CHAPTER 6

It was a piece of the Goddess's own luck that Jahir was too busy with his own thoughts to be as attentive to Vasiht'h's as he would normally be... because Vasiht'h didn't particularly want to share. His head was a tumult, breathless and full of noise, one precipitated by the sudden feeling that his closest friend in all the worlds—closer than that, a brother in everything but blood—was about to pass into a dangerous arena that Vasiht'h was barred from entering.

Vasiht'h was many things, and a fool was—he hoped—not one of them. Not often, anyway. And he recognized the complex and bloody knotwork that Lisinthir had yanked up from Jahir's subconscious: not just for what it was, but for the many potential traumas its secrets and denials promised when exposed. He and Jahir had seen similar complexities in other patients, and inevitably referred those clients to one of the handful of trusted practitioners they knew who specialized in sexual dysfunction.

The irony of it was that dysfunction in the Alliance was usually a product of an internal narrative at war with external responsibilities or mores. There were so many ways to be normal... and none of them, not a single one of them, would matter to Jahir. Jahir had to be normal by his own standards, and nothing about the mess Vasiht'h had glimpsed in that room would ever be even close. Had they been home, Vasiht'h would have gotten his partner to one of their colleagues himself, because this was one subject on which he could give no advice; not just because he was Glaseah, but because he loved Jahir, and there was no untangling his own fears and needs from his friend's.

But they were not home. They were here, in the middle of nowhere, without access to so much as a communication channel they could have used to talk through the problem with a trained and licensed professional. And they were as good as yoked to the client who had fomented the crisis, a man to whom they had a duty as the only people who could see to his care. A man who had done more for the Alliance than just about anyone Vasiht'h could name, and who deserved their best efforts.

The Glaseah taught that the breath of the Goddess was Her divine inspiration, Her call to make, to think, to create the world. They also taught that there were moments where She held Her breath, and until now Vasiht'h had never experienced Her withdrawal, the way he felt it in this moment as an absence of something vital and omnipresent.

Vasiht'h had never felt quite so alone in his life.

"What now?" he asked in the corridor, as they left the clinic.

"Now, he rests, or returns to his room. And we... we do the same, I imagine. I can start the analysis on the sample when we wake." Jahir shook his head minutely, more a flinch than a gesture. "I lose the time here, without the light changing the way it does at home. But it feels late. I don't want to do anything intellectually rigorous while feeling so depleted."

"I wouldn't mind resting." Vasiht'h resisted the urge to rub his arms, knowing it was his partner's impulse and not his. "I wouldn't mind not being here right now, actually."

Jahir's look was rueful, but sympathetic. That the Eldritch shared the feeling made Vasiht'h feel better. Their interactions were oscillating between closeness and uncomfortable distance; the only thing that made the latter bearable was knowing that it was the result not of Jahir pushing the Glaseah away, but of Jahir pushing himself away... from everything. There was a bewilderment in him that felt like a shock victim's, as if he still wasn't sure what was going on.

They had not reached their quarters when they were intercepted.

"Oh, aletsen," Borden said, her ears flagging. "I'm so glad I found you. Can you spare a moment?"

Jahir said nothing, so Vasiht'h offered, "Sure? Should we go somewhere? Our room is... right behind you."

"That'll be fine," she said, and backed up so they could enter first.

Once they'd all settled, Vasiht'h continued, "What can we do for you?"

"This is a piece of luck," the Seersa said. "That you're here and you're xenotherapists. This kind of situation, with the ship... it's really hard on a small crew, especially since we've lost some people. Normally I'd be the one doing the counseling, but I think... since you all are experts... is there any way you could be spared from your work with the Ambassador for a little while?" She pressed her hand to her mouth, dragged it down her chin and shook her head. "The strain is bad. It's getting to us."

"Of course," Jahir said, sounding more like himself. Even the mindline cleared enough for Vasiht'h to sense his friend's disorientation directly. "We'll do what we can. If you could give us any background?"

"Like how bad the situation is," Vasiht'h said. "And who had the closest ties to the people who passed away."

"Right," Borden said with a deep breath. "I'll start with the situation. Which isn't the worse we've been through together, but... it's pretty rough."

Vasiht'h listened, felt his partner's attention socket into the mindline, soothing out the jagged edges where they no longer perfectly matched. For that alone he would have been grateful to Borden. That she also gave them something to do afterwards, something that engaged talents they'd spent years perfecting together, something that could remind them how to reconnect....

Of course, in payment for that blessing, he had to receive the knowledge of just how badly off the ship was, and how much difficulty the crew was having getting the engines back online without the chief engineer's help. All of the crew had some cross-training, but none of them had had the chief's way with the machinery, and they were working off of technical manuals that required a great deal of concentration to understand even with the necessary background. And they were all suffering from the burdens of their grief and fear.

"We can do something about that, at least," Vasiht'h said. "And we can start now."

"Really?" Borden asked, hopeful.

Jahir smiled for her and said, "Show us to someone who's sleeping. We do our best work then."

The glance she threw them was perplexed and curious, but she seemed willing. As they followed her, Jahir said privately, /This is also of debatable morality, as we have not gained consent for treatment./

/No,/ Vasiht'h said. /But this counts as emergency medicine. Doesn't it?/

The mindline broadened, brought him the familiar and welcome sense of his friend's mind at work, thoughts like silver gleaming glimpsed through the current between them. /I don't know. I do know that if the personnel at work on the ship cannot do their jobs effectively, we are going to die. And they have joined a military organization. They may not have the same right to refuse treatment. You were the one who booked our first Fleet clients. They were sent by their chief medical officer, were they not?/

Vasiht'h frowned. /Yes. I hadn't thought of that./

"What exactly are you going to do?" Borden asked at the door to one of the cabins.

"We'll pass through their dreams," Jahir said. "And soothe the anxieties there. You may stay, if you wish."

"I should." She nodded. "Not that I don't trust you, but I'm their shipmate. We look out for one another."

Vasiht'h said, "That brings up something we were discussing, actually. Are we allowed to do this? Usually we need to be formally engaged to work on someone. Particularly without their knowledge."

/Rather what the Queen did with the Ambassador,/ Jahir observed, and something about the words felt like gathered shadows.

/We already decided we're not treating him for his psychological issues,/ Vasiht'h pointed out. /Besides, don't you all owe a liege-duty to your Queen? I thought that meant she could tell you what to do./

The welter of thoughts and ideas that inspired... like fireworks and wounds, streaking through his nervous system like lightnings. Vasiht'h shivered and rubbed his arms.

"That is a good point," Borden was saying. "It's never been an issue before, of course, because Fleet has its own medical professionals. You aren't within the system though...." She frowned. "Well, easy way to solve it." She tapped one of the walls awake. "Borden to Captain Raynor."

A pause. Then: "Raynor here."

"Sir, the civilian therapists have offered their services, but they work on the dreams of sleeping patients. Some sort of esper thing, I take it." She glanced at them, received Vasiht'h's nod, and continued. "In my judgment, we can't afford to wait on letting everyone wake up and say 'yes.' If we can start solving some of our mental health issues, we have to."

Another, longer pause. "You think it's that severe a detriment to crew efficiency."

"I think even the smallest thing that gets in the way of us succeeding right now, sir, is a severe detriment. We have to pull out all the stops. I wouldn't have consulted with them if I hadn't believed it."

"All right, Borden. I'll authorize it. Keep an eye on it, report on the results."

"Aye, sir. Thank you. Borden out." She nodded to them. "All right, let's go. Your first patient is Evgeniya Sarya. She was the engineer's second, and the pressure on her is intense."

"I imagine," Jahir said, quiet.

The Seersa stepped into the cabin and they followed. Their client was in the small room adjacent to the one that led into the corridor, on a bunk with her back turned to them. Vasiht'h held out his hand, felt Jahir's fingers slide through his. The warmth of that touch and the trust it signified released the tension in his heart.

/With you, arii./

Jahir answered, soft, /Always./

They turned toward their patient together and sank into her dreams.

For the next few hours, they worked through the sorrows and agitations and fears of three more members of the ship's crew, with Borden their faithful attendant. And the work was healing, because it remained the best of who they were and all they could offer, an affirmation of the vow they had taken together, to help those in need.

"That's everyone down this shift," Borden said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you so long, it's just...."

"It's fine," Jahir said, gentle. "It is our work."

"Anything we can do to help you is all we can do to help us all get out of this," Vasiht'h added. "So thank you for asking us."

"When you put it that way...." She smiled, lopsided. "I'll tell you if I see any changes. If it works, I'll be back."

Inside their cabin, they prepared for bed; it no longer mattered that neither of them remembered what time it was or how long it had been since they'd slept, they were definitely both tired. Vasiht'h was content. The mindline felt close again, and deep, and his sense of Jahir's presence had returned to normal. He fluffed up the cushions he'd brought from the couch in the main room and arranged them beside the bunk, then nestled into them. Jahir turned the lights off and walked past him to the bed... and then went to one knee alongside it rather than climbing into it.

Surprised, Vasiht'h sat up from the pillows. "Arii?"

In answer, cold hands slipped over his shoulders and over his back, drew him into one of Jahir's rare embraces. The mindline bruised beneath the weight of his partner's emotions, compacted so tightly Vasiht'h couldn't read anything in them but their smothering pressure.

/What is it?/ he asked, his heart racing.

Jahir's head came to rest on his shoulder, and the mindline let some of that weight leak: so much fear. Am I really who I think I am, and How can I be thus with any honor, and It can't be so, and over and over: I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid.

With a great calm that litany resounded, and yet with a trembling that shivered out from the spirit and into the flesh that Vasiht'h held against his. Jahir said nothing and didn't need to. That he sought comfort, that he knew that he needed it... that was more than enough. Even after Jahir parted from him and sought the bunk, Vasiht'h could hear the echoes in the mindline, regular as a metronome in his musician-partner's mind: I'm afraid—I'm in danger—I'm afraid.

Long after his partner slept, Vasiht'h remained wakeful. His entire body ached, as if Jahir's distress was straining at his skin for egress. His joints hurt, his head. His heart. He looked over at the Eldritch, saw the familiar line of his shoulders, suggested only by the rope of white hair falling past dark fabric. So many years, glancing at him, to know that body so intimately, to expect the sight of it and have the expectation match reality. So much experience, to be so helpless now. He loved Jahir, and could not help him.

But there was someone who might.

Vasiht'h rose on silent paws and slipped out.

The hands that glided up Lisinthir's chest made it far harder for him to slow his breathing. Laughing about it didn't help either. "Ex... Exalted... you will murder me."

"I? With this touch?" The Emperor snickered, his nose brushing Lisinthir's cheekbone. "I think not. No, it is our Treasure who has slain you. Look, she knows it."

He did look, because the looking was its own reward: the Slave Queen sitting astride him, her spine a supple line up through her proudly arched neck. Her satisfaction suffused him through the thighs that were clasping his hips and the tail that was twined around his calf.

To have her above him thus was not unusual. To have her above him while the Emperor was beneath him... that was. The Chatcaava were shorter and less heavily built, and from what little Lisinthir had garnered from their discussions had at least some hollow bones. Even the Emperor, who was taller than average, did not like to hold up Lisinthir's weight for long.

But having him there was also a pleasure. To be between them was always that.

"So then," Lisinthir said to the Queen. "Look at your spoils! Two males, flattened."

She touched the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding her mirth. "You give me too much power, my lord."

"Does he!" the Emperor said with a laugh. "What do you think, Perfection?"

"I think she is the Perfection here, not me." Lisinthir ran his hands up her thighs to her hips, exploring the pebbled edge where the more hide-liked skin on her sides faded to the tenderer flesh over her belly.

"My lord and my master are both kind." She leaned forward to lick first one mouth, than the other. "But they choose to be slain. I am the beneficiary of their largesse."

Lisinthir tsked, capturing the end of her bill and gently holding her in place. "Now, now. We can't have this. You are more than a vessel to receive us, ah? Is that not so?"

Her pause surprised him—through his fingertips, he felt her pleasure at his words... but they were like sunlight on water, and the water was regret. It made him sit up, just a little. "My lady?"

"It is nothing, nothing," she said, lowering her head. "I did not mean to grieve you."

"But?"

She looked away, then said, soft, "It is just... hard, sometimes, to hear such words when all my life they have been denied me."

Something in the taste of her sorrow, stinging his fingertips like cuts... "Literally denied you. Literally?"

"Ah, this is a discussion for our sides, as I fear it will take a while and inspire a great agitation," the Emperor said. "Roll, my Treasure. Then tell him."

Lisinthir let them move, though he regretted the parting of their bodies from his. The Emperor slid an arm over his side, resting that hand over Lisinthir's heart; the Slave Queen faced him, her hands tucked together under her face. He touched her, trailed a finger up the length of her mouth from the tip of her bill to just under her eye. "Tell me what?"

"Females do not give males pleasure," she said. "Males take it. There... are... there are no words for females to even explain the possibility."

"None?" he said, startled.

"There is no word even for the parts of their bodies that permit it," the Emperor said. "Not that they are allowed to use. They cannot name the parts of ours that we use, either."

"And males can," Lisinthir said, and the only thing that throttled his outrage was his incredulity.

"Yes. Though they don't speak of the pleasure they find in a female body either, not the way you might. What we are doing..." The Emperor trailed off. "There is no language to describe it. Not to explain it, nor to request it. There is no requesting of such things. There is conquest, and submission. There is violence. That is all."

"And yet," Lisinthir said, meeting her eyes, "here we are. And we are welcome... aren't we?"

"Oh!" She sat up then, rested her palm on his cheek. "Oh yes! Don't doubt that. I want this! But it is the way... the way I learned, my lord." The Universal sobriquet dropped into the Chatcaavan felt suddenly too alien. "You know. You heard it, when first you came. When first you-my-better came. We are subjugated in our own thoughts, until we cannot ask for better treatment than we are awarded. But you have taught us otherwise."

"I have taught you words of equality," Lisinthir said. "But I see I have left a great deal untaught. You cannot continue to have no words for what we do, and for your own body...! How can you tell your lover what you like if you can't describe your own body?"

The Queen's expression had become contemplative, arresting in one with such large orange eyes. He rather liked the hint of carnal interest he could sense developing under her skin... and the mischief, that too. And the wonder, that most of all. "People ask for what they like?"

"Of course," Lisinthir said. "Or they should."

"Presumably they also discuss what they don't like," the Emperor murmured from behind him.

Lisinthir snorted. "That part I think we have already divined. You and I, at least."

The male laughed against his shoulder, one finger skating up to circle a claw around a pale nipple.

"Tease," Lisinthir said, snagging the finger in his. "We are having a serious discussion here."

"Somewhat—"

Lisinthir nipped the finger to silence him and said, "Continue, my lady."

"So if people ask for what they want... they must have words. Which means you have these words...?" The Queen glanced at him.

He grinned. "And so many words. We could spend several profitable hours discussing them. Shall we? So you can ask—properly—for what you like, and educate your ardent admirers on what you do not?"

"I think this would be a very interesting exercise," the Queen replied. "If... it pleases our master?"

"No one is my master," Lisinthir said, amused, still holding the finger trapped in his.

"This again," the Emperor muttered, but he was laughing under the skin.

"This always," Lisinthir growled, loveplay and warning both.

The Emperor rumbled his amusement, rubbing his cheek against the back of Lisinthir's shoulder. "I think it would be a fine use of a few hours... but if we are to begin an exercise intended to teach you to express your desires, my Treasure, I think it is yours to choose. Yes?"

She flared the wing that was free, the lacquered edges clacking. "Well! Then yes. I choose." She grinned at Lisinthir. "Please, my lord. Teach me the names of your parts."

"And yours," he said.

"And mine. But yours first, because I would like to tell you what I like you to do with them."

Lisinthir grinned and rolled over her. "Well, then... Universal alone has any number of words for all my parts."

The hours that followed were a pastiche of laughter and wonder and mischief and God and Lady, such sex. He had not been alone in the pleasure of seeing her claim that power, either... the Emperor had encouraged her, fascinated by the revelation of her preferences, wanting to know what about each thing pleased her or didn't, and insisting that Lisinthir give them more words so she could tell them exactly what she was feeling. He entertained them by looking up the terms he didn't know on his much ignored data tablet, and when he wasn't sure if her anatomy matched the anatomy he'd learned, she obliged all their curiosities by shifting to her borrowed Eldritch shape. The memory of that investigation... of having his fingers in her while she concentrated and reported whether the sensation was the same or different as it had been for her Chatcaavan body... somehow the intimacy of that remained powerfully affecting, as much as the sex in an entirely different way.

When they had exhausted all the Universal terminology Lisinthir had learned in formal lessons, picked up in rough conversations, or pulled off a data tablet, they had also exhausted their bodies. Curled together on the Emperor's broad bed, they shared a cup of wine and Lisinthir passed the hekkret to the Emperor, and they drifted, warm and close and still, until at last the Queen said, "My lord?"

"Mm?"

"You taught us all the Universal terms you know. But what are the words your people use for these things?"

He began to reply... and stopped. What words did the Eldritch use for carnal matters? Metaphors only: swords and throats and flowers and lances. The only way to make one's meaning clear was to use the crimson mode of speech, coloring the words with carnal intent, and the crimson mode was always considered vulgar. Insulting. Low and in poor taste.

"We don't have any," he said, surprised.

The Queen lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes. Behind him, the Emperor murmured, "It seems we all shared this thing in common, then. We learned the language of pleasing one another—" Said in deliberate Universal, "—together."

Lisinthir woke alone, painfully aware of that loneliness, with every inch of his skin complaining of its isolation. He had fallen asleep on the chair in the front room, facing the door with his feet up; it seemed a preferable alternative to returning to an empty bed. Unusually, he felt stronger after sleeping, so perhaps the intravenous nutrition was working. His nausea abided, and his temples were tender, but he felt positively hale compared to his usual.

And for once, his reaction to the memory was not all loss. He knew why his dreams had dredged up that particular incident. He could even feel the beginnings of empathy for his therapist, remembering how keenly the realization had struck him then... and he had been enfolded in loving arms at the time, able to consider it with remove as a pitfall he had successfully avoided. What hope then for his far cousin?

Somehow he was not surprised to hear the door chime. What did surprise him was that it opened on the Glaseah alone, backlit by the corridor's low lighting, and that he didn't immediately step inside. He lingered there, as if entertaining second thoughts. But at last, he said,"You're awake. May I come in?"

"Yes?" Lisinthir watched him enter, wondering if Jahir was outside... but no, the door closed behind Vasiht'h, who made no attempt to come closer. Even in the poor lighting Lisinthir could tell he was struggling. He gentled his voice and said, "What has you troubled, alet?"

"I think I need your help," Vasiht'h said. "But I don't know if I trust you."

After a pause, Lisinthir said, "An interesting beginning. Perhaps you would feel comfortable elaborating?"

"Do I need to?"

So much in that one question. Lisinthir could feel the misery and fear and wariness in it, as tangible as the rising plume from the end of the hekkret roll he very much wanted to fetch out of his luggage. He sighed and took his feet off the table. "You make me want a drink."

"No, I don't," Vasiht'h said, holding himself. "The situation makes you want a drink, and you're trying to foist the responsibility for that desire onto someone else so you can live with the discomfort of indulging in a behavior you know to be self-destructive." And then he froze and said, "Oh, Goddess, I didn't mean to say that—"

Lisinthir laughed. "No... you did, and that's fine. I can accept my striping and thank you for the lash. But it makes me believe, alet, that you're the one who needs the drink."

"I wouldn't mind one." Vasiht'h rubbed the fur on his arm against the grain. "I'm not wrong, though. You know why I'm here and what the problem is."

"I was not aware that in your parlance such things were called 'problems,'" Lisinthir said. "And under normal circumstances, I don't think there would be one."

"But this isn't a normal circumstance, and it is a problem, and I'm not here as a therapist, I'm here as Jahir's partner." Vasiht'h looked up at him, the light glinting off his dark eyes, and there was challenge there—challenge, in the eyes of a Glaseah. "Do you see it? Because if you do, you won't deny it. You're the one who caused it."

"I beg your pardon," Lisinthir said, though without indignation. "I caused nothing. Your partner's problem, if problem he chooses to conceive it as, was in him long before I came along."

"Then you know what it is."

"I know what I think the problem might be," he answered, cautious of the words and intrigued by this verbal fencing from a species known for its passivity. "But I am no psychiatrist."

"So tell me your impression and I'll tell you if you're right."

Lisinthir paused again. He didn't want this fight, nor to contribute to the discomfort of the Glaseah. But Vasiht'h had asked. "Your friend... he's a virgin, isn't he."

The sigh that escaped Vasiht'h deflated his entire upper body, left him sagging with one arm around his torso as if to keep him from folding over completely. "You saw it."

"I didn't need to see it, I'm afraid. I felt it readily through the touch." He really did want that drink now. He rubbed his brow. "Your beloved isn't a priest, to swear to celibacy, so it would have come up at some point. That it took this long might actually be promising; it's obviously not one of his priorities. Once you get home, your problem might evanesce."

Vasiht'h eyed him, ears flattened. "It doesn't work that way."

"Doesn't it? Sometimes?"

"It won't this time."

"Because...?"

"Because I honestly think he didn't realize it," Vasiht'h said. "He had a conception of himself—a false one, or an incomplete one maybe—but one that allowed him to be functional. And then you broke it. Now he's got nothing, and something has to be put in its place to give him back the ability to function."

"I thought you came as a friend, not a therapist."

Vasiht'h growled and backed away, all his fur on end. "I can't turn that part of myself off. But I can't use it on him about this either. And you are deflecting again."

Quietly, Lisinthir said, "I thought it the gentlest defense against the accusation that I alone am responsible for the emotional destruction of a stranger and an innocent."

Vasiht'h froze, then covered his face in his hands. "Oh, Goddess. I did, didn't I. Accuse you."

Lisinthir sighed and rose. In his luggage there was a flask, which he brought back. "Sit," he said to the Glaseah, and before Vasiht'h could speak, finished, "It's not for me. Though Dying Air, I'd take it myself if I could."

"You probably will after I'm gone," Vasiht'h muttered, and accepted the flask.

"That depends entirely on how the remainder of this conversation goes."

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing and drink." Lisinthir waited until the Glaseah had taken a sip, coughed his way through it, and tried another. "Now. You came here expecting something of me. Perhaps you'll be so kind as to elucidate what without haranguing me for not being a celibate, and a coward."

"Jahir is not—"

"A coward?" Lisinthir lifted his brows. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

"You don't know him," Vasiht'h said, shoulders trying to tense. "He's one of the bravest people I know. Dutiful. Strong. Hard-working, selfless...."

"A paragon of mortal existence, yes, I know. You love him, alet. You don't have to extol his virtues to me. But he apparently has a fatal flaw. What do you want me to do about it?"

"I don't know!" Vasiht'h exclaimed. "I don't have the first training on sexual dysfunction—"

"And I do?"

"What he needs," Vasiht'h finished, ignoring him, "is someone to talk to who won't judge him. Who isn't me. Because my lack of judgment will feel like an indictment to him, because he'll bring all his shame at not sharing it with me earlier, before it could become a crisis point, into the discussion."

God and Lady, what a pain it must be to maintain a relationship with a psychiatrist. And two of them! Lisinthir could scarcely imagine it. "So you'd like me to talk to him. About sex."

Vasiht'h nodded. "Yes."

He'd thought his original situation risible: to be forced to make answer for his behavior in the Empire to an Eldritch. This one, though... this one easily topped it. "He may not be interested in having that discussion with me. Particularly since I am apparently the one at fault for it being an issue at all."

Vasiht'h winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Foist the responsibility for the situation onto someone else so you can feel comfortable indulging in your own sense of helplessness and fear?" Lisinthir said, a little more gently than he'd planned.

The Glaseah covered his face with a hand. He was shaking, and seeing it all of Lisinthir's instincts woke and demanded answer. With a sigh he reached for Vasiht'h and pulled him gently into his arms. He ignored the shock, reaching for the flask. Offering it to the Glaseah, he said, quiet, "Drink."

"You're holding me," Vasiht'h said, wide-eyed.

"You're a therapist. You tell me the value of touch."

"But... you're Eldritch."

"I am," he said. "I'm also Lisinthir Nase Galare, who prefers to be touched, and to touch. Relax, alet. Deep breath, yes? You're safe."

After a moment, Vasiht'h took the flask and sipped from it, then tentatively leaned against him. Lisinthir let him and closed his eyes, his own mind ranging afield from the situation, to the slaves he'd freed... to Laniis, at his knees, exerting her calm on him. To the memory of violence undergone on behalf of those who could not bear it. He sighed, and relaxed. This too was him. To touch, yes, and be touched. To defend and to harbor. And all of it he would lose if he succeeded in surviving the ship's contretemps. His last protective act had been to leave the world he'd made for himself to keep safe those who had a chance at spreading it to the rest of the Empire. To save themselves, and to save the Chatcaava, and to save the Alliance at the last.

He would have to hold to the strength of his convictions, or everything he'd worked to accomplish would come unraveled. But to give up love and the life that had given him meaning to ensure that success...! It was bitter beyond bearing. He rested his cheek on the Glaseah's head and felt he was embracing the personification of everything he'd sacrificed to save.

"That's you, isn't it," Vasiht'h said against his chest, so low he almost missed it.

"What is?" Lisinthir asked, weary.

Vasith'h rested a spread hand on Lisinthir's chest. "This. All of this that rises when you say that I'm safe. What is it that makes you so sad? I expected a lot of things from you, but not... not that."

Lisinthir managed a smile. "I am a man of many surprises. I have been so told on many occasions."

"And you won't explain it to me," Vasiht'h said. He sat back, looking up at Lisinthir. "You won't talk to anyone about it."

"Trust must be earned, alet." Lisinthir reached past him for the flask. "Not one of you has earned it yet. My courtesy, yes. And my aid in our mutual efforts to protect the Alliance from those who would plunder it. But don't ask for more."

Vasiht'h rested a hand on his wrist before he could drink. "Please don't. I know it hurts, but the hurt can be repaired. It might not feel that way now, but it really can be."

Spoken like an individual without the first notion of the stakes he'd been playing for until now. How relaxing it must be for one's relationships not to be of political significance to two separate empires—three, if one counted his own, and how could he not with the Chatcaava so pleased by Eldritch slaves? Ah yes, his depression could be repaired. By what? An intergalactic peace treaty?

What was he doing here? How could he bear it?

Lisinthir put the flask back down. "Send your partner, if you think it will help. I have my doubts, but I'll make an effort."

Vasiht'h nodded. "All right. And thank you. This... this means a lot to me."

After the Glaseah left, Lisinthir stared at the bottle. He stared at it for a long time before finally rising and going for the hekkret.