread as well as pillows and pillow cases. On a mattress, next to the unassembled pieces of the bed frame and headboard, slept the mother and father, mom on her back, dad on his side. Tucked in between the edge of the bed and the father was another child, maybe three or four if Locke was going by size. The dark had greyed out most of their features, and made it impossible for him to tell if the child in bed was a boy or a girl. He froze in place.

Locke could barely see the ghost of a smile on the child's face. The father shifted, sighed, nuzzled against the cheek of the mother. He searched his memory, trying to remember if his mother and father had done the same with him when he was little, but it was too far in his past. And by the time his mother had remarried Arnand, he had gotten too big, too old, and then his brother had been born, and that was that. Affection was doled out in small, infrequent doses: a pat on the head or shoulder, or a kind word or two (and little more than that). Even Granaff, who was the closest thing to a father figure Locke had now, was loathe to express friendly physical affection towards the lads who worked for him, preferring verbal praise instead. Maybe it was an attempt to avoid appearing too affectionate to the boys (and all the troubles that could result from that), but that was only part of it. Granaff certainly had no problem slapping his boys on the head or boxing their ears if they made mistakes, or didn't bring back enough loot. It wasn't a common occurrence, but it was sufficient motivation for most of the lads not to slack off in their duties.

Before Locke knew it, he had reached a gloved hand forward, though he couldn't touch them from where he was standing. He quickly broke free of the reverie, realizing he only had a moment to search the room for valuables. A quick glance revealed nothing of immediate value in sight, just the pieces of the bed, and stacks of boxes that were taped shut. He couldn't risk opening them, and waking the occupants. This room was a bust. He turned around, and just as quietly shut the door behind him.

Locke was the last to meet up with them back near the stairs, and the others immediately slumped when they saw him come back empty-handed. The leader pointed at Locke, hoping against hope for good news, but Locke just shook his head, hands help up and at his sides in defeat. Between the four of them, all they'd managed to steal were some prescription pills (most likely from a bathroom cabinet). That was not the gold and jewelry and coins that Granaff wanted. Heads down in dejection, the quartet descended the stairs and made their way to the back door.

It wasn't until they were safely in the West End, safe from the scryers who might have been following their dirty deeds all night, that they dared to pull off their masks and talk. The shortest and youngest did so first, in a squeaky voice that suggested he had just hit puberty.

?I 'ope Granaff isn' mad a' tus.?

?Oh, he will be, mate, you can be sure of that,? the leader replied, his tone quite clearly implying what Granaff's anger might involve. The short one seemed to shrink further, while Locke and the tallest thief stayed silent, eyes carefully watching the residents of the neighborhood as they stared right back at the group sauntering down the sidewalk like they owned it. Locke stuck out his chin and sneered at them, fondling the dagger sheath on his hip. They quickly resumed their previous business: conversations with friends and family, hanging laundry on lines suspended across windows, walking home or to the pub. He couldn't help but smirk a little at their reaction, before he settled back into his own walk home, silently brooding.

Locke and his companion went and stood on the edge of the dance floor with the other pushers and pimps and merrymakers who had drank too much alcohol and had been gently led off the dance floor before they could hurt themselves or others. They swallowed their pills and washed them down with their drinks, and waited for their highs to kick in. Their conversation was fragmented, quick bursts of phrases and questions over the relentless noise of the crowd and the music. It was more of an attempt to keep busy than it was an attempt to get to know each other. Locke could feel the pill travel slowly down his throat, down his esophagus, into his stomach, where it seemed to settle like a brick, weighing him down to his spot just outside the circle of revelers. He subtly tended to his appearance, making sure his spikes of hair hadn't drooped, making sure he hadn't spilled on himself, and at the same time, looked over in her direction to see what she was doing. She seemed content to wait as well, bobbing to the music and sipping occasionally from her rocks glass.

And then the break kicked in, and the DJ seamlessly transitioned from a slower tempo song to a faster one that had the crowd roaring its approval. He could almost swear he heard each and every voice from the crowd, the shrill, the deep, the drunk, the foreign. They rose as a wave, coming together and crashing against his ears, nearly deafening him. She reached over and touched his hand softly, and he swore he could see sparks of light hop between their fingertips, shocking him, or maybe it was just the way the lasers and strobes bounced off the windows and walls and bodies shimmying and shaking on the floor. Greedy, Locke took the hand and led her to the dance floor.

Dancing turned to grinding turned to kissing turned to necking, and all he could smell, all he could he could taste, all he could see was her, her, her. The music was a tide, one song bleeding into the next with no beginning, no middle, no end, and it carried them along for the ride. His head seemed to float above his body, rising with the smoke and fog, while every touch of her hand, every press of her lips, sent electricity coursing through his body. When he walked off the dance floor with her, he wished they were already walking home, and when he was walking down the road nibbling at her ear and listening to her smoky laugh, he wished they were already at his door, and when he arrived at his apartment complex, he wished they were already upstairs, undressing each other and basking in each others' naked bodies, illuminated by the glow of moonlight. And then time seemed to warp and shift and they were there, in his bed and It. Felt. Good. No dirty talk or encouragement, just giggles, groans, and the sudden sensation that he was a ghost floating out of his skin, that this wasn't really happening. The moment passed, and he suddenly felt completely and utterly empty, but she was already asleep and he dared not wake her to share his deepest, darkest concerns. She couldn't possible care. She had shared his bed and his body, but she would never share his heart. It made him sneer at her, pull most of the sheet away from her so she was uncovered, and fall asleep in a huff.

***

He looked over his shoulder to his bed post, as if it might have notches in it, though it didn't. The running tally was in his head, a number he knew precisely and could rattle off easily if asked. If he wanted to tell. He was at least gentlemanly enough not to brag about that, though he could easily be convinced to wax rhapsodic about the night he spent with a High Elf, or the time he charmed a naiad out of the water and into his bed. Hell, get him liquored up enough and he might be convinced to discuss the time he had with a dwarven lass, what little of it he remembered after the drunken haze had lifted. This latest conquest was nothing more than that, a story to share over bottles of Blackguard.

He pulled the gray jersey sheets off himself and then picked them up, tossing them into a closet filled with other dirty clothes. He stripped off the bed sheet as well, then, for good measure, removed the pillow cases. It was harder to see where she had slept without the imprint on the blankets, which was just the way he wanted it.

Locke walked across his bedroom floor, stepping over the tangle of his clothes that he'd left there the night before, and entered his bathroom. It hadn't been cleaned since he got there, so there was another pile of clothes near the entrance, an overflowing waste basket filled mostly with paper towels, a toilet and sink in need of a good scrubbing, and shower tiles that were far too brown and black with mildew. He didn't care. He stepped in the shower and turned the temperature all the way into the blue, as cold as it would go, and turned the water on full blast. There was no reaction as the stream struck him directly in the chest, washing off the last vestiges of their mingled sweat.

?He looked down the slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's feast.?
(James Joyce, ?A Painful Case?)

September 2, 2004

She was walking away from Locke, and from the way she kept her head up and eyes straight ahead, not bothering once to look back at him, he knew he was never going to talk to her again. Kaylin, one of the smartest, funniest, and (dare he say it?) cutest girls he had ever met, wanted nothing to do with him. Oh, they might see each other around New Northumberland from time to time. There'd be an awkward moment or two, when he'd see her and try to summon a weak smile, or a polite ?Hello.? Would she reply back? Would she pretend not to hear him, not to know him? Would she just toss her hair and walk away in a huff? It didn't seem to matter that much, in that moment. Watching her stroll swiftly into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller until she finally turned out of sight, it felt like he was seeing her for the last time. At the least, it was the last time they'd have a connection.

The world around him had faded away during their brief conversation. Locke had kept his eyes on her the entire time, as he begged, pleaded, and cajoled with her, to no avail. She couldn't be with him if she couldn't touch him, kiss him, make love to him. It just wouldn't work. He had tried to touch her knee, but she had pushed the gloved hand away, before suddenly rising and striding away as fast as she could. When he couldn't see her anymore, the world unpaused, and all the sights, sounds, and smells he had been too busy to notice before came into sharp focus.

Locke was sitting on one section of a vast lawn criss-crossed by concrete bike and pedestrian paths. The rectangular green was surrounded on the edges by old brick and stone classrooms, with a street at one of the shorter ends and the main library for his university at the other, a building of glass and marble that towered over even the trees planted at random intervals throughout the area. The day was unseasonably warm, one last blast of Indian summer before the cool fall and frigid winter sunk their teeth into the land. The male college students were taking advantage of it by playing frisbee and tossing balls of various sizes and colors to each other, shirtless and in athletic shorts and tennis shoes. Some of the girls, in t-shirts and shorts of their own, joined in the games, while others laid out in the sun on towels, wearing bikinis to insure they would tan as much of their skin as possible. There were couples too, sprinkled here and there throughout the landscape, sitting beside each other, lying next to each other, as close as they could be despite the heat and humidity. Locke felt his stomach roil and turn over before he looked away.

He could barely hear the squirrels chittering and robins chirping in the trees, over the constant hum of conversation from the others on the green. Every once in a while, laughter would punctuate the buzz, before dying down and getting swallowed up in the sound of a hundred dialogues. Off in the distance, a church bell rang, followed by shriller, briefer ringing from the nearby classrooms. A handful of the students stopped their play and started wandering off, but most of them paid no attention to the noise and stayed put.

The air smelled sweet, scented with the pollen of flowers, wild and planted, that had not yet died with the fall's first frost. The groundskeeper was mowing a portion of the lawn that was close to the road, but the odor of diesel and fresh cut grass mingled in with the flowers. Also cutting through the air was a hint of coconut oil, from the lotion some of the girls were using to tan. The mixture of fragrances was too sweet for Locke, and he wrinkled his nose.

Everything should have been perfect, but it wasn't. This was where it was at, this was where many of his fellow students had come to gather and play and celebrate the coming weekend, and Locke felt miserable. He felt as distant from them sitting there on the green, just a few footsteps away from them, as he would have looking down on them from the windows on the top floor of the library. Still, he was rooted to the spot, unwilling to talk to the others, but unwilling to truly be by himself. As long as they were there, he wouldn't be alone. He reached a hand forward towards the couple closest to him, then pulled it back to his side. They didn't notice his grasp at all.

Locke stayed on the rectangle until the sun set and the last of the stragglers left, for home or the local bars. He didn't leave until they turned the sprinklers on unexpectedly, soaking his clothes and leaving him to walk to his own apartment with his shirt and slacks half-frozen to his skin.

((Author's note: This post contains drug usage and sexual content. Parental discretion is advised))

?Why are you sitting by yourself??

?I'm not.? Locke turned to see who had leaned in close enough to be heard over the trance music being spun. Lasers and strobes half-lit her face and skin, revealing a woman just an inch or two shorter than him, with dark ocher shaded skin and wavy black hair, wearing a low-cut scarlet dress that clung tightly to her curves. ?Look at all these blokes and birds sitting near me.? He gestured to the packed bar he was sitting at. Some were seated, but most of them were leaning up against the marble surface, ordering drinks and flirting with each other.

?Are you talking to any of them??

?Well, no.?

?Then you're sitting alone.?

?Fine. Yes, I am sitting alone.? Locke's fingers tightened around the half-full Collins glass. He was several drinks in, but they had done very little to improve his mood.

?That's no fun.? She looked him over for a bit, then smirked. ?Why so blue??

?Long story,? he said with an exasperated sigh. Then, he turned to more directly face her. ?Do I know you, mate??

?No, but I've heard of you, mate.? She purred the last word back to him, with a flip of her hair. ?You're Locke D'Vestavio, if I am not mistaken.?

?You are not. It would seem my reputation precedes me. Or was it the blue skin that tipped you off, Miss...?? His speech trailed off into a questioning tone, clearly angling for a name.

?Ghaleya. Leya works, though. And it was a little from column A, a little from column B.?

?Leya. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Drink??

?Just a water, please.? Locke held up a hand and placed his order in short time, before turning back to Leya, who beckoned him to lean in closer. He did, enough that he could smell the vanilla of her perfume. ?I'm rolling tonight.?

?E?? he asked, moving in even nearer, so that his mouth nearly touched her ear lobe. His cool breath made her shiver, but she kept a smile on her face anyways.

?Yes. Are you looking to roll, Locke??

The question had him licking his lips. It had been far too long since he'd felt that warm, familiar feeling. Cloud nine. Chemical bliss. He glanced over to the dance floor, where the dancers writhed and gyrated in slow, sensual rhythm to the beat, faces inclined to the heavens. There was an invisible wall between their joy and his misery, and the booze seemed to only build the wall higher. But ecstasy...in the palm of her hand was the key, the sledgehammer to tear down that barrier and join them in rapture. All he had to do was take it. All he had to do was say yes, and damn the consequences.

?Of course, Leya.? He downed his drink, setting the empty glass on the bar just as Leya's water arrived. He smoothly passed her drink on to her, and she slipped him the pill during the exchange. Without another word, he lifted his hand to his mouth and swallowed the pill. Grinning, he offered her his arm and led her to the dance floor.

***

They'd kissed, hadn't they? He gingerly touched his bottom lip, then the top one, finding them both swollen and stitched up. He started to reconstruct more of the gaps in his memory. They'd danced. They'd gone back to her place, on his insistence. She'd kissed him nearly as soon as they shut her front door, first the shirt, then his mouth, and then she couldn't pull away. He could feel pleasure give way to panic; where her arms had earlier pulled him to her, they now desperately sought to push him away. When they finally pulled apart, he could see the blood dribbling down her chin, down her neck, and between her breasts, until it finally reached her dress and barely stained it. She had flung open the door and shoved him into the hallway, stumbling. He'd passed out...where? He couldn't remember. Had he made it outside before he lost consciousness, or had the paramedics found him slumped over beside her apartment? The last thing he remembered was bleeding, sweating way too much, staggering through a harshly lit hallway and watching as the heads peaked out from other apartments, then just as quickly disappeared as the doors slammed shut.

((Author's note: This scene contains violence and profane language.))

?Locke! Locke, Locke, Locke. What a surprise.? The tallest and drunkest of Locke's former poker buddies called loudly as soon as he spotted blue skin, white hair, and nice clothes.

?Hindrick. How pleasant to see you.? Locke was aiming for a dry tone, but the booze turned it into something more clearly sarcastic. He didn't bother to look in their direction as he spoke.

?Now that's no way to greet old friends. Mates.? Hindrick's slurred speech was more immediately noticeable, as he and his two friends started to amble over towards Locke's stool.

?Yeah, Locke. Mates. Buddies. Amigos. Mellonie.? The shortest, stoutest, and darkest haired of the three spoke in elvish with barely concealed disgust.

?Certainly. Mellonie. You tell yourself that, Iyan. Maybe if you say it enough times, you'll believe it.? Locke kept his gaze on his drink, looking up briefly to gauge Roos' reaction. Mild alarm had set on her features, but she didn't appear totally unsettled by the veiled animosity in the air.

?Oh, we believe it, Locke. Friends until the very end.? Slowly but surely, the three had positioned themselves in a half-circle behind Locke's stool, Iyan on the right, the other man on the left. The frost elf still hadn't turned to face the group, but he did reach for his drink glass after the third male had spoken. He was similar in appearance to both Roos and Hindrick, with blonde hair and blue eyes, but where Hindrick and Roos had very nearly the same shaggy mid-length haircut, the third New Northumbrian by the bar had his cropped short.

?And that would be Rikhart. The gang's all here.?

?Do you know what friends do, Locke? Friends treat their friends with respect. Friends cut their friends a break. Friends-?

?Don't play poker with blokes they wish to stay friends with,? Locke interrupted Hindrick. ?You three seem like reasonably intelligent blokes.? The snow elf paused a beat, for emphasis. ?Even if I did have to bash some smarts into your thick loaves. So I will leave you with one last gem. Learn to cut your losses. Tuck your tails between your legs, run on home to mum and dad, and don't play poker with sharps like me. And Don't.Fuck.With.Me.? Each word was measured out with a slap of his hand against the bar. Roos seemed to flinch with each blow against the granite.

?No, no Locke. That's no way for a friend to treat his friends.? Hindrick was now just within arm's reach of Locke, with Iyan and Rikhart a step or two back and on either side. Iyan and Rikhart murmured their agreement with their leader's statement. ?C'mon, let me buy you a drink." Hindrick's hand moved quickly toward Locke's left shoulder, but the snow elf reacted quicker. In one swift motion, he grabbed Hindrick's wrist, slammed his forearm against the bar, and twisted to smash a glass in the other man's face. Hindrick staggered back, clutching his cheek where an ugly jagged gash bled freely. Before Iyan or Rikhart could react, Locke threw the glass, now missing a shard from the previous attack, into Iyan's face. It struck him square in the nose and shattered in a spray of red-stained fragments. With Locke's attention on Iyan for the moment, Hindrick moved into position to sucker-punch Locke from behind, but the ice elf sensed the attack coming and swung a back elbow up and into Hindrick's nose. Blood gushed out, staining both the collar of his shirt as well as speckling all over Locke's clothing. Hindrick stumbled backward into Rikhart, who shoved the twice-injured man aside in his haste to attack Locke. Calmly, he wheeled around, feinted a right jab and coldcocked Rikhart with a left hook that sent the man crashing to the ground. On one knee, Hindrick tried shakily to stand again, but a vicious knee to the side of the head knocked him down and out. Locke heard Iyan charge toward him with a shout, but the elf didn't bother to turn around before driving another back elbow into Iyan's eye. The shout became a cry of pain, as he collapsed to the floor, clutching his busted orbital bone. In less than a minute, the sounds of screaming dancers fleeing the stages with their lingerie in puddles of silk and satin, curious customers muttering as they watched the fight, and glass and bones breaking at Locke's hands had died down. They were replaced by the moans of the injured and the *clomp-clomp* of steel toe boot-clad bouncers storming inside from their usual outdoor post. The two heavily muscled, heavily tattooed, goateed, and shaved bald guards took a look at the trio of writhing wounded, then Locke, and pulled switchblades from their boots and flicked them open. In response, Locke held up his hands.

?I was just leaving. No need to get pissy or poke me full of holes.? He didn't move towards the bouncers until they folded their knives shut and placed them back in their boots. Once they did that, he took a few steps toward them and the exit, but suddenly stopped. One of them moved for his shoe again, so Locke quickly addressed him. ?I have to pay for what I have broken.? He reached into his pocket and slapped down several gold coins, enough that the other guard's eyes bugged out of his head. He leaned across the bar, toward the panicked Roos. She pulled back, away from the ice elf, but he still whispered to her as if she was right beside him. ?Amin hiraetha. Namaarie, Roos.* I wish you the very best.? After he had finished speaking to her, he straightened up, and let the guards lead him out. He even let them shove him out the front door roughly, without retaliating. He figured he probably deserved that push.

*I'm sorry. Farewell.*

Locke and Katarina were standing in a white gazebo, near the rocky shores of Port Leicester. It was a beautiful summer day, the sun just managing to peek through the cloud cover and cast warm light on the small crowd that gathered in a circle around the gazebo. Locke swept a gaze across them, smiling brightly to the faces of his closest friends and family. His mother, his step-father, Liam and Eavan, Katarina's parents and siblings, Juliane, Johnny and Sianna with their twins, Val and Caitir, Eva and Mason, Gerard and Madame Hasbrouck, the rest of the employees of Highlife Haberdashery and the RhyDin Ballet Troupe. Inside the gazebo, Locke stood beside his beloved, as a kindly old priest in vestments held a Bible in both hands and smiled at them. Sitting on the railing of the gazebo, tail swishing lazily to and fro, was Patches. When the ice elf spotted the cat, he grinned at him as well and walked over to pet him.

When Locke touched him, Patches lifted his head and looked at him with what he swore was a confused stare. The cat meowed at Locke, then butted his head against gloved fingers. Then, before he could react, Patches bit into one of the leather digits and ripped the glove off. Locke cried out, instinctively sticking his finger in his mouth, but when he removed it, he saw that his hand was no longer blue, but the pale white it had been when he was younger. The blood he bled was dark red, with not a hint of purple. He wheeled around and shot Katarina a look of utter shock, but she didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. She winked to him, then turned back to the priest. Before he could react, Patches started rubbing against Locke's now bare fingers. He's warm, the snow elf thought to himself, before his eyes widened. I'm not cold. With that realization, Locke began to pet the cat back, then ran his fingers across the painted wood of the railing. The portion underneath the roof was cool, while the section where the sunshine fell was warm. Warm. Comfortable. Warm. His mind reeled at the thought of it, before he numbly wandered over and took his place by Katarina's side again.

She took his hand, and he felt the warmth in her grasp, contrasted only by the pleasantly cool sensation of her engagement ring's band against his fingers. He looked up at her, tears welling in his eyes, and saw that her eyes were wet as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the priest's lips moving, but he didn't hear a single word the man said until his last ones.

?I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.?

Rising up slightly on his toes, Locke pushed aside the white veil and leaned in, touching his lips softly to hers. He felt her tremble at first, then tense up, clawing at his face to try to break the kiss. She shoved him hard, sending him sprawling to the deck. He gazed up at her, watching as her skin slowly shifted from tan to blue. He jumped to his feet and tried to help her, but she just pushed him back again, sending him staggering against the railing. Gradually, her movements became slower and slower, and she frantically looked from side to side, green eyes begging the priest, her family, her friends, anyone to help her out. But there was nothing that could be done. Right before his eyes, Katarina froze in place, fear and panic permanently etched on her face.

***

The shock from the dream carried over into his waking, as he rolled out of bed and fell on the bedroom floor awkwardly. He laid there motionless for a few moments, until he was sure that the fall hadn't hurt him. After that, he reached for the edge of the bed and pulled himself up. As he brought himself back up, his face fell. That's right. Katarina's not here. She was staying overnight at the clinic. She wasn't here. He felt his heart plunge into his stomach, as he was painfully reminded of her absence. It was just one day, but that one day had felt like weeks, as he dragged himself through the motions of work, meals, and household chores. It felt like someone had taken a piece of him away, and the intensity of the loss was especially keen in that moment, when the thing he wanted most was her support. Instead, he laid flat on his back and stared at the ceiling until the sky outside his window turned from black to orange.