Rachel

Kate has been flying high ever since they left the rest of the group behind. Rachel's been riding her high, laughing in the wake of Kate's joy, enjoying herself and letting it be known. She'd morphed not long after separating with the others and raced Kate's horse across the desert, the body of the stallion she'd morphed bursting with energy, the desire to run. Even the few days of travel, filled with laughter, trading stories and details about the job, has been pure fun.

She'll need to go back to Milliways eventually, and preferably before she fades or snaps back or whatever is supposed to happen to her. But until then, she's enjoying herself.

-

Galveston is nice enough, Rachel supposes, for yet another place without running water. Kate found them a nice set of rooms to stay in, though they'll be trying to find Rachel a door soon. They've even done some shopping and, as such, while Kate is off exploring the town herself, Rachel is walking the main street in a new skirt, patterned and bright in yellow, another stark white blouse, ruffled at the open collar with the sleeves rolled up again. She's been paying attention the last few days and she knows she's not pulling off the look of a lady. Maybe a ranch hand, a cowgirl, something like that. But Texas remains hot and Rachel's of the opinion that she makes a pretty cute cowgirl like this, nothing immodest or tasteless about the outfit. She'll be keeping it just like this until someone convinces her to pretend to be a lady.

A lot - a lot - of cafeterias later and Rachel and Tobias find themselves holed up in a storage closet. It had a light in it and it wasn't an air vent, with the added bonus of not seeming to be very popular with the crew. That was about all Rachel wanted to ask for just now.

Granted, a bed would also have been nice. But if she was going to start wishing like that, she may as well go all the way and demand a door back to Milliways, too.

They've gotten good at calculating time over the years. Ax did most of the work, with his literal internal clock, but they all had some sense of it. Between that and the occasional discussion of time from the people around them, Tobias and Rachel have come to an agreement about how much time has passed since they first arrived in this place.

Roughly, two days.

They're not confident enough to say forty-eight hours, either of them, but it's close enough. And while Rachel hasn't left Milliways much in that time, needing someone else's help to do it, each and every person she's discussed it with has made one thing very clear: the time limit.

If this isn't the Labyrinth, isn't Milliways at all, there is a time limit for her. The dead can't stay outside the door long and while she's heard the limit argued around others, more often than not, people agree on three days.

Seventy-two hours.

There's a storage closet, which is not much good for pacing, with a few shelves that probably aren't fantastic for perching, and around everything else they're not saying to each other, Rachel is hesitant to add this one maddeningly vague thing.

The front door doesn't get used much, these days. The first thing Rachel does when she wakes up is open the balcony doors, let Tobias out to hunt. And lately, more often than not, Rachel prefers up-and-over when it comes to her own exit.

Not always. Sometimes.




Okay. A lot.

Tobias doesn't know. She's pretty sure, anyway, she leaves after he does and she's often back in the room before he gets back. When she's not, they're out flying together, it's not surprising for her to go in through the balcony. It's not a big deal. It's nothing special.

That's why she hasn't told him. Because it doesn't matter. See.




Like going 'out.' That doesn't matter either. How often she does it, how often she's walked through a door that took her very, very far from him.










There's a second calendar on the wall.

Rachel finishes her demorph and catches sight of it. And the most unsettling detail about the calendar is that she can't be certain it's only just appeared. He could have put it up days ago.

Or was it Tobias?

If it was Tobias, he'd have to have been human.

Maybe it wasn't him at all, then, why would he morph human just to put a calendar on the wall, right beside a calendar she already had hanging there?

Maybe it wasn't Tobias. Maybe someone broke into their room and... and put a calendar on the wall.








Maybe.



The carpet is soft on bare feet when she crosses the room. One hand stretches out, fingertips brushing the slick paper of the new calendar. It's not like hers - hers is marked, holidays clearly labeled. Days To Avoid The Bar. But this calendar, this new thing, is blank. Nothing on it.

Why would he...

So maybe he didn't.

Maybe someone else did, someone broke in, interrupted their space, where they live.



It crumples so easily in her hand when she snatches it away from the wall.

Flipping through it, she waits for something to pop out. In the pretty pictures, names of month, numbers listed in neat little boxes. Waits for the clue or significance, why someone would bring this into their apartment, what it means, what's the point?

But there's nothing.



Slowly, she puts it down again. Glaring at it as it rests on the bar, in their kitchen. Accusingly.

A stupid packet of paper, meaningless dates to a girl who has no use for time and a boy who refuses to-








Her fingers only brush it, sending it skidding down the counter a few more inches. But she's already walking away.

She should probably throw it away.

But if he brought it in, he would have had to be human to do it. Without her. For something as purely human as a calendar.


She wants to hold onto that thought a little longer.

On the kitchen bar, when Tobias flies back through the wide open balcony doors one morning, is a note.

I'm okay. Don't worry. I might be gone for a little while but I'm coming back.

Trust me. I love you.

Words are scratched out with an X - then scratched out even further, darkened to nothing by the pen.



Then smaller, further down, carefully rewritten:

Don't hide.

Sometimes a routine is a useful thing.  When it's broken in the slightest way, it's obvious.  Noticeable.  There's no way to miss it and let the change go by, possibly to the detriment of others.

So Rachel notices when Tobias doesn't leave her in the mornings to go hunt.  When he tries to follow her down to the garage rather than eat.  And when she's gone outside with him and he does nothing but look at her and obey suggestions on her behalf, she continues to notice.  He's either refusing to listen to his own body's urges, or simply can't hear them anymore.

It's the sort of thing she'd talk to Cassie about, if...

Or maybe, since it affects his life so completely, since he's changed so much, it's Jake that she should...

Of course, she probably wouldn't have to.  Ax would have noticed first that he...

The first day, she carries him to the woods on her arm and asks him to wait on a branch while she morphs.  When they're up in the air, eagle and hawk, and he still does nothing, she starts pointing out prey.  But once it's noticed, as is the nature of quick-moving animals, it's too late for him to dive.

The first day, she hunts for him.  Downs a demon rabbit and holds it, pinned to the ground struggling and screaming, and calls to Tobias to come down and finish it.  He needs to eat and the hawk prefers its prey live.

She keeps holding it while he eats, only moving when she's in his way.

They've been through so much.  But there was never anything that Tobias couldn't cope with, or pretend he was coping with.

He's never let her take care of him.  Not like this.

It scares her.

And it's not right.



She does the same that afternoon, before the sun goes down. And it's a rabbit again - they are everywhere - and she holds it while he eats.

In the morning, it is the same.

And the next afternoon.


The third day, she starts to ask him about it, to say something, anything. But every attempt is aborted for the simplest reason.

Why won't you-
Can't you-
Aren't you-
You should-

Guilt.

Maybe he would, could if she hadn't left suddenly. Maybe he wouldn't be like this if she hadn't left that first time.



But it's still some time before she realizes. That first time?

She'd said goodbye.

She'd made sure she could.

And this time?

Was not her fault.



"Tobias? Let's go outside."

For the record, Rachel has been issued enough homework to know the name Daedalus. But in a cave, behind a waterfall, in a forest, inside a cupboard, lurking in a gloomy castle is not the best place for memory recall. And by the time she'd dragged herself out of the water and up onto the rocky shelf behind the fall, there were only so many questions she wanted to ask.

Bear in the castle. Eagle in the woods. Dolphin in the water. Not to mention swinging a torch around and running hard through the forest floor.

On her hands and knees on the stone floor, Rachel watches a puddle of water form beneath her hair and clothing. At the moment, it's the only thing keeping her from falling over from exhaustion.

There is a reason why chess is such an overused cliche for the art of war. In no other game are aspects of ruthless conquering so simply displayed. One side against another, the same basic shape and purpose, differing in only simple ways. Guarded by many disposable pieces, flanked by those willing to sacrifice, the leaders lie safely ensconced from beginning to end, if played well.

And at no time are any of the pieces on the board, so focused on their objective, every truly in control.



There are things about chess that Rachel would agree with, when applied to war. An aggressive opening is always a good choice. One should sacrifice for the good of many. A loss here and there, while disheartening, is inevitable and must be anticipated, accepted, and forged through.

The point is to win.

You must win.



These are things Rachel would agree with, if she had ever played chess. Or had any interest in chess.

But to play chess, you must be a player, the mover of pieces, the gentle strategist.

And even Rachel knows, she is more likely to be a knight.

If the player is being charitable.



Certain subjects are not talked about.

Some of them haven't changed since the early days of the war. The word Nothlit never passes between them. The very first battle, the hours following their descent into the Yeerk Pool. The construction site, at any time, for any memory, is taboo.

What they saw there, did there, is unspeakable in many ways.

The final moments of Rachel's life are not talked about. In fact, the entire twenty-four hours preceding, though she knows that Tobias has guessed how long she held her secret, that she could have warned him and didn't.

She would say couldn't. He would say didn't.

But they don't talk about that.

Some subjects are not so easy. After the last time she tried, Rachel knows now that Loren is not to be discussed. And after the initial questions about their friends, about the aftermath of the war, when Tobias did not mention a single member of her family, she took that hint, too.

The time between her death and her arrival in Milliways, if any time passed at all.

Tobias does not know it exists and sometimes Rachel isn't sure.

What she is sure of is that telling him would change nothing.

And would solve less.



You were just a kid, she'd said, when the great player himself finished his story. Like us.

And he was, she could see that. She spoke the words, knowing he wanted some form of forgiveness, perhaps more than he wanted to honor her, to explain why she had to die. She wonders, sometimes, if he was comforted at all to hear her say so, to be given the opportunity to speak the words that meant so much.

Yes.
You were brave.
You were strong.
You were good.

You mattered.

She wonders if he realized, if he cared, that being a child in a war offers little excuse.

For either of them.



Chess is a game for the brave. For the confident. For the dedicated. For the patient.

For the player.

Not the pawns.



There are things that are not spoken of.

Bringing up the fight with Yrael was allowed in a moment of distress. Like a moment of silence for Elfangor while discussing the Blue Box. Because the latter is necessary, the former is allowed.

Because she had to say something about Yrael, Rachel was allowed to say the Ellimist's name. And when that time passed and they agreed, together, that neither understood or perhaps could understand, it was over.

But it stays with her.

In all his storytelling, the emotions the Ellimist displayed to her were elevated and far away, things he had grown past and was no longer capable of feeling as he once was. A creature so beyond what he had once been that he would never return. It's why he could stop time and tell her, in those moments when surely she had already died but was not quite dead yet, tell her his story when she demanded it from him. When she had sneered his name and demanded to know what right he had to pick up the pieces and move them where he wanted, even when such a move would sacrifice the piece.

And he had told her, in that way that is part answer to the desperate cry of a dying child, part a desperate cry of his own for forgiveness. Too elevated to see the ludicrous nature of it, and she too scared to protest.

She hadn't wanted to die. He was one of few creatures who truly knew that about her.



The Ellimist is a curse to them. A four letter word, as it's said. Rachel can think of him in moments where she is clear-headed and be angry and confused and exasperated and sad all at once. For his story and his purpose and his choices.

They don't line up in her head, the Ellimist and Yrael. Their choices and their attitude. The Ellimist is a player, Yrael has the potential to be a player.

Perhaps they all do, in significantly smaller ways.



I did not cause you to be one of the six.

An extra piece on the board. Stacking the deck for one side, one more square taken up by a soldier the other side didn't have.



But Rachel doesn't play chess.

All she really knows, if she had to think about it at all, is that one side plays with black pieces, the other with white.



She is the grey knight.

More useful than a pawn.

Three years is not very long, in the scheme of things. When men and women live sixty, seventy, eighty plus years, a measly three is nothing.

In fifty years, maybe Rachel will feel that way.

It's been two months since her last morph. She's been human from the moment she stepped into Milliways. But on this frozen early-morning when she finally called up her wings and took to the sky, she felt another mind bubbling up beneath her own and welcomed it. The eagle knows how to fly. It doesn't need her help. And that calm utter confidence in the predator's mind was so comfortable to sink into. Like coming home.

So much better than bored and fretful and awkward and irritable.


Three years. And even if only a small fraction of it required her to count the minutes herself, Rachel can still make a decent guess at how much time has passed. Even riding backseat to the eagle, letting it soar and climb deep into the forest, heading for the mountains, the rocks and water the eagle craves.

Near to an hour and a half, she takes the wheel again. Forces a circle and land in the sturdy limbs of a bare tree. Talons sink into the soft bark and hold her in place.

It's a good thirty feet off the ground, but it's better than the three feet of snow on the ground.

Demorphing is quick, hurried - like the remorph that follows. She has to lie awkwardly, situated between two branches to make sure her twisting body doesn't fall but she gets her wings again - and talons, too.

The mind and wings are a familiar comfort and there's the draw to make them home, powerful like the pulsing beat of her own heart. But she isn't ready for that yet.

Not now. Not the eagle.

She drops from the branch, catches the air in her feathers, and soars.



She does not, it should be noted, allow the eagle to hunt. Scan for prey, yes. Look through the ice of the lake, yes. Drop into a screaming dive over a meadow, yes. But she always pulls up, talons never rake forward, blood is never spilled.

There are lines that shouldn't be crossed when you're lonely and scared and so angry you'd be trembling even without the cold.



Morphing sounds simple. The reality is annoyingly complicated.

Focusing on the shape needed is generally easy enough. It's not hard to remember what her human body looks like when she's ready to go back to it. It's not hard to envision the eagle when she wants her wings. And when acquiring? There is not better motivation to concentrate than with a hand pressed into a live grizzly bear's shoulder.

The process is disgusting. Rachel doesn't often worry about it, after so much time developing her skill, knowing that the shapes and sounds that result from it are nothing to be concerned about. But limbs shoot out and bones crack into place and fur and hair and feathers and thick hides pop into existence. To say nothing of compound eyes.

Even that is of little concern. A part of a necessary process. Over quickly and easily ignored.

The hard part is the exhaustion.

Whether it's the mental effort or the body's way of complaining about all the shifting around, multiple morphs in a day drain the energy drastically. The closer together they are, the worse. Three morphs in an hour is hard. Four is torture. More and it's a miracle if demorphing can be managed without a rush of adrenaline.

But that was never much lacked for.




Fly. Hour and a half. Demorph. Remorph. Fly. Hour and a half. Demorph. Remorph.

The sun is high in the sky when Rachel comes in for another landing in a tall tree and misses her mark.

Only the talons of one leg catch the bark, with the effect of swinging her body around like an episode of Looney Toons and slamming her, beak-first, into the trunk. The sensation is entirely too familiar, though at least when she falls, there are still talons caught in the bark. It gives her time to reorient herself, to squash the panicking mind of the eagle and figure it out for herself. It takes some flapping, some wriggling, but she frees her talons and soars (or 'gracefully falls,' maybe) to the ground, to the snow.

The demorph is shaky and a little slow. But the next one, standing in the bare protection of her morphing suit, snow up to her knees, is quick.

Rachel's halfway to wolf before she realizes her choice of the new shape. And by then, fur is sprouting from her toes to her nose and it's thick and warm and good enough.

She can always go back to the sky. And maybe the forest won't seem so empty.




It's getting dark.

How many times has she morphed today? What would Jake say if he knew she spent an entire day in morph?

...probably nothing. Who would catch her here? Who would care if they saw her change her shape at will? Who would bat an eye?

She pauses on the edge of the forest, breathing hard from her run. Milliways Bar in the distance, just a quick run across field and lake.

She lifts her head, nose high, and lets the wolf sniff the wind and analyze the smells. She doesn't need scent at the moment - just sight. Four stories up, there's a balcony with wide open doors.


She runs to a hill first, a notably steep incline. Flapping off the ground is hard enough without snow. And it's still difficult this way, partly due to her waning energy, partly because snow and sinking into it and having to flap hard in the way no bird of prey enjoys or is particularly good at.

But she makes it up, airborne and diving through trees until she can get above them. Soaring over the lake as the sun sinks and the stars begin to shine. Reaching her balcony.

Talons close over the railing and she hops down the rest of the way.

Demorphs, slow and deliberate, then takes her first shaky steps inside and forces the doors closed.

Looks around and simply stares, stupid, at the mess.


Granted, she hadn't been thinking much of anything this morning. But Rachel lets out a few choice curses at the snow drifts that had once been her couch, end table, and chair before she'd left the balcony open all day.