"My gods he's heavy."

Faith ignored her own instinct for manners and shattered the rusted iron lock on the gate with a single blow from the pommel of her sword. She felt rusted iron scrape along the skin of her hand--she had misjudged the necessary force, smiting the lump of iron with a focussed fury. She gave a kick, sending the wooden gate creaking open at the hinges. The two grates of wood rattled as they swung against the wooden wall of Hinterstrad Manor. "we'll pay for the damages later."

Grace grunted under the weight of their wounded charge. "He doesn't want us to, remember? We don't know what he likes."

Faith jogged up the steps to the door. This portal opened more easily, and she regretted the instinctive force with which she threw it open. She caught the door just before it slammed against the inside wall. She ran ahead of her sister and quickly swept everything off the kitchen table onto the floor--a place mat and silverware setting, a bowl of fruit, some pewter candlesticks, and a bronze gargoyle centerpiece. Grace huffed in right behind, laying the lord of the manor on his own table. She stopped to feel his forehead, check his breathing, and pulse. A faint snarl escaped the changeling's lips.

Faith drew her dagger. "Get hot water, fresh bandages, and see if you can find a needle and thread." Working efficiently, she began to cut the clothes away from his bloody wound. She turned quickly over her shoulder toward her sister. "Make sure the needle isn't iron!"

"I know!"

---

Pain.

Morphiel flinched away from the explosion, his eardrums popping with the fury of the fireball. Something hit him hard. He looked up into fading daylight.

A pain in his side, probably shrapnel. He called out for Elizabeth. He roared her name, flailing against the medics now trying to tend him. But this time, she actually answered. "Hold him!"

And then her voice again. "I can't!"

Only...neither one were her voice.

A pair of firm hands held his head. "Shhh."

A familiar, comforting male voice.

Morphiel squinted in confusion. "Grandfather?"

The hands were so reassuring. And so was the smile. It was not his father, or grandfather, but it was a father, an old, plump, homely man with soft eyes and a warm smile carressed his head. A holy symbol of a winged bison head hung around his neck, and his clothes were a nondescript brown, like burlap sacks that had been made into well-fitting clothing. His salt and pepper hair was brushed back, and a fluffy beard covered his chin. He smelled of mesquite and wet grass.

The father figure spoke. "Take it easy kiddo. My girls are lookin' after ya."

Morphiel tried tried to reach for the man, and a firm, comforting grip siezed his hand.

But it was not the old man, who now vanished. It was a feminine grip, and a female voice by his ear said, "Relax, we've almost got it out." Once again, it was not Elizabeth.

Morphiel demanded, "Did Elizabeth make it?"

A sharp male voice. "No."

Morphiel felt his bones rattle. He looked toward the door of his hospital room as Captain Stillwell entered, glaring at him, with Steuben Trent in tow. The captain was a small, wiry half-windkin man with dark, beady eyes that seemed to have no soul behind them. His usually mealy-mouthed smile, which he reserved for politicians and superiors, had instead given way to the desolate frown he wore for everyone who was beneath him--which was most people. A memory at the back of Morphiel's mind told him that the first time he lived this memory, he had cried, and his Sworden friend had comforted him by focussing him on the task of revenge against the brotherhood. His captain had simply told him he was on leave to grieve and casually suggested he wait week before making any more enemies. Other Staves had stopped by, to give their condolences, but he wanted none of it. He simply wanted to grieve, or to plan his vengeance with Trent encouraging him.

But that was not how it went this time. This time, Morphiel knew what was coming. He roared a fiery, feline roar. "You TRAITOR!" He lunged for Stillwell, ripping him limb from limb. It was so easy. he came apart like so much paper, fluttering away in the wind. This time, he didn't even resist. He simply accepted the inevitable assault as a matter of business.

The female voices again. "STOP!"

"He's halucinating! Get him back on the table!"

He felt a pain in his side. He knew where it came from. He reached down, seizing one of Trent's shell-swords in his hand and wrenching it free of his side. He tried to smash it against the wall, to hurt Trent in a personal, vengeful way--Swordens were very close to their swords, made from the mother-of-pearl-like substance they secreted themselves. To break a Sworden's sword was to hurt him to his core. It was no less than he deserved for helping those hobgoblins steal those children.

But the sword would not smash.

With a furious roar, Morphiel tried again, but forces held his hand back. It felt like elizabeth's touch. "Stop, we're trying to help you!"

"Elizabeth..." Morphiel sank down, roaring devastated sobs. It felt just like the first time he had been told.

Trent laughed. "Nice try, tiger-lily." He jerked the sword out of Morphiel's limp grasp. "You're gonna have to do better than that to hurt me." Trent vanished just as Morphiel lunged for him. He hit something, blacking out again.

---