With thanks to my beta reader susan and her sister, and Julia R, with out you, this would not be the story that you see here now.

 

For everyone who asked about the ancient sentinel and guide this is their story.

 

Dark Guide

Part one

 

 

Home at last. Simon settled himself in his favorite chair and took a sip from the cup of coffee by his side. His cousin Frank had sent him another package of coffee from his shop; this particular one had a nice vanilla taste.

 

He picked up the manuscript Blair had dropped off for him the day before. It was the result of a conversation with Jim and Blair during which Simon admitted he was struggling to understand the changes they were undergoing. The Captain had commented, with no little frustration, that Sentinel 101 no longer covered what he saw happening. It had become apparent to him that the sentinel "bible" was about as far from the truth of sentinels and guides as a school primer was from Hamlet.

 

Blair was obviously the author. The narrative was nothing like the blunt report style that Jim used at the PD. Simon waded through

reams of that at the office. The manuscript documented a series of very vivid dreams Blair and Jim had experienced. Even Jim had gone so far as to admit that he felt as if their past lives were calling to them from across the centuries. Before handing the manuscript over Blair had explained, somewhat shyly, that he had used some artistic license in recounting the tale to make it more readable. As Simon read, he thought that description hardly did it justice. The kid could really write; in his mind's eye he seemed to see the names on the page morphing into the people themselves as Blair's words put flesh to the bones of long-dead sentinels and guides. Refilling his cup, he settled in to read and soon lost himself in another time and place.

 

~~~~~~~

The Temple of the Guides was large and imposing, a place of study and wisdom. Its gray stone construction leant it a somber and scholarly air. Its archives were second to none with rooms of scrolls and manuscripts gathered from all over the known world. The monks were acknowledged to be among the finest scholars and teachers. Though they valued scholarship, they believed their highest calling was to prepare guides for the responsibility of helping sentinels reach the highest levels of achievement in order to protect their people.

 

Dar, Chieftain Priest of the Temple, watched from his room in the higher reaches of the Temple complex as the guides passed back and forth through the main courtyard. All, but one, were Gray Guides, possessing limited empathic ability. These would bond with worker sentinels, those with but two or three enhanced senses or with full sentinels whose range was limited. Dar's eyes fixed on the lone figure in black facing one of the training masters in the sparring yard.  As if he sensed Dar’s attention, the Dark Guide turned and looked straight at him, as if assessing potential threat. Dar carefully broadcast “no harm”, “no threat”.  Even though it was not entirely true.  

 

Blaer was now the only Dark Guide left in the Temple. The others had been relocated to safer, more protected locations when the influx of clans with unbonded sentinels had been reported.  Unfortunately, Blaer had been severely injured in a sword practice accident and had been deemed unfit to travel.

 

As the priest watched with worried eyes, the Dark Guide reached over his left shoulder, and with both hands took the hilt of a long sword.  He pulled and the sword came smoothly out of the soft sheath that lay along his back. The gleaming metal swung vertically above his head, then down. It twirled with deceptive ease in one hand before the other hand joined the first to stop the spin. The young man moved easily into a balanced stance, ready for any attack the trainer might plan. Although smaller than many in the Temple, he had both the power and fluid movement to parry the teacher's blade easily. His long hair was held in place at the base of his neck by a piece of leather, out of the path of the swirling blades.

 

Denis, the teacher, had once been a Dark Guide; one who had survived the death of his sentinel. Dark Guides only bonded once; after which their empathic pathways were too badly scarred to take the bonding of another sentinel. Most Dark Guides committed suicide, using the potions of their calling, rather than live without their sentinels. Denis had been lucky, or unlucky, enough to be found by a woman with two sentinel powers and a warm heart. She had taken the broken guide under her wing and given him a reason to live. That the woman who was now his wife had even tried to help was a testament to her courage and compassion.

 

 Dark Guides were widely feared, even by other guides and sentinels. The fears were based on misunderstanding. The stories and legends of the Dark Guides told of men trained from birth in assassination and poisons who would destroy any threat to their bonded sentinels without thought or remorse - trained killers. It was said the only safe Dark Guide was a bonded one. Their sentinels could control them, curb their instinctive natures.

 

What was not spoken of was the less fearfully dramatic aspect of the Dark Guide. They could be shamans, healers, giving back life with the same herbs that took it. A favored few of the Dark Guides had empathic powers of a strength and depth that it seemed as if they could will health back into a patient. These talents came at a price. A Dark Guide could be overwhelmed by the emotions of those around him. Unable to separate his own thoughts and feelings from the emotional maelstrom of others, he could be slowly driven mad. Knowing it was happening, but unable to stop it. Feeling the pain and injuries of others too deeply could afflict his own body, leaving him broken and ill. A sentinel, bonded to him, could save him from those fates

 

 The Dark Guide and the Dark Sentinel would mesh, becoming flip sides of the same coin. Both would gain immeasurably by their bonding. Once the sentinel had a guide by his side, he would find that he could extend his powers much further even as the risk of being lost in the dark void lessened. The guide watched for the signs that would herald a void and could recall him with voice or touch. In return, the guide would be shielded from the emotions of the people around him, able to extend his empathy without risking the integrity of mind and body. 

 

The bond was a strong one; sentinel and guide became brothers, comrades-in-arms, even, so it was whispered, one soul. On rare occasions, by mischance, a Dark Guide lost, or was separated from his sentinel. If he survived the trauma an unbonded sentinel might try to usurp the bond and force a new connection. No sentinel had ever succeeded; the Dark Guides who had thus been taken remained nothing more than prisoners, uncontrollable and dangerous. But endowed with strong empathic abilities and the stealthy skills of an assassin, a Dark Guide was a prize for which a warlord would pay a great deal of gold. If there were any chance, however slight, that a bonding could be forced with a Warlord’s sentinel, the resulting pairing would increase his power immeasurably. And while a Warlord might not risk his gold on such a chancy undertaking; great rewards awaited the sentinel desperate enough, and fortunate enough, to force the issue.

 

Dar worried over the young Dark Guide sword dancing in the courtyard. The longer he remained unbonded the greater a prize he became. Rumor had it that even Dark Guides had to mesh with a sentinel at some point. The longer they waited, the less resistance they had to bonding. Whether this was true of Dark Guides or not was immaterial; it was what was believed and what would be acted on. Blaer, about to reach his full majority, was well past the age at which Gray Guides normally bonded and was yet young enough that the adamantine shields of a mature Dark Guide were not yet his. 

 

But thus far Blaer had refused to bond, and it was unwise to force a Dark Guide to bond against his will. The priest knew of cases in which Dark Guides had committed suicide rather than be bonded. They picked their sentinels, never the other way around. Dar had kept Blaer cloistered and closely guarded since the Clans moved in and would gladly have sent him away with the others. He silently cursed the guide responsible for Blaer’s injury.

 

The Abbot was quite sure the injury had not been an accident. The students' sparring had gotten out of hand and though Blaer had stopped and pulled back when ordered, the other student had continued his attack. Blaer had managed to retrieve his sword in time to partially deflect the blow, but it had laid his arm open from wrist to elbow. It was just now healed enough to allow him to resume light practice drills. With the current tension in the surrounding countryside, the injury assumed greater significance.

 

The culprit had been the Dark Guide Lash, a medium-sized man with straw-colored hair and a face made up of hard planes. He was the oldest of the Dark Guides, and the one that caused his teachers the most worries. Even the most desperate sentinel shied away from the man as if there was something rotted in his empathic touch. Lash had taken unnatural pleasure in inflicting pain on the Gray Guides until Blaer had called him out for it. Lash had ended up in the infirmary after their fight. After that lesson, Lash had to be satisfied with slaughtering the animals given to the Temple in tribute to work off his tempers.

 

Lash, Dar thought, was quickly becoming a major problem and the only answer appeared to be his removal from this life before he caused the death of innocent people. The priest had interrogated him after the latest skirmish and had been stunned by his venomous attack on Blaer's character. Some of it surely sprang from unhealthy jealousy. Blaer was the youngest and smallest among them in age but had proved to be one of the most powerful of the Dark Guides and had already bested Lash once. The older guide had also been disgusted that the Temple would accept the “bastard son of a  Temple whore.”

 

The Chieftain Priest reddened at the memory of the words Lash had used. He was by no means innocent in the ways of the world, but to hear the woman’s service as a Temple of Aphrodis priestess referred to that way by a Dark Guide was offensive. Blaer’s anger  had exploded when he heard what had been said of his mother and they had only narrowly managed to stop him killing Lash.

 

If he had succeeded, despite the provocation, the young guide would have found few supporters in the Temple. Even though Lash was unstable and unpopular, he was from one of the ruling families. His father had the ear of the Council which, coupled with his own empathic ability, had guaranteed him entry into the Temple. And most of the other teachers were weary, and wary, of Blaer. He was considered a talented but dangerous misfit. He had outstripped his teachers’ abilities and knowledge until they no longer understood him. They had been relieved to leave him alone to explore the darker side of warrior shaman skills. His interest in poisons and assassination techniques was considered unnatural for a boy of his years. Only Dar knew that the young guide paid equal, if not greater, attention to the healing potions and rituals.

 

Dar caught back a warning shout as the trainer used a particularly vicious move on his pupil. Blaer and his trainer shared a manic grin as the young guide slipped the blow with casual ease. Denis had ignored all the rumors about this Dark Guide and welcomed the opportunity to teach a student of such promise. Their practice session continued as it if it were an ordinary day but around them students and teachers huddled in nervous groups. Despite Dar's efforts, word had already filtered through the Temple that the clans were massing in the fields around them. Adding to their agitation was the knowledge that the attacking sentinels could hear any word or movement they made. Dar could not risk openly sending any more students away to safety since they would be easy pickings for mercenaries.

 

There was another choice. He could try to send a message to Warren, the most powerful of the lords, offering him tribute in return for leaving the Temple alone. He might have to give him a few Gray Guides, but the Temple would honor those chosen for their sacrifice and they would be treated well by the clans. Knowing Warren, though, he would demand a Dark Guide to bond to his sentinel bodyguard. Bonded, the man would be more in control of his powers than ever before. Coupled with the assassination skills of a Dark Guide, he would have a powerful tool at his command. So far, the few Dark Guides available had refused Warren’s Sentinel Prime. And Dar suspected that Blaer had caught his attention or, more likely, had his attention directed to the youngster by Lash’s powerful father. It was likely that Warren hoped that Blaer’s youth would make him susceptible to bonding. Either way, Blaer would be a prime target for the invaders.

 

While it was now too late to evacuate Blaer, the priest prayed that, if threatened, he would now at least be strong enough to defend himself.

 

The priest's train of thought was interrupted by a shout from the lookouts, followed by the pounding of feet. Cries of “Sentinels at the gates!" brought terror to the monks and students in the courtyard. They knew the sentinels among the attackers would use their senses to detect the slightest flaw in the gates and barriers.

 

For a moment Dar froze, hardly believing that the Clans, that Sentinels, were actually daring to attack the Temple. Moments later, cold-blooded pragmatism took over. Defense was no longer possible, just a delay of the inevitable. The monks would work at escorting the Gray Guides through the courtyard to the escape tunnels under cover of the coming fight. With a little luck, their losses would be minor, perhaps only a few guides. The priest shouted to Blaer's trainer, signaling him to move Blaer out of the courtyard as quickly as possible.

 

The great gates to the Temple shuddered under the pounding of a battering ram. Outside, unbonded sentinels were screaming, given over to their most base and primitive need: to claim guides for bonding. That driving need was what had brought them flocking to join the Lords’ attack on the Temple.

 

With a splintering crack, the gates flew open. Some of the monks, attempting to stop the surging mass, were clubbed down, even though the attacking sentinels knew that killing a priest was punishable by death. Once inside they scattered, pursuing their fleeing prizes.

 

Blaer's trainer tugged at his sleeve, urging him to greater speed. They flew down the corridor toward the tunnels, just in time to throw the brace on the door. Blaer's teacher knew he would be lucky to get his student out of here a free man. The young Dark Guide was probably one of the prime targets, and…he didn't have the courage to finish the thought. Denis thought death would be kinder to the unbonded Dark Guide than capture.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

Jeme entered the Temple with the first wave of attackers as planned. Since early that morning he had been monitoring the high walls and the activity within. Every time he had tried to turn away, his head would turn back unbidden. He was scenting something that even the other sentinels of his clan could not smell. He shook his head to clear it and waved away the looks of concern. It did not stop the clan watching him warily. Jeme was a Dark Sentinel. Sentinel Prime of the Panther Clan even though he had never bonded. He had been challenged only once, perhaps because there had not been enough of the challenger left to give a decent burial.

 

There were twenty-four sentinels in the Panther Clan, 19 with bonded guides and more than five times that number of non-sentinel warriors. The Panther Clan was unusual in that, although it had a Sentinel Prime, Jeme gave his allegiance to Saemund, the feayr leader of the tribe. The clan members agreed the mix of sentinels, guides and ordinary folk as equals was a great success. It had brought the clan prosperity even as it had raised eyebrows. The Panther Clan were skilled warriors who hired themselves out as mercenaries to protect lords from those who would overthrow them by force of arms. There was no lack of business despite the efforts of the Council of Lords headed by Warren that was attempting to bring order to the chaos.

 

Control of Sentinels was a key element in any attempted conquest. This made sentinel/guide pairs highly valuable and highly vulnerable. If a lord could not gain the services of sentinels then he would try to deny their use to others. The Temple of the Sentinel had been ransacked again and again over the years until those with enhanced senses regarded temple training as a sure path to death or captivity. Sentinels were doing without the formal training needed to gain control of their gifts, a waste that told on all the warlords and clans.

 

Lord Warren had seen an opportunity to dispose sentinels to his service and extended his patronage and protection to the Temple. Under his aegis, Temple trained sentinels were guaranteed their choice of assignment; a practice which generally returned them to their clan. Thus guaranteed the safety of their kinsmen and their likely return, the Clans began to send their youngest sentinels to the Temple again. It was a start in Warren’s campaign to stop the periodic episodes of violence that lay waste to the countryside. 

 

So far the Temple of the Guides had refused to co-operate; even the offer of his personal protection would not change their minds. They remained independent, sending their Gray Guides and Dark Guides where they deemed best, principally to the territories where they followed the old ways. That decision left Warren with little choice but to periodically attack the Temple to procure guides or so he would plead when called on to justify his attacks by other members of the Council.

 

The Panther Clan had little interest in Warren's schemes. It was there for one reason only. They would join the assault because their Sentinel Prime had been pulled to this place and time to bond. The instinct was as old as time itself and, as a Dark Sentinel, Jeme felt the need vibrate in his very soul. The other Lords wanted the Temple's gold and silver plate and whatever guides came their way during their plundering. Jeme wanted only *his* guide, the one that even now was calling to his soul. He was barely aware of the Temple guards he took out in his quest.

 

Two bonded sentinels from the Snake Clan had just succeeded in breaking down the door to the Temple's escape corridor. Their hearing and sight had allowed them to detect weak spots in the wood, which their superior strength had broken through. They headed straight toward a man wearing the colors of a Dark Guide. While guides were not their main objective, a Dark Guide was worth the time to capture. Even as the older of the two sentinels dug for a slave collar, they studied their quarry. The guide was little more than a stripling but he held himself as a warrior and something warned the sentinels that taking him was not going to be easy. They separated to come at him from two sides.

 

The Dark Guide was fast and deadly enough to outweigh their advantage of sentinel senses. As he was attacked, he feinted and then pulled his blade hard across the first man’s belly. The sentinel crumpled to the floor with a scream. His partner lunged… and missed. Off balance, the Dark Guide yet managed to catch him across the head with the hilt of his sword, then followed through with a killing blow, and took to his heels. He shuddered with apprehension. Something was after him… Blaer himself… not just riches. He felt focused intensity brush his barriers and it added speed to his withdrawal. Denis was beside him again and Blaer spared a worried glance for him. Blood trailed sluggishly down the older man’s temple.

 

There! Almost have him. Soon. Soon. The Dark Sentinel’s exultant thoughts leant speed to his feet as he hurtled the bodies of two sentinels and raced through a shattered door in search of the scent that called to him. A flimsy interior door was no barrier and it burst inwards, not even slowing him down. He saw *his* guide trying to lift the bar on one of the exits. Normally, Jeme would not have worried that he might succeed… the bar was heavy for two men and this small man had a bandaged forearm and a sweat-streaked face that told of recent injury and close exhaustion. And while he might have escaped through a narrow waste channel, he obviously would not leave the wounded man lying propped against the wall. Jeme could smell the battle rush that poured off the slender body, the desperation to save his companion that added strength to his efforts. He moved as quickly and as quietly as sentinel talents permitted. 

 

Instinct told Blaer to turn, just as the large, powerfully built sentinel reached out for him. The Dark Guide carefully circled, sword at the ready. This sentinel, unlike the others, did not attack. He was waiting for the Dark Guide to make the first move.

 

Jeme could feel the energy pouring off the man in front of him. The sentinel had never felt anything like it from any guide he had ever met. His mind became crystal clear, the almost animalistic need to bond beginning to become more defined as he started to imprint the guide. This guide was made for him, called to him. His need called to the dark guide.

 

Blaer moved toward him slightly, then pulled back as he fought the instinct to go to the sentinel. This man was not his choice. He was a barbarian, untrained, not his equal, and he would not allow him to claim him. The guide lunged, but the Dark Sentinel was faster. Blaer pulled back and tried a second attack. Each thrust was parried and Blaer knew that the sentinel was reading his body’s responses. Exhaustion began to nibble at the guide’s coordination; the emotions of the dead he had left behind clamored for recognition. If he was to escape this sentinel, it had to be soon.

 

The other members of the Panther Clan had formed a circle around the two combatants making sure that no one else would interfere. They all recognized the desperation in the guide’s final lunge. They watched as, this time, Jeme used his superior strength and height as leverage. Catching his opponent’s blade, he swept it aside long enough to slam the hilt of his sword against the guide's head. He went down hard. The Dark Sentinel dropped his sword and straddled the guide, pinning him to the floor. Deep blue eyes opened dazedly in a surprisingly young face and a fierce determination won over exhaustion and pain. The guide began to buck and thrash as he tried to force the sentinel off him, but it was useless. He was too exhausted, too hurting, too small to overcome the large man holding him captive. Jeme could feel the Dark Guide panic as his arms were pinned above his head.

 

"Get the ropes, now!" the sentinel called out. In spite of the guide’s desperate struggles, he managed to flip the guide onto his stomach. With the help of one of his clan, he bound the strong, slender wrists tightly behind a wiry back, avoiding the sweat-stained bandage as best he could. Only then did he reach over to collect the Dark Guide's sword. Even in the dark corridor he easily picked out the engraved pattern down the center, the guide's life and training in symbol. Jeme had heard of such swords. They were even rarer than Dark Guides themselves and bespoke a high level of talent and training. There was a blank space where, traditionally, the sentinel's spirit image would be etched once the initial bonding was complete and they were one. Jeme felt his pulse quicken at the thought of his symbol on that bloodstained blade.

 

But there was not enough time to bond now by other than force, and Jeme shied away from an action tantamount to raping the Dark Guide's mind. Once they were safely in camp, he would take the time to accustom the guide to his touch, prove to him that their souls were meant to be one. Then and only then would they bond, as equals.

 

Denis had watched the fight through pain-filled eyes. The sentinel lifted his captive to his feet and shoved him into the hands of two of his companions. Icy blue eyes met Denis’ gaze. The sentinel moved over to the wounded teacher and Denis waited for his death. Blaer screamed and redoubled his efforts to break free. Sentinel looked from struggling captive to injured man. “He stayed for you. Loyalty such as that should be honored.” The man held out a hand and one of his companions handed him a sword with a panther etched on the hilt. Denis refused to close his eyes, he would look death in the face. The sword swept down and was planted in the ground. “If any try to take you captive, tell them the Panthers owe you a debt.” 

 

Denis shuddered as he watched his pupil being dragged away, struggling and screaming. He pleaded with the gods to watch over the young guide, to bring him a sentinel worthy of his bond. He had seen the Dark Sentinel resist the urge to force a bonding and prayed it was a measure of the man who had captured young Blaer. Prayed that Blaer might find with this man what he had with his lost sentinel. He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

 

As the members of the Panther Clan made their way back into the courtyard with their prize, Warren himself intercepted them.

“Saemund, the others have almost penetrated the inner sanctum,” Warren said urgently. “You should hurry--I would hate to see my most valued warriors miss their fair share of the loot. Sean here has already filled his pockets with gold." The lord affectionately patted his brother, a sharp-faced man who stood beside him.

 

"Thank you for your concern, my lord," Saemund answered warily, "but we have the only prize we care about. I think you'll agree it's a rich one." At his gesture, the clan members parted so that Warren could see their struggling captive, his rank easily identified by his black tunic.

 

"A Dark Guide! I thought the priests had spirited them all away." Sean circled around to the captive, curiosity tinged with greed in his face. Seeing the calculation in Warren’s face, Saemund quickly moved to deny any claims Warren might make on their prize.  He motioned Jeme forward. The Dark Sentinel transferred his guide to two feayr members of the clan and joined the two lords. “Our Sentinel Prime scented his soul match in the Temple.” His eyes warned Warren that this was a “Sentinel” matter that could not be put aside for political purposes. He acknowledged the magnitude of Warren’s loss with his next words, “He is value enough for the Clan.” Behind them, oblivious to the sub-text of Saemund’s conversation with his brother, Sean reached out and ran a hard, knowing hand over the young guide. There was something about this particular guide…The two feayr were afraid to stop Warren’s brother. And they didn’t have to… with a hidden grin the older  clansman loosened his grip. As expected, the Dark Guide got away from his captors just long enough to knee his tormentor in the groin. A second later, the Dark Sentinel reacted, throwing Sean away from his guide.

 

"Mine…mine!" he snarled, low and deep-throated. He turned back to his guide and reached out, dragging him behind him, protecting him from the perceived threat. Warren raised a hand as Saemund readied himself to defend his sentinel, “No, Saemund, your sentinel was within his rights. Sean knows better than to come between sentinel and guide.” Saemund did not let his relief show. He merely nodded his head and said, “Thank you, Lord Warren.”

 

Jeme was disturbed by Sean's scent on his guide. That would change soon. Though not yet truly bonded, he already considered the young man his guide. The Panther Clan closed around them to protect this important addition to their Sentinel Prime's life.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0

 

It was a hard hour’s hike back to the temporary camp of the Panther clan. Blaer was barely staying on his feet, his stamina fading with the last of the battle rush. He found himself oddly grateful that the sentinel had left him to the care of the two feayr supporting his wavering steps. He could feel the man’s hunger for bonding and wondered at his reprieve. Exhausted, hurting, awash with the deaths he had caused and felt, bonding might happen despite his aversion as frayed nerves sought strength and solace. He was all but dropping when they reached the camp. The war camp was neatly laid out in a defensive circle. Horses, those most precious of beasts, cropped grass amid the tents. Even dazed, Blaer realized that this was not a poor clan if they had horses… and in such numbers. There must have been two dozen of the animals. Well-made leather tents promised protection against the elements. Blaer yearned for their shade, dizzy from combat and the too hot sun.

 

“Ho! We have success!” Saemund’s yell brought the camp’s guards to the center. For this one raid, the clan’s unbonded sentinels had been left to guard the camp. Saemund knew that Jeme had felt his guide and wanted no competition on the field of battle for the man. Now, these sentinels circled the captive.

 

The Dark Guide began to react, feeling their emotions. The unbonded ones were looking at him as if he were the only food in a famine. Just as their attention began to become unbearable, Blaer felt the Dark Sentinel's arm come around him, steadying him. Without thinking, he leaned into the embrace, not even his anger and despair enough to strengthen trembling limbs.

 

Jeme could feel his guide shaking and he gently pulled him along, toward his tent. He needed to bond quickly, but would not hurt the guide to do it. Once in his tent, the sentinel used the knife at his belt to release the exhausted guide's hands.

 

The young man reacted, pushing himself past human limits of endurance and dove for the knife. Sheer surprise let him grab it from the sentinel’s hand. Rolling, he got to his feet and turned to face his captor. Despite his state of near panic, his stance was well balanced, and he held the blade like an experienced knife fighter. If this sentinel thought he was going to bond with him, he was sadly mistaken. One of the guards shadowing the pair tried to help and was slashed; he fell back quickly and ran for help.

 

Jeme carefully followed his opponent’s movements, strangely unafraid. He found that he could read the guide's eyes and body; there was nothing he could do that the sentinel could not follow, even anticipate.

 

The Dark Guide saw the knife go flying as he was pulled to the ground, pain exploding in his injured arm. He blacked out.

 

Jeme sat beside the unconscious man, studying the one who was to be his brother in everything but birth. He felt a twinge of dismay as he recognized the youth of his guide. It had never been his desire to bond with a stripling who had not yet tasted life; to force him to order his life in accordance with the needs of the clan rather than the dictates of his heart. Even asleep, there was a sense of curiosity and wonder about the youth that seemed to fill the compact body with energy. The curious sword that Jeme and Saemund had studied on the hike back had an impressive number of tracings for one so young. Jeme sighed, accepting the blessing and burden the guide represented. They had both come too far to back away now. Already, the guide turned toward Jeme in his sleep.

 

When Blaer came to, he lay on what felt like a pile of furs, a warm blanket covering him. His arm ached, but no worse than it had a few days before. The sentinel was leaning over him, gently wiping the sweat from his face. He smiled and Blaer thought it sat well on the stern face.

 

"Easy, you're going to be all right.” Concerned blue eyes held his. “Your arm wound has opened up again, and you're running a fever. Our healer has prepared a draught to ease the pain. I want you to drink it."

 

Blaer flinched as Jeme lifted his good hand and molded it around the cup he offered. "What's in it?"

 

Jeme closed his eyes, and his nostrils flared slightly as his hand tightened on the guide's. "Wine. Last summer's. It was very good. Honey, from clover with a bit of heather. And meadowsweet. Not too much; Wulfstein knows guides are sensitive." Jeme's eyes opened slowly, and he beamed at the wounded man. "That would have taken me an hour, before. See how much you're helping me, and we've not even bonded."

 

Blaer tried to shove Jeme's hand away, spilling half the contents of the cup. "I'll never bond with you! I'll die first!" Jeme continued to stare at him, almost dreamily. He still held Blaer's hand and in spite of himself, Blaer could sense his emotions, happiness and an almost fearful desire to complete the bond.

 

Curiosity, his worst failing, halted his feeble attempt at rebellion and he suddenly stilled. "Why did you not bond with me before? While I was…" He did not get a chance to finish.

 

"I have always considered that no better than rape, guide. I want us to be equals. I want you to join me willingly." He gently stroked Blaer’s face with the back of his fingers. "Easy, I won't hurt you," he added as Blaer fell back from his touch.

 

The guide's head suddenly pulled back with a yell of "No!" He pushed against Jeme, the move knocking the sentinel off balance. His guide was trying to scramble away from him. Jeme caught his ankle. The guide twisted and kicked out. Jeme only just managed to deflect the blow. With a cry of anger, he lost patience and launched himself at the empath. His weight brought the two of them crashing down. The smaller man screamed his defiance and started to twist like a demon, his elbow connecting with Jeme's ribs and knocking the air from him with a whoosh. The guide rolled away.

 

With a roar, the sentinel dove for him again; this time catching him around the waist, twisting so that he hit the ground first. Then he pinned the smaller man under him, trapping his hands in a tangle of bedclothes and using his body weight to hold him down. One hand wrapped in the thick, curly hair that had pulled free from the leather band. Satisfied that the young man could not escape, he leaned in and sniffed at his guide, tentatively scenting him. Contentment filled him. This guide was his and would soon be completely his.

 

The need to bond was starting to burn through him, but suddenly Jeme stilled. He could see the fear and contempt in the guide's eyes. That would not do. With his free hand, he began to gently pet and stroke his guide's face and shoulders. He made a soft cooing sound, calming him down. The guide's breath was coming in harsh pants, which gradually slowed under the sentinel's touch. Instincts older than history kicked in and the guide unconsciously slipped into pliant acceptance.

 

Gently, Jeme slid one arm around his guide’s narrow shoulders and the other under his knees and lifted him up and back to the furs. He laid his guide down carefully. He reached a hand toward the healing injury, anxious to make sure it had not opened again in the scuffle. As he grasped the wounded left wrist and began to turn it, the stripling reached toward him with his other hand. The fingers were shaking more from the nearness of the sentinel than the effects of the fever. With this first voluntary touch, Jeme felt the fight go out of the slender body and joy went through him.

 

Blaer’s mind reeled from the events of the day. He was so tired, so hurting that he could scarcely think. But one thing stood out in his memory, this man’s gentleness and honor. He had met every challenge with consideration for the guide’s well-being. He had even fought off his obvious need to bond until Blaer could regain his balance. The Dark Guide felt his empathic controls fraying, felt the emotions of the men in the camp as they battered against his weakening barriers. Desperate, he reached out a tentative tendril of empathy and found strength and integrity and… caring. Maybe this sentinel was meant for him. Maybe his dreams of travel and study were just that, the dreams of a boy. Maybe his capture was fate’s decree that he put aside childish dreams and take on a man’s work.

 

Cupping his hand around the sentinel's cheek, he gently pulled the stern face down so that he could look directly into icy blue eyes. He extended his mind, just as he had been taught, touching that of the sentinel. The last of his resistance bled away as realized he could not escape the Dark Sentinel. Nor did he want to any more.

 

The guide’s acceptance triggered the release of his unique scent, which only a sentinel could detect. Jeme’s nostrils flared as he inhaled it, the sweetest scent he had ever known and the only one he would respond to from now on. As he bonded with the guide, he reached a hand out and carded it through the long hair, recording every variation of its color and texture. He read acceptance in the deep blue eyes which gave him the courage to continue.

 

He pulled the blanket backs and slowly began to undress his guide. The understanding in the deep blue eyes, the relaxation in the slender body, told Jeme that the young guide realized there was nothing carnal in his actions. Jeme despised those sentinels who used their guides to sate their baser appetites and, somehow, his guide recognized that.  Still, Jeme gave him a reassuring smile and an explanation. "That bastard Sean. His scent is on you as is that of my clansmen. Tonight, I do not want anyone's scent on you but mine. Mine!" He poured warm water into a bowl and added herbs and spices, then used it to gently wipe the guide's body. Slowly, he ghosted his fingertips over his guide's face, his sight tracing every curve and plane, down his throat, across his shoulders, then down his arms to his hands, where his touch picked up the very pattern of his fingertips. He could feel the blood hammering through his guide's veins.

 

He carefully felt the wound on the guide's left arm, fingertips gently skimming over the healing flesh. He could not feel any heat coming from it and grunted in satisfaction. “There is no heat; it should heal cleanly.” A curly head nodded in agreement.  His hands moved on to his guide's hips and down his body, rolling him on his stomach so the ritual could begin again on his backside. He finished by resting his hand for a moment on his guide's shoulder, then moved away briefly to collect one of his cloaks.

 

As he helped his guide into it, his hand return to cup the young face in joyous wonder, smiling as the smaller man turned his head into the touch. The bonding was well begun, and they were content, and exhausted. Jeme lay down on the pile of furs and carefully pulled his guide to him. His guide--two words that meant the world to him. He felt the solid body against him, the strong arms reaching for him, the curly head resting perfectly where his neck and shoulder met. He breathed in the scent of his guide, sweet ginger musk overlaid with herbs, without even exerting his senses. He had never felt so perfectly and effortlessly in control of his talents.

 

Then he felt the link burn into his head and, for the first time, he could feel the emotions of his guide. There was courage and tenacity there, matched by a bright intellect and a driving curiosity. Under it all lay a deep well of compassion and a fierce need to protect. But right now, the younger man was scared and hurting. He had not fought the bonding but it had taken an act of faith to trust himself to a stranger. Jeme tightened his grip on the smaller man.

 

"You are mine, guide, and no one will hurt you. My partner, my guide, my life."

 

"Claimed and marked, sentinel," the guide intoned.

 

"Claimed and marked, guide." The vow was returned.

 

With the pledge complete, Blaer finally relaxed. As he extended his thoughts through the link for the first time, he knew with certainty that his sentinel could never lie to him. He felt along the link as the doors to his sentinel's emotions opened to his touch. He shuddered as he felt his own barriers vanish. The pathway links had been blown open with the bonding, and for the moment were as tender as raw wounds, but they would heal. In the meantime he would need the shielding his sentinel’s presence provided until he could rebuild them, even stronger than before.

 

Jeme started to pull back to leave the tired guide to his sleep but stopped as he heard a sound of distress.

 

"It's all right, I'm not leaving you." He reached back just enough to catch hold of the blanket and pull it over them both. "Your barriers--how are they?"

 

He could feel the breath of his guide against his skin. "They are all gone." He almost sobbed those four words.

 

"I am here, to shield you until you are strong, my Dark Guide." He knew the warrior priests were stronger than normal guides, but that bonding drained them even more. The emotions of a Dark Sentinel could only be channeled by a Dark Guide; they would burn out an ordinary guide quickly, overloading him. This guide would have no such trouble. He was Jeme's perfect partner.

 

Jeme smiled in absolute happiness. "My name is Jeme, Sentinel Prime of the Panther Clan." He gently stroked his guide's back, soothing him. Only sentinel hearing could have caught the reply. "My name is Blaer, Guide Prime of the Panther Clan.” Jeme's heart sang. His guide had accepted his place at the sentinel's side. He tightened his hold on Blaer, which allowed him to effortlessly send his senses out to probe the area around them. Hearing the steady footfalls of the guards, content that they were safe, he wrapped his senses around his guide and drifted to sleep.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

Blaer continued to sleep all the next day as camp was broken and the trek back to Saemund’s territory begun. The clan leader himself passed the small guide to the sentinel after Jeme had mounted his horse. For three days they traveled, seldom seeing Jeme and never seeing the guide except when they rode - the young man sleeping securely in the arms of his sentinel.

 

They made haste toward their home camp. Jeme was beginning to worry about the deep exhaustion that still held his guide and needed to get him home where he could rest. He could barely wake long enough to swallow the liquids that Jeme held to his lips. They arrived late the night of the third day and the Dark Sentinel disappeared into his tent, his Dark Guide cradled in his arms.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

Saemund looked up from the fire and saw the pair come out of the sentinel’s tent. He had hoped for more than a day’s grace to prepare his clansmen for the Dark Guide that had come among them. But the young man who had slept like the dead on the trek home was standing behind Jeme as if he belonged there. //Ah, that one is never going to be where I expect him to be.// The irritable thought was fleeting when he saw the contentment that radiated from his friend.

 

 The Dark Guide was dressed in the black robes of his calling. A warrior priest, Saemund thought irritably. It was all they needed. He had seen his kind at work when he had served as bodyguard to the former leader of the clan at a Council Meeting. One of the lords had lost his temper and pulled a sword on the guide's Sentinel Prime. The sentinel had not moved, but the dark clad man behind him had. The lord was killed quickly and efficiently and the guide had wiped his blade on the dead man's shirt as if he had merely gutted an animal. His gaze had fixed for an instant on Saemund, and he had seen death incarnate. It was well known that, although they were powerful, Dark Guides were notoriously hard to command, especially when their sentinels were in danger. They listened only to their sentinels; only they could control them. Still, it was what Jeme needed that mattered.

 

For a moment Saemund looked fondly at the sentinel. When they had first met, Jeme had been a trained warrior but a loner. He had been critically injured in a fight when he had suddenly fallen into the dark void all sentinels feared. Only Saemund's sword had kept him alive. After the battle, he had brought Jeme home where his own wife had nursed the sentinel back to health. Saemund had been able to win Jeme's trust, and had found in turn a man worthy of his friendship. Shaking himself from memory, Saemund gestured Jeme to a seat at the fire.

 

The Dark Guide knelt down as Jeme took the seat next to Saemund. He sat so that his back was against his sentinel's knees, maintaining as much contact with him as he could.

 

"Saemund, this is Blaer, my guide," Jeme began formally. "Blaer, this is Saemund, the leader of the clan."

 

"A feayr," Blaer said harshly, looking up at the tall, sandy-haired man. Saemund recognized the Temple word for a non-sentinel. He thought it meant "unsensing."

 

"A good leader." Jeme's hand rested on Blaer's shoulders, allowing his fingers to massage the tense muscles. Blaer sat with his injured arm resting on his lap. To Saemund he seemed barely aware of anything beyond Jeme's touch. He wondered whether it was the effect of drugs or the bonding, or whether he was going to have to get used to being ignored in Jeme's presence.

 

"I'm glad you've found your guide at last, Jeme," Saemund said. "But, I admit I'm not happy about bringing a trained assassin into a camp full of my people. Am I going to have to post a guard over the cook pot every night?"

 

Jeme lifted a hand from Blaer's shoulder to make a dismissing gesture. "Dark Guides aren't just killers, Saemund, they're healers too. They might use poisons to remove anyone who threatens their sentinels, but they can use those same herbs to give back life. As empaths, they feel the pain of the sick, so naturally they want to use their skills to ease it. Blaer will defend this clan just as strongly as I will."

 

"With one important exception," Saemund finished. "'The only safe guide is a bonded guide,'" he quoted. "There's a reason people say that."

 

"You have to trust the bond. We're one now, two parts of a whole. With Blaer's help I can extend my senses much further, without fear of being lost in the darkness. In return, I protect Blaer from the emotions of those around him. He has access to my thoughts, so he will learn, through me, that the people of the clan are my friends and will be his."

 

Saemund took a hard look at the young man that knelt so still under Jeme’s hands. He seemed to wilt under Saemund's gaze and shrank bank against his sentinel. He wondered whether his own upset emotions were causing the guide's distress and felt a bit guilty. Still, he owed it to his people to make sure they would be safe. Saemund’s face grew thoughtful. Jeme sat silently, one hand moving gently over a tangle of dark curls until the guide was drowsy.

 

"What about Offa, Thorkel, William, Robert?" Saemund named a few of the clan's unbonded sentinels. "Won't they be sniffing around him like dogs with fresh meat?"

 

Jeme felt his anger stir at the thought of the named unbonded sentinels around Blaer, but he damped it down so that it would not pass through the link and alarm Blaer. "It wouldn't do them any good. If an unbonded sentinel ever tried to take my place and force a bond, there might be some connection but it would never be strong enough to hold a Dark Guide. Sooner or later, he'd fall on his sword, or take poison, or give poison. He's mine-he now knows it, and they know it. Mine!" Jeme finished with surprising heat.

 

Jeme’s emotion seemed to rouse Blaer, who began groping around for something, becoming distressed when he couldn't find it. "Where is it? I need it, Jeme, to defend you. And I want to show you…the wolf…please, Jeme, give it back."

 

"Do you have his swords?" Jeme knew that Blaer would not rest until the sword had been returned to him. He needed to be able to protect his sentinel, but the sword had symbolic importance beyond being a mere weapon. "Please. It's upsetting him to be without it. He can't do much damage with it with that wound on his arm."

 

Saemund studied the young man who was now whimpering and clutching at the sleeve of Jeme's robe. It had been a rough few days for the guide, and Saemund felt sympathy for the young man who had been torn away from the life he knew and brought to live among strangers. He nodded and went to fetch the sheathed weapon from where it rested a few yards away, propped against a tree trunk. He handed it to Blaer, who stroked it distractedly for a few moments.

 

Suddenly Blaer rose to his feet in one fluid movement. He took the sword in one hand and rotated it, the sheathe flying off. His other hand moved into place on the hilt. Jeme sensed his heartbeat increasing and barely got his own sword up in time to deflect the powerful blow aimed at Saemund. The leader fell backward, scrambling away from the fire, as Jeme said firmly, "Blaer, NO!" Saemund recognized the same stern but kind tone he used with his own son. His own son, however, was not a homicidal warrior-priest who wanted him dead.

 

There was another clash of steel. "Blaer, I said NO! The rest of you stay back!" He yelled the warning as other members of the clan rushed to Saemund's defense.

Saemund watched as the Dark Guide continued to wave the sword in his direction, shifting on the balls of his feet as he planned his next attack. "He has to die, sentinel. There can only be one Sentinel Prime."

 

"Blaer, he's a feayr. I told you that. Saemund is the leader of the clan, and my friend. He will be yours, too, if you let him live.” A quick grin teased the corners of the stern mouth. “Trust me, it's for all our benefit that he leads the clan. Now sheathe your sword."

Jeme watched Blaer's gaze burn into Saemund for a moment, muscles tensing. Then the sword slid back into the sheath.

 

"I'm sorry, clan leader," Jeme said, stepping carefully in front of Blaer. "The bond between us is new and still raw. Blaer needs to understand that my loyalty to you doesn't threaten my bond to him." He patted Blaer's shoulder reassuringly. "Better it should happen here than when you're in your tent alone at night."

 

Only when Saemund nodded his understanding did Jeme relax, reaching a hand out and drawing his guide to him. He spoke to Blaer in low tones until the curly head nodded.

 

"Let's try this again. Saemund, this is my guide, Blaer. Blaer, Saemund is the head of the Panther Clan, a non-sentinel, and our leader by common consent."

 

"As you wish, sentinel." The Dark Guide locked eyes with his sentinel before he said grudgingly.

 

Jeme gently eased his guide down by the fire, and then pulled him back against his chest, allowing the empath to draw strength from him. He felt the tug at the back of his mind as the pathway between them opened.

 

Saemund watched the young guide carefully as he looked from his sentinel to Saemund and back again. He shifted, uncomfortable under the level, overbright gaze of the guide. Jeme had never questioned his place as leader, but then Jeme had been late developing his senses, as Dark Sentinels always were. But the guide was trained from birth to take his place at his sentinel's side, to die protecting him if need be. The guide watched his back in combat and guarded against treachery in time of peace, just as the sentinel protected his guide from the emotions and designs of others, especially other sentinels.

 

A powerful bonding, but a dangerous one, Saemund thought. Under the old ways, the Sentinel Prime led a clan, aided by the wisdom of his shaman. Or, if they had no sentinels, a feayr would lead. Few of the feayr clans lasted long against those with the sentinel advantage. But here was a feayr taking the leader’s role in a mixed clan, something new in the world. He doubted that Blaer was convinced of his right to lead, but had only acquiesced to the will of his sentinel. Some time in the future, when Blaer was stronger, he would have to confront the guide again. Until then, he would deal carefully with the younger man. Dark Guides knew more ways of killing than he could count, and there were stories of ancient Dark Arts still known to the Temple of the Guides.

 

Saemund forced himself to relax. He understood why Jeme had asked him to return the sword to his guide. Jeme had suspected what Blaer would try to do, and wanted to be there to control it, and make sure the guide understood that Saemund was a friend. He took a steadying breath and gestured for the rest of the clan to draw round. It was time to take the first step toward accepting the Dark Guide as a member of the Clan.

 

"My friends, we have something to celebrate tonight. Our Sentinel Prime has finally found a guide. Let us ask the powers above to bless them, and let us make Blaer feel welcome as a member of the Panther Clan. After--" he caught a gleam of warning in Jeme's eye, "--after he's had a few days to recover.” He amended. “I suggest you take my advice and don't learn the hard way, as I did." The men laughed at that, gladly raising their wineskins in tribute to the pair. This day had brought happiness to their sentinel and was sure to bring great success to the clan.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Simon reached for his coffee and was surprised to find that it had grown cold. The story had been compelling, all the more so because of the strange parallels to Jim and Blair's present lives. The gentle and private ritual between the ancient sentinel and guide made him think with regret of the stressful bonding Jim and Blair had endured. It seemed the modern system had forgotten--or purposely chose to ignore--what seemed to Simon like a natural balance in abilities between sentinel and guide.

 

Jim was a Dark Sentinel. Did unearthing these memories mean that Blair was coming into his own as a Dark Guide? If so the GDP and anyone else in his path better look out.

 

As Simon rose to put the manuscript safely away, a sheet of colored paper fell from between its pages and landed at his feet. He picked it up and saw his own name at the top of the page. The handwriting was Blair's.

 

Simon--

 

I didn't mention this in the story because I didn't want to cloud your judgment. But Jim and I think it's important that you know, even though it may freak you out. Please don't be angry or think that I'm making this up. Jim and I both agree that it's as true as anything we have ever experienced as we've remembered our past lives. We both agree who the leader of the Panther Clan is, even though he looked and sounded different in our memories. But there's no mistaking the impression he left on us. Simon, the leader of the clan was you.

 

Simon knocked the cup from the chair arm. How could his life have anything to do with this Nordic clan leader from the past? The answer came back even as he tried to avoid it. Everything. Saemund had also tried to let sentinel and guide live their lives not as weapons to be bought and sold, but as free men whose abilities could be harnessed to protect and serve others. Simon wondered whether his counterpart had succeeded.

 

Simon looked at the coffee spilling from the shards of the cup on the floor. He might not have Blair's gift for storytelling, but at the moment the shattered cup seemed like a pretty good metaphor for his life.

 

 

 

Dark Guide II

 

Simon Banks put both hands on his lower back and tried to knead out the knot that always seemed to form there during the day. All told, things had been quiet--by PD standards, anyway. If he left now, he could beat the traffic. As he rose to grab his coat, he saw the package on the corner of the desk. Funny, he couldn’t remember anyone bringing it in, and most people knew better than to enter his office without his permission. Then he saw the handwriting on the front: Blair’s. Well, that explained that… Blair was not most people. In the privacy of his office Simon allowed himself a grin, he might even go so far as to say that the kid was in a class by himself.

 

From the weight of the brown paper wrapped parcel, he knew it had to be another chapter in Blair’s narrative of his and Jim’s memories of a past life in which they were also guide and sentinel. Simon’s interest had become more than academic when the anthropologist revealed that Simon himself had a role in those memories. He turned his desk light back on as curiosity won over a fast trip home. The last time Blair had left such a package for him it had contained a bombshell. Simon himself had featured in the dreams… visions… whatever… as the blond, blue-eyed Nordic leader of the clan to which the Dark Sentinel had brought his Dark Guide.  It looked like he wouldn’t be beating rush hour after all.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jeme tucked his guide behind him and waved over two young warriors who had been watching them with curiosity from across the clearing.

 

“I want you to meet my guide. Blaer, these are Bryn and Hender. They watch my back in battle.”

 

The two young men shifted slightly under the measuring look of the Dark Guide. “I guess that will be your job now, Blaer,” Bryn offered. “You’re lucky. Jeme’s the best we’ve got.” He gave Jeme a friendly slap on the shoulder. The harmless camaraderie got an unexpected reaction.

 

“This sentinel is mine!” Blaer snarled the words, as if offering a challenge to them. He reached over his shoulder, his hand fisting around the sword hilt.

 

Jeme made a lightening-fast grab for Blaer’s upper arm, careful of the guide’s injury but holding fast so Blaer could not draw the blade.

 

“Easy, Blaer. You are my guide,” he stated. His voice was calm, but his arm trembled with the effort of holding Blaer still. “These are my feayr friends. In my… your clan, all are equal, sentinel, guide, feayr. All can be friends. Join with me, and look at them through my eyes.” The guide lost his combativeness at Jeme’s words.

 

Jeme felt the tug at the back of his mind and allowed his trust in Bryn and Hender to surge through him. In return, he felt his guide’s uncertainty and instinctively tightened his grip on the young man’s waist to make him feel more secure. Blaer exuded so much competence that he kept forgetting how young his guide was, how different everything must appear to him. His concern grew as he felt their connection start to fall away instead of growing stronger.  Blaer sagged into his supportive hold. Whatever was wrong, it needed to be dealt with in private.

 

“I’m sorry Bryn, Hender,” Jeme managed to mutter before his attention fell wholly on his guide. He tightened his grip on Blaer and half-walked, half-carried the younger man to their tent. Blaer was now making soft whimpering noises, none coherent except for an almost continuous “help me.”

 

Jeme gently laid him down on the pile of sleeping furs and quickly gathered others to cover him. Blaer’s eyes were half closed, his face ashen. Shaking hands kept reaching out for something… or someone. Jeme knew that he had to get into full body contact with his guide to ease his feeling of abandonment. His mind was spinning with possible reasons for Blaer’s collapse. Was it because he had not allowed Blaer to protect him? Was he not settling into his role as Jeme’s Guide as well as it had seemed he was? Had Bryn and Hender thought something that had hurt the younger man? No, that last he did not believe… Jeme shook his head; reasons were not important now. All that mattered was that his guide needed him.

 

Jeme quickly undressed Blaer and then himself. He slid under the covers and pulled the unresponsive body against him, drawing Blaer’s head against the side of his neck. He wrapped his arms around Blaer’s shivering body; the shaking was getting worse. He pulled him even closer as he did not feel connected to Blaer. He pushed down his fears, they were a burden his guide didn’t need.

 

“It’s all right, my guide, you are safe,” Jeme whispered softly in his ear. “I will not let anyone hurt you. Please come back to me. Please, I cannot lose you now.” His voice was almost pleading.

 

In desperation, the sentinel gently pushed against his connection to his guide’s mind, but got no response. He did it again with more force, scared that he would hurt the younger man but too worried to hold back. A painful mewling sound came from his guide. Jeme gripped him tightly, gently rocking him back and forth. Slowly Blaer’s keening became softer. Finally, there was a tentative push against Jeme’s mind, and he welcomed it, opening his mind as fully as he could, offering unconditional support. His guide was slowly responding to him again. Only his sentinel hearing could have picked up the words whispered softly against his shoulder. Blaer was rambling; mumbling fragments that made no sense to the listening sentinel, words of pain and death and abandonment. They were more emotions than distinct thoughts. Blaer began to keen again in distress. Jeme pulled him even tighter into his embrace, still rocking him.

 

Suddenly his guide’s eyes flew open, wide with fear, and he tried to push away. Jeme rolled on top of him, pinning him down with the weight of his body, until Blaer’s struggles slowed. Tears ran down the guide’s face; Jeme could smell the salt and see the tiny beads of moisture matting Blaer’s long eyelashes.

 

Jeme was completely at a loss. He found it hard to understand emotions and was comfortable with only two, happiness and anger. Guides, on the other hand, had deep and complex emotions, an outgrowth of their empathic ability. But nothing he could think of would explain the dark distress that tormented his guide.

 

Blaer had fought him like a wildcat at first, but after their initial bonding Jeme had thought he had accepted his destiny and was settling into his new life. Jeme knew that eventually the young Dark Guide would come to be accepted and treasured by the Panther Clan and thought he had passed that conviction onto Blaer. But suddenly, with no reason that Jeme could see, his guide was delirious with grief.  The sentinel had no idea how to help him but to let his guide feel his deep concern and offer his protection. He started to shift his weight off Blaer, hoping to coax him into sleep.

 

Just then he felt a slender hand reach up and hook around his neck. The smaller man pulled himself up, so that he was in skin-to-skin contact, the incoherent sounds he made mere whispers in the sentinel’s ear.

 

Through their link, Jeme felt revulsion, pain and the fear of death. And finally, he realized what must be happening. Blaer was a Dark Guide, able to kill only because his training allowed him to shunt aside the agonies of those he battled. Later, if he survived the conflict, he could deal safely with those emotions, those feelings. But Blaer had moved from combatant to captive to clansman in the span of three short days. Three days during which he suffered all the emotional and physical upheaval of a guide in bonding. Bonding which left him with neither the time nor the strength nor the focus to expel the demons lurking in his mind. He had left it too late, and was drowning in swirling emotions that pulled him into the void. The shaman aspect of the Dark Guide needed to cleanse his soul of the deaths of the sentinels at the Temple but there was something preventing it. Their bond was not yet fully realized.

 

The Dark Sentinel in Jeme now came to the forefront to answer the need of his Dark Guide. With a growl, Jeme pushed hard against what felt like a wall in his mind, blocking the forming bond. Blaer’s mind was not as open to him as it had been before. He pressed even harder and Blaer howled like the wolf engraved on his sword. Jeme raised his head and roared in echo, low and deep-throated. Then he lowered his head and looked down, Dark Sentinel at Dark Guide.

 

A frantically beating heart and gasping lungs calmed as sentinel lay heavily atop his guide and the younger man unconsciously brought their body rhythms into alignment. When two hearts beat as one, the linkage opened as wide as it ever had. Finally, battle lust, fear and regret, the last emotions of those Blaer had killed, and the young shaman’s own horror at taking life, flooded through the sentinel where they could with them together. Within the sentinel’s unwavering protection, like rain off a roof, they bounced harmlessly away. The young shaman sighed in barely conscious relief.

 

Sensing the relaxation in the slender form beneath him as the emotional storm passed, the sentinel rolled onto his back. He pulled his guide with him and felt the warmth of the smaller man blanketing him. He smiled as Blaer snuggled against him, as trusting as if he was, in truth, a younger brother seeking comfort from his elder. He reached to tug the covers up, careful not to disturb the man he gathered into his arms.

 

Sleepy blue eyes looked at him and his guide yawned like a pet wild cat. A drowsy, “Jeme… my sentinel” conveyed gratitude and acceptance before Blaer fell into sleep. Their connection was complete again, the link humming with life. Jeme sighed in relief.  He had managed to pull his guide out of the void that could have killed him. He now knew what few understood, that Dark Guides were fragile as well as fierce. As Blaer’s Dark Sentinel, Jeme vowed that such an overload would never happen again.

 

Too full of happiness to sleep just yet, Jeme stared up into the darkened recesses of the tent. It was larger than most used by the Panther Clan, large enough to hold the households of two men. The women of the clan had made the tent for the use of their Sentinel Prime during the summer seasons. Dyed patterns of a sun in lunar eclipse symbolized the melding of dark and light, the joining of sentinel with guide. It was here that they would spend the next five days in isolation to explore and deepen their bond and learn each other as people, not just as sentinel and guide.  Blaer’s even breathing against his throat filled the sentinel with contentment and Jeme relaxed into sleep.

 

Some time later Jeme awoke and a flash of fear rushed through him as he realized he was alone in bed. Hearing found and focused on the heartbeat he now knew better than his own and he rolled onto his stomach to join sight to sound.

 

His guide had moved away from the pile of sleeping furs and was sitting cross-legged on the ground. Although his eyes were closed in shamanic meditation, Jeme knew he could feel his sentinel’s eyes on him. Their link rippled like a current of water running between them.

 

Deep blue eyes opened and locked on light blue. At Jeme’s unspoken invitation, Blaer moved back to the pallet of fur, picking up his sword on the way. He sat next to the man with whom he was forming a bond stronger than family, stronger than marriage. It was time to explain to the sentinel the meaning of the sword that a Dark Guide who was Shaman carried. 

 

“I need to tell you about the sword, Jeme.” The sentinel could detect a small tremor in his guide’s voice. He reached a hand up and laid it against the side of Blaer’s face in acceptance.

 

“Claimed and marked sentinel,” he intoned, acknowledging that he belonged to the guide.

 

“Claimed and marked guide.” Blaer repeated the vow, granting ownership of his soul to the sentinel.

 

The final ritual of the claiming, that which bound their minds and souls, would take place later in front of the whole Panther Clan. But until their two souls became one, they each found comfort in the age-old vows of bonding.

 

Dropping his hand, Jeme pulled the covers back in invitation and his guide slid into their warmth. He hesitated for a moment, not sure if the touch that had been welcome when Blaer was in pain would be resented now that the guide was in control again. But when the sentinel opened his arms, Blaer went into them as if coming home, his head resting on the larger man’s chest, under his chin. Jeme could feel the pounding of his guide’s heart.

 

“Tell me about the sword, Blaer. It is obviously important to you, and what is important to you is important to me.” The empath could feel the truth of the sentinel’s words. It gave him the courage to speak.

 

“My sword bears the image of my spirit guide, the wolf. Next to it, we will engrave your spirit guide since we are now one and the same. If I were ever to lose you…” Blaer’s arms tightened, “…I would kill myself with this sword, to join you in the next life. Sentinel and guide cannot be parted.” He stated it as a matter of fact.

 

The thought of Blaer dying caused Jeme instant distress, but he quickly kept it from seeping through their link. He’d keep hidden in his heart the plans he would make to ensure that if he fell in battle, his guide would live. Perhaps he would ask Bryn and Hender to watch over him, perhaps Saemund could formally adopt him…but at the moment, he knew Blaer was too brittle to be argued with. He smiled at his guide, who returned the smile brightly, thinking that Jeme had been pleased by his words.

 

“My spirit guide? I’ve never seen one.”

 

Blaer shook his head and grinned as if Jeme were teasing him. “Of course you have. All sentinels see their spirit guides during their training…” His voice trailed off as he realized Jeme must never have received formal training. No wonder he had brought Blaer among unbonded sentinels and feayr so soon after the bonding. It wasn’t uncaring, it was unknowing. The last of Blaer’s reservations melted away.

 

What Jeme had done had been instinctive. Blaer had been trained to understand the levels of the bonding. Now that he was at peace, he would bring order to his sentinel’s chaos. This explained the raw emotions that his sentinel had channeled into him-- trained sentinels had more control. Still, there had been comfort in the aggressive protectiveness that Jeme had radiated through their link.

 

"Tomorrow, I will prepare a drink for you and you will see your spirit guide. You will know it and draw strength from it.” Now that the matter was settled to his satisfaction, he nestled back against his sentinel. The warm ministrations of the large hands seeking out tense muscles lulled him into sleep.

 

Jeme sent out a sensory net to protect them both. He had no fear of falling into the black void now that his guide was here. Even asleep, he anchored him. With a contented sigh, he settled back and joined the younger man in sleep.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0

 

Saemund pushed the flap of the tent back and smiled at what he beheld. The bonding was going well by the look of things. The guide was curled around his sentinel, whose head was resting on his guide’s chest, one arm draped around his waist.

 

Suddenly, Blaer’s eyes opened and fixed on Saemund. They were deep blue and blazing with instinctive hostility. Blaer’s hand reached out and grabbed the sword by the bed. Saemund moved fast and managed to trap the blade with a foot.

 

“Guide, I…” Before he could finish, the guide exploded from the pallet. Saemund’s feet were knocked from under him and Blaer was on top of him. Somehow, the young man had managed to grab one of Jeme’s knives. It slashed perilously near to Saemund’s exposed throat when a large hand caught the guide’s wrist and stopped the blow. Blaer screamed in anger and frustration as a strong arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him backward. Still intent on stopping the intruder, he lashed out and a bare foot connected with Saemund’s chest.

 

Saemund scrambled onto his hands and knees as he watched the sentinel struggle to control the guide. Wide blue eyes were blazing at the chieftain, and he was screaming at his sentinel to let him kill the man in front of him.

 

“Blaer, STOP IT NOW!” Jeme threw his other arm around his guide as Saemund backed a safe distance away, panting as he tried to regain his breath. Jeme leaned in to whisper quietly, but distinctly, into Blaer’s ear. “I told you this man was my friend, and our leader, and you promised to show him respect. You will not go back on your word to me!”

 

Jeme’s words were echoed by the feelings that came through the bond--the trust he felt toward both Saemund and Blaer; his need to have them be friends. The guide nodded slightly to show it was safe for the sentinel to release him. Jeme kept an arm draped around his shoulders but otherwise made no effort to restrain him.

 

“Why did you come here, Saemund? You know the rules.” Jeme frowned, until the bonding was complete the guide would be ruled by emotion not reason. Everyone and everything a danger to the sentinel of whom he was becoming part.

 

“It’s been a long time since our clan worried about rules, Jeme.” Saemund defended his actions. “Fancy training or not, this boy has to learn to take orders from me and to act like a member of this clan, not some half-tame wolf who bites anyone who comes near his master.” Saemund’s voice had dropped from a shout to a half-whisper as he realized that Blaer had stopped struggling and seemed to be listening intently.

 

“And that’s exactly what he’ll be, if you give him, give us, time.” Jeme smiled at his small defender, a beautiful smile that Saemund could not remember ever seeing on the face of the grim sentinel. “Blaer is my guide, my life. Once he believes that as strongly as I do, he’ll use his skills to protect me and the clan and nothing more.”

 

“So I just wait a few days for this miracle?” Saemund scoffed. “Forgive me, Jeme, but I find that hard to believe. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just a feayr who’s standing between you and your rightful place in this clan. Prove to me you can control him, or send him away.”

 

Jeme remembered Blaer’s smiling promise to kill himself and pulled him closer. “Impossible. We are one now. We would die without each other,” he denied Saemund’s order. But the thought of leaving the Panther Clan--the only family he had ever known--was unthinkable as well. There must be another way.

 

He looked into Blaer’s eyes, wondering whether he dared ask for such a sacrifice when the young guide was still vulnerable from the emotional catharsis that had him shaking in his sentinel’s arms. The link between them was wide open and Blaer frowned, then sighed as he sensed Jeme’s conflicting emotions. Jeme knew that Blaer sensed what he was suffering, and he hoped that knowledge would help him to comply with what he would ask.

 

“Blaer, Saemund needs to know, once and for all, that you’ll accept his leadership. Show him that you mean what you said before. Present your sword to him and swear fealty.”

 

Blaer eyes widened with shock, thinking for a moment that Jeme was casting him off and giving him to Saemund. But the link only held warm support and encouragement. Jeme reached down and picked up Blaer’s sword, which had been kicked aside in the scuffle. Silently he handed it back to its owner, pleading with his eyes and his heart that Blaer would obey him in this.

 

Blue eyes met and held blue eyes as Blaer accepted the sword from Jeme, holding the hilt in his right hand and supporting the blade with his left. Despite his conflicting emotions and the blatant disregard of Temple teachings, his sentinel needed him to do this. He would do this. Slowly he turned to face Saemund, and knelt gracefully before him. He slightly raised the hilt toward Jeme’s leader before speaking carefully,