Rated: PG-13 for language.
Underlines indicate emphasis or titles; italics indicate thoughts or foreign language.  The Russian should make sense in context, but if you need an immediate translation, click on the asterisk next to it; hitting 'back' takes you back to your last point in the story.  Or open the story again in a second window; all translations are at the bottom of the page.  

The gunshot echoed sharply through the air, and Matthew McCormick winced. Damn. Well, at least I'm not in a part of town where I have to worry about anyone calling the law in. Just as well; explaining this to my AD might be difficult. Just the thought of that interview was enough to make him wince again. Better it never come to that. Luckily, the worst that might happen tonight was that someone might decide to poke their nose into a private quarrel, and they'd have been there before now if they were going to do that. Of course, in this neighbourhood, they'd have to be crazy first. A glance over his shoulder was sufficient to confirm the lack of both curious and insane barflies; apparently either he or the man he'd been chasing gave off a sufficient aura of ruthlessness to keep out even those who might otherwise want to claim this alley. Good. Now to get a look at this Hunter.

He approached the body cautiously. The man was dead, he was sure of that. But there was no way to know how quickly he healed, and when dealing with immortals it was always best to be cautious as a matter of policy. Some of them had centuries of tricks they were just waiting to pull on an unwary Challenger.

There was no movement from the body as he neared. A young immortal, an anomaly, or he was playing dead. No telling which at this point. A careful prod with a foot brought no response either; holding his gun at the ready he crouched down beside the body and felt for a pulse. No flutter beneath his seeking fingers. Still dead. Good. He retrieved the gun the other man had dropped as he'd fallen, clicked the safety back on, and slid it through his own belt.

Still no pulse. A fast search of the body yielded two knives, good quality and well-balanced for throwing -- but no sword. Strange. Even those who prefer to Hunt with guns usually carry a sword of their own. A moment's consideration, and he slid one of the knives into the man's side, between his ribs and up into his heart. That ought to keep him out of things for a while longer.

Another quick glance around the alley to make sure they were still unobserved brought a frown to his face. Nobody there yet, but -- Odd. That niche behind the dumpster would have made the perfect ambush for a Hunter with a gun and little regard for the Rules. I wonder why he chose to run instead? Too much of a coward to fight any battle on ground he hadn't chosen? Mentally, Matthew shrugged. Perhaps he just didn't see it until he was past.

He sat back on his heels and holstered his own gun before taking his first good look at the man he'd shot. Black hair in need of cutting, grey eyes wide and still in death, sharp cheekbones in a young face. Young by mortal standards, at least; in immortal terms it was anybody's wager. Appearance meant little when you never aged physically beyond the years you held on the day of first death. Thin, too -- too thin. It didn't look as if he'd been eating much recently. He's a Hunter, Matthew reminded himself caustically, who likes to shoot first and cut after. Don't lose your head in misplaced sympathy.

Reaching into an inside pocket, he retrieved a piece of paper and unfolded it. Although he already knew the outcome, he methodically checked the slack features of the dead man against the pencil sketch. No doubt about it. This is the man who sold Lawrence's sword. Given his willingness to shoot, he's very likely the one who left bullet holes in his body before he took his head, too. He swallowed the anger roused by that thought -- Lawrence might have been a thief and a swindler whom Matthew would have been only too happy to Challenge himself, but he hadn't deserved to die like that, shot down like an animal -- and rose swiftly to his feet. That settles it. Challenge there will be. If I recall correctly, there should be an isolated lot about five or six blocks from here that will do for a site... it's past time we were gone from this alley.

Well-screened from the street and the neighbouring warehouses by a mixed barrier of trash, rubble, and wild greenery, the site was as suited to a Challenge as he had remembered -- and a damn sight more private than some places Matthew had fought. He deposited the body in the middle of the empty lot, where he could keep an eye on it -- not that anything was likely to happen, with the knife still buried in its heart -- and dumped the contents of the Hunter's backpack out onto the cracked concrete, along with the wallet he'd retrieved from a back pocket.

The wallet was uninformative: empty except for a wad of cash that was at odds with the quality of the man's possessions and the apparent lack of regular meals. Probably the money he got for Lawrence's sword this morning on top of whatever was in that damn thief's wallet when he died. The currency does seem rather worn; I wonder who he'd blackmailed this time? A quick count of the cash and comparison to the number he'd gotten out of the shopkeeper earlier made Matthew wonder if the man had spent even ten dollars of it; clearly he was living close to the edge. Strange, that such a Hunter should pause at plain thievery -- but if he were engaged in that, one would expect less of a money problem. Unless he's simply a highly incompetent thief.

The knapsack was a better haul, but not by much. A change of clothing, as worn as the ones the man was wearing but cleaner than their now blood-stained counterparts; a pair of paperback books, one in English and the other in German, both well-thumbed; a bottle of water; the remnants of a loaf of bread; a used ticket from the New Jersey train system; and a British passport, issued four years ago. Entry stamp for the USA through New York City dated two months previously, standard three-month tourist visa. Thomas O'Neill. Not with those features, you aren't. Nineteen seventy five, that would be -- twenty-six? Well, I suppose so, if a young twenty-six. For what that's worth, which in an immortal is about as much as the paper it's written on.

He gathered everything back up and into the knapsack again. No point in littering up the scene. Much simpler all around if he just disappears. Another search of the body -- more thorough than the previous one -- turned up nothing new in the way of weapons or information, and he'd placed his hand on the hilt of the knife, ready to remove it, when he remembered the sword.

Damn. "What kind of idiot headhunter doesn't carry a sword?" he asked the corpse irritably, keeping his voice low enough that it couldn't be heard from the street. Now what? He couldn't just leave the body here while he drove back to D.C. or Virginia for a spare sword, and he wasn't the type himself to cut someone down while they were unarmed -- or dead. He certainly wasn't suicidal enough to give the man his gun back and call it even. Put him in the trunk, I suppose, and transport him to the sword? His instincts screamed out against that one. He was missing something, somewhere---

Of course! Lawrence's sword. He'd bought the sword that morning, from the pawnshop the other had sold it to, and it was sitting in the trunk of his car even now. All he had to do was fetch it. Good. I want this done with.

He checked the placement of the dagger. It wouldn't do to have to hunt the Hunter again -- who knew when he'd next have the time to tend to it? The blade was still secure: even if the man revived, he'd not be able to get the knife out before he died again. Now, to get the body to the rubbish heaped along the sides of the abandoned lot. Plenty of spaces there to hide a corpse for a few minutes. It wouldn't do for any Samaritans to stumble over him, unlikely as the concept might seem in this neighbourhood. Careful positioning of the body, and the knife was hidden beneath the drape of his arm -- from a distance, the corpse could now pass for a drunk, passed out in the rubble.

The car was only a couple of blocks away, and miraculously intact. He opened the trunk, lifted out and unwrapped the broadsword he'd acquired that morning. Yes, that will do. Lawrence may have been an unprincipled bastard, but he took good care of his weapon. There was, he thought, something satisfyingly ironic about Lawrence's murderer fighting for his life with the very weapon he'd never given Lawrence the opportunity to use.

For a dead man, the corpse was certainly uncooperative about being dug out. If he hadn't known better, Matthew would've sworn the body was intentionally catching on every piece of masonry heaped in the pile he'd hidden it in. But at the last, the corpse was back in the approximate centre of the abandoned lot, Lawrence's broadsword on the concrete alongside. He took hold of the knife handle in one hand, braced the other against the Hunter's chest, and pulled. Now to wait for him to revive -- and then get this over with.

Vasili hadn't expected to wake up alive.

It threw him.

"Planning to pick that up?" a voice asked, the slow-drawled words cutting through his confusion with sharp-edged insult. "Or did you expect me to cut you down where you lay?"

Oh, God. The stranger's Presence hit him in the same moment as his voice; Vasili had flipped over and scrambled half-way to his feet before the instinctive panic subsided enough for him to think. If he wasn't dead and the syn molniya* who'd shot him was still here, then.... he cut the thought off, not wanting to consider too closely what might follow that 'then'. That way lay a panic he wouldn't be able to pull free from, and panic wouldn't help him in the least, right now.

Humouring the stranger might, though. His weapons were gone, his knives as well as the gun, presumably all now in the stranger's possession. Which left him to buy time, until he could run or fight or until his time ran out and he died, cut into lightning and fury.... What did he say? Planning to pick that up? Pick what up? Vasili risked looking away from the other man, standing so cool and amused a bare two metres from him, and took in his surroundings in one quick glance. An empty lot, it looked like, enough rubbish built up around the edges to make it as private a place as could be found in the city. Private... oh, God. He could do anything to me in here and no one would see, or hear. Or care.... He took a deep breath, shoved the panic back down and threw a couple of mental bricks on top of it for good measure. Breathe, damn you. Passing out from oxygen deprivation is not going to help this situation any. But if the man had only wanted him dead, then why wasn't he already...? In the past five years, he'd learnt just how many unpleasant ways there were to die -- and how many things there were that were worse than death...

No. Do not go there. Vasili forced his eyes open, trying to remember when he'd closed them, and looked again at the stranger standing impassively before him. He took a steadying breath, pushed himself the rest of the way upright, willing his panic to subside with each carefully controlled movement.

Taller than he, wearing a shirt and trousers as out of place in the rubble surrounding them as the sword he held so casually in one hand, the strange syn molniya* loomed silently between Vasili and the street. A neat pile behind him held his suit jacket and long coat, and he'd swapped his dress shoes for hiking boots, implying a car or a safe stash somewhere nearby. Vasili's own battered knapsack lay slumped alongside the tidy stack, but his weapons were nowhere in sight. Solid strength in broad shoulders, and eyes colder than any Vasili had ever seen... oh, God. Why hasn't he killed me already? What does he want with me?

It dawned on him that the man was waiting. Patiently, with no sign of annoyance or irritation, and the utter lack of discernible emotion chilled Vasili through to the bone. He closed his eyes again, tried to think through the terror gripping him, through the effort it took to keep his swelling panic at bay. What... pick that up. Pick what up?

Right. Open your eyes, look. He's not going to wait forever, and you probably don't want him to have to make the next move. No, don't look at him again; you know he's there and at the moment there's little you could do about it if he chooses to strike you down with that sword. He searched the ground about his feet, eyes scanning quickly over cracked concrete, trash and stones and sword and---

"K'Chorti."*

"You've sent one too many to hell already, boy." The cool words drew his gaze implacably back to the stranger's face, to the smile that was anything but friendly, and Vasili barely held back a flinch. "'Fraid I'm going to have to decline the invitation. Pick up the sword."

A sword. He wants me to pick up a sword? What does he think this is, the Three Musketeers? This time, it was hysteria threatening his balance. Vasili shook his to head to clear it, cast one quick glance at the impassive figure with his own sword clutched comfortably in one strong hand. He wavered on a sharp edge of disbelief and fear. He can't mean that. He absolutely cannot expect me to fight him with a sword. No way, no how.

It didn't take much more than another glance at that implacable countenance to know that the man expected just that. Oh, fuck. Mad. He's mad. He does mean it.

I'm screwed.

"Now."

The word a barked command, and Vasili was crouched and his hand reaching for the hilt before he knew it. He closed his eyes, fought back the shudder of loathing at its cool feel, and the waves of panic threatening to drag him under again. At least his inner chaos didn't seem to be reflecting too obviously in his body; he was glad not to note any hint of tremor in the hand stretching toward the weapon. Thank God for small mercies.

Reluctantly he closed his fingers about the pommel, pulled it towards him. His hand fell into a familiar grip and he froze immobile, eyes widening in sudden horror. No. It couldn't be. He had been sure he'd seen the last of this sword, hadn't wanted to see it ever again, hadn't wanted to remember the lightning slamming into him after he'd used it on its former owner, or the struggle to hold onto himself in the world-shattering whirl of a dying syn molniya.* Didn't want to think any more of the death he'd brought than he did of the death -- or worse -- that faced him now. But that hilt, the slight curve under his fingers, the scratch of a cross carved into the leather along under his thumb... Oh, God, it is....

"Recognise it, do you?"

The voice was mild, seeming barely curious, but the words nevertheless hammered into Vasili's already raw nerves. He pulled himself to his feet, swung wildly into the only move he knew with a sword, the stroke meant to behead a temporarily dead syn molniya* -- and wasn't surprised when the gambit was parried with barely any sign of effort from the other man. He stumbled away from the return stroke, managing to evade it more by luck and instinct than any real skill, and waited, breathing raggedly, for the stranger to follow after and kill him.

Except he didn't. The stranger seemed content to stand and wait, and the only gambit Vasili knew with a sword had already failed. What now? You wanted this, damn you, what do I do? What do you want from me? Why are you doing this? Why haven't you killed me already? Some sort of sick game? What do you want with me?!

"Who are you?" It was the only question of the litany running through his head to find its way to his tongue, and he swallowed a laugh that probably bordered on hysterical. As if it matters who he is. He'll kill me whether I know his name or not. If I'm lucky, that's all he'll do....

"Your name?" came the question in return.

Cold eyes stared his down, and the answer slipped out independent of his volition, "Vasili."

The stranger nodded. "Vasili." The word sounded foreign on his tongue, cold and ugly and somehow loathsome, barely connected at all to Vasili. "I am Matthew of Salisbury. And this," a gesture with his free hand indicated the empty lot, the swords, the two of them, "is Challenge."

Challenge? If it's a challenge, does that mean I can turn it down? My sincere apologies, and I most respectfully decline your kind invitation.... Vasili swallowed the wave of dark laughter threatening. Somewhere along the way, he'd closed his eyes again. He wondered vaguely whether hysteria was an improvement over panic, or just a change of scenery.

"This is going to happen whether you will it or no, boy. If I were you, I'd lift that sword."

There was a kindness in the rough words so at odds with the stranger's cold eyes that it sobered Vasili abruptly, lasered through his burgeoning hysteria and cut it off at the source. He could feel shock settling on him, a mantle cushioning him from the world, from the roller-coaster ride of his flailing emotions. Oh, God, finally. He opened his eyes, lifted the sword; it didn't matter anymore. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to change that -- the one half-wild exchange they'd had so far had told him that much. Whatever game he was playing, this Matthew of Salisbury, he knew how to use the sword he brandished. And Vasili's own few, well-honed fighting skills would stand him little benefit here.

But he'd never yet stood still for death, and he wasn't about to start now. Doomed he might be, and damned as well -- but if he had to go down, he'd do it fighting.

"Ready?" An ironic twist of an eyebrow accompanied the biting word, and Vasili winced. He'd been that obvious?

Dermo.* My control is really shot to hell. Well, it wasn't like it there was going to be much of a future for it to matter in. Vasili raised the sword into something approximating the 'ready' position the other man had assumed, and waited. It might be his funeral, but he'd bloody well make the other man start it. "Da.* Ready."

What the hell just happened? Vasili looked at the sword, lying on the ground a few feet from him, the echoes of its fall still ringing through his ears. I've got to stop doing this. He'd been standing, sword in hand and awaiting the other man's attack -- and now here he was sprawled over the concrete, sword lying useless on the ground beyond his reach, and lightning crawling over his skin where the other man's sword had pierced him.

And no recall of events in between. Oh, no. Not again. Nyet.* Not that denying it did any more good than denying any of this had done. Vasili could still feel the blood dribbling over his skin, trailing his lightning in its wake. He couldn't deny the leaden weight of his arm, lying useless and numb below severed muscles. Nor could he escape the sudden advent of pain, distant now but beginning to bite through the covering blanket of shock. Oh, no -- I don't want to feel again. Kill me now, before the terror comes back... before I have to find the courage not to beg... He closed his eyes, waited for the stroke that would behead him. Surely this farce can't go on much longer.

"Vasili." The word was a command, and Vasili felt his head snap up in response before he ever really processed it. "How old are you?"

His chin came up as his stubborn streak finally kicked in where it might do some good. The fog of shock was dissipating quickly, but at least his panic didn't seem to be jumping to the fore again. Grandfather always said I was too hard-headed for my own good; it's about time I got some benefit out of it. "Old enough."

That got him an amused snort in reply. "If you were old enough, boy, that sword would be in your hand and not at your feet. Or are you just too damn lazy to stay in practice?" The question shot out whip-sharp, the sudden anger underlying it taking Vasili by surprise from a man who had, until now, been far too controlled. His eyes widened involuntarily, gaze dropping to focus on the bright red of his blood dripping from the sword the other held so casually.

"I practise," Vasili replied eventually, cautiously pulling himself to his feet as he spoke, barely suppressing a moan when pain flared in his as yet unhealed arm. He swayed for a moment, dizzy, before catching his breath and pushing completely upright, relieved when the other man made no move to stop him. He wasn't at all sure what it was he was supposed to have been practising, but a negative answer didn't seem like a terribly bright idea at the moment. And when it came down to it, there were a number of things he practised, almost religiously -- except he'd never taken religion as seriously as he took these.

"With the gun, I can believe." The tone was neutral, the earlier anger vanished as though it had never been.

"I practise with the gun, yes."

"Less work than a swordfight," Matthew offered. "Lower skill threshold."

Warily, Vasili nodded. "Yeah. I guess."

"Less risky."

Than what? Standing there and getting my head cut off? Vasili swallowed the bitter words, opting instead for a cautious silence. There was a trap here somewhere, he could feel it.

"Much simpler to just use a gun, really." A statement of fact, calm and collected. It was just about the first sensible thing this Matthew had said, yet Vasili's nerves were screaming at him that something was wrong... "Screw playing by the Rules, much better to simply shoot, don't you agree?" Matthew's voice whipped round him, ice-cold and demanding a reply. "Don't you agree?"

"Yes!" The question a demand, and Vasili gave the only answer he had to give. Shoot, run, shoot again -- it was better than dying, any day.

If he'd thought Matthew's voice cold before, it was glacial now. "Wrong answer, boy." Something smashed into his face, his gut; and then he was lying on the ground again with his head ringing, staring up the bloodstained blade of a sword into eyes that were coldly, quietly furious.

Vasili closed his eyes, not wanting to take the contempt in that gaze with him into death. He wanted to scream, cry out against the unfairness of it all. What else was I supposed to have done? He hadn't wanted to shoot anyone, let alone take their lightning, but he was damned if he was going to sit there and let them take his, either. It was bad enough the blue lightning beneath his skin was about to lead him into death; what right did this man have to stand there and judge him as well? Anger and fear washed through him, rattling his soul 'til he found it a wonder he didn't shake himself to ribbons on the razor-edge of the blade.

But the sword was steady against his neck, controlled and cold and impossible to ignore, and if he waited for its bite any longer he'd go mad. Would he feel the blade cutting through him, he wondered? Or would he simply explode into the lightning that would batter his killer with mindless bolts of fury? Ni khachu umerit... ni khachu... ni khachu....*

Matthew stood over the Hunter, uncertain why he hadn't yet killed him and irritated by the uncertainty. Kill him or not, but at least know why you're doing it.

The problem was, he didn't. Everything he knew pointed to this Vasili being a Hunter, a youngster too fond of a gun and too lazy to maintain his skills with a sword, and yet.... And yet. He did try to run before he tried to shoot. And passed up a rather pretty ambush while he was at it.

But he'd shot Lawrence and taken his head while he lay dead. He had tried to shoot Matthew, and Matthew had little doubt he'd never have woken up if he hadn't gotten in a bullet first. Vasili had all but admitted to ignoring the Rules in favour of convenience and safety. He also didn't want to die, but that wasn't surprising. Cowards rarely did.

Yet. There was something more. Something I'm missing. Something about the sword, about the way Vasili had looked at it, had looked at Matthew himself when he'd insisted he pick it up -- it didn't add up, but the details eluded all but his subconscious.

And he couldn't get that last comment out of his mind. I don't want to die... he wondered if the boy even knew he'd spoken it aloud. From the way he held himself, curled inside his own skin and waiting for the bite of the sword through his neck, Matthew didn't think so.

Well, just standing here is getting you nowhere. Perhaps a little information-gathering might be in order. "You know what we are." It wasn't a question, but the boy responded with a nod anyway, careless of the sword still flush against his neck. Matthew moved the weapon away. He could always move it back later, and he wasn't in the mood to wait for Vasili to revive after accidentally cutting his own throat on Matthew's blade.

"You know what we do." Again, the terse agreement. Matthew frowned, his backbrain kicking up a fuss at that answer but still not willing to let him know why.

"Then tell me -- why should I play by the Rules if you won't?"

Surprise on Vasili's face, quickly covered by that blank stare the boy was so fond of. Matthew could almost hear the protest Vasili had swallowed. This just gets better and better. What kind of damn fool taught him, I wonder?

It was as good a question as any, Matthew supposed. "Who was your Teacher?"

The flicker of expression was easily recognisable as bewilderment, the blank "My teacher?" scarcely necessary. Matthew sighed. It had been a long day, and he really hadn't expected to end it playing Twenty Questions when he'd taken the afternoon to run down a Headhunter.

"Yes. Your Teacher, boy."

Obstinacy mixed with the fear in Vasili's eyes, now. "I have a name."

Matthew raised an eyebrow, let his weariness show through. "And I only have so much patience, boy."

"Which teacher?"

Which Teacher? He's had more than one? I could have sworn he wasn't that old... Reminding himself of the follies in judging the age of immortals, Matthew answered, "The first will do."

Disbelief in the boy's eyes, and once again something wasn't ringing true. Not Vasili; Matthew was willing to believe that his current confusion was genuine.

"You want the name of my first teacher." Voice flat, eyes incredulous as Vasili pushed himself up off the ground and into a crouch.

Matthew nodded curtly in response, stepping back to allow the movement. Frowned as the boy flinched in pain, his arm almost giving out under his weight. That really should have healed by now. "Yes."

"I don't remember."

Belligerent, but it was at least in roughly the right direction. If completely unbelievable. No immortal forgets their first Teacher. There's too much of who we are tied up in that first learning of what we are. "Try harder, boy."

"It was a long time ago!"

"And you're not Methos, to be forgetting your origins and your lineage." Matthew paused, considered. "How long?"

A sullen shrug his only answer, and Matthew sighed. Vasili crouched in front of him, determinedly staring off into the tangle of greenery near the exit to the street, as though doing his best to ignore both Matthew and the questions he clearly regarded as pointless. Matthew raised his sword, ignoring the flinch Vasili couldn't quite suppress. Not so oblivious as he'd like to appear, hmm? A moment's consideration, and then Matthew lashed out, knocking the boy sprawling with a blow from the flat of his blade. Damn it. I hate terrorising youngsters.

Almost as much as I hate having to kill them.

"Do I have your attention now?"

Wide-eyed and wild, Vasili nodded wordlessly.

"Are you in a hurry to die?"

"Nyet."*

"Then perhaps you should answer the question."

An audible swallow, followed by an awkward shrug and a reluctant, "I've never really thought about it. Twenty years, I guess."

Perhaps not so young, after all. "You studied with your Teacher twenty years ago," disbelief deliberately shaded Matthew's voice, "and yet you don't remember their name."

"Give or take." Vasili was starting to settle again, eyes not quite so wild or terrified, colour coming back into his face with the scowl that slid in over the blank mask that seemed to be his standard reaction to shock. "My first teacher. I told you, it was a long time ago. Another country, another world. I was just a kid. I don't really remember."

Matthew paused, caught once again by that elusive something. What is it about that answer?

"You've been in the Game twenty years." That didn't feel right, but it seemed to be what Vasili was claiming....

"I've been in what?"

Or not. Total bewilderment in the words as Vasili finally began to pick himself up again, watching Matthew warily as he cautiously pulled himself to his feet. Immortal or not, Matthew could feel the headache starting up behind his eyes. Are we even having the same conversation, here?

Basics. Start with the basics."How old are you?"

"I..." a pause, in which Matthew could almost see Vasili running the math. "Twenty-six? I think."

Definitely not the same conversation. "What are we?"

Confusion once again foremost on Vasili's face, and Matthew felt the last of his anger dissolve as the boy asked, blankly, "What?"

"You claim to know what we are."

Wariness lighting grey eyes, now. "Syni molniya."*

Sons of Lightning? That's a new one. Still, Matthew supposed, as good a description as any. "And what do we do?"

Bitterness, and something else -- grief? "We kill each other."

Well. That's certainly succinct. "And the Rules?"

"Rules?"

Damnation. I was afraid of that. "Yes."

"You -- they -- there aren't any rules! They're trying to kill me, damn it!" Anger, fear, disbelief -- so many emotions twined in his words Matthew couldn't even begin to separate them all out, and doubted Vasili really knew himself. "How can there be rules?"

"There are always rules, Vasili. And consequences for breaking them."

"The only rule that matters is survival!" Head up, grey eyes blazing, his hands clenched into fists as Vasili paced back and forth, reckless with his anger.

Matthew paused. But does he disdain the Rules, or is he ignorant of them? Or both? This beating about the bush is getting us nowhere." Do you know the Rules?"

A stubborn tilt to Vasili's stance as he repeated, doggedly, "The only rule that matters is survival."

"And damn the cost?" Matthew murmured sadly. "You'd rather shoot us and take our heads while we can't fight back, is that it? Let yourself become a murderer in the name of almighty survival?" And still the question's unanswered. "Why shouldn't I do the same to you?"

A careless shrug, belied by the pain in Vasili's eyes. "You should have."

"Because you would have? I prefer things fair, boy. If I'm going to kill someone, I'll not do it on such uneven straits."

"Fair?" Incredulity, anger, fear all tangled together and underlying the word as Vasili moved restlessly across the ground, spinning angrily to face Matthew once again as he came to a halt opposite him. "You think this is fair? You think any of this is fair?"

Matthew shrugged. "Fairer than cutting you down while you lay dead would have been. Fairer still if you'd had a notion how to hold on to that sword yonder. I'd like a word or two with the fool that taught you."

A blur of movement, and Matthew barely had time to get his arm up to block the stone that flew at him with enough force to bruise through to bone. What the...? When did he pick that up? He swore aloud as a second stone thudded home above his eye, again as a figure darted past him and toward the street, easily dodging past the half-blind block Matthew attempted. He shook off his startlement and turned to follow the boy, cursing the blood that clouded his vision even as he wiped it clear, and then dodging as Vasili stooped to pick up and throw another rock. He's too fast to catch easily and without risking notice, and I'd really rather not shoot him again.

Stooping, he picked up a stone of his own, sighted on the running figure, and let fly. Watched with satisfaction as Vasili stumbled. Another rock, hitting hard on the back of his thigh, and Vasili lost his footing and went down. Turnabout's fair play, after all. He wiped the blood from his forehead, ignoring the frisson from the just-healed cut. Nice try, boy. But not good enough. Replaying the events in his mind, he realised suddenly just what had startled him so badly in that break for freedom. He's disarmed... so why didn't he try for the sword?

"We're not done here."

"Dermo."* Vasili climbed wincing to his feet, casting a longing glance down the street as he did so, clearly tempted to keep running and damn the consequences.

"I don't want to shoot you again, Vasili. But I will if I have to." Matthew waited, patiently, for Vasili to make his choice.

"Why are you doing this?" Vasili cast another glance at the street behind him, body strung taut as a bow, the struggle to hold back the bewildered words clearly visible to Matthew, even as he lost it. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to find a reason not to kill you."

"I don't..." Vasili trailed off, confused, hands curling into tight fists against his bloodstained jeans. "Ni ponimaiyu."*

Sympathy softened Matthew's voice. "Obviously."

"K'Chorti."* Misery as evident in the word as in the tired slump of Vasili's body. "What now?"

"I suggest you sit." A moment's thought, and then Matthew used his sword to point out a spot. "There. Cross-legged, and your hands open and resting palm-up on your thighs."

Matthew waited until Vasili had limped over and settled into position before he dropped to sit on the ground himself, sword cradled unsheathed across his thighs, and carefully studied what was very likely about to become his new student. Someone certainly needs to teach him the Rules and the sword before he gets himself killed. Now I just need to convince him of that.

And if he proves determined to hold by his current tactics? Suppose I'll deal with that if and when it comes to it, Matthew thought. But allow him the chance to be what he will be, first. And for the moment -- Methodically, he took stock of the man sitting opposite him.

He didn't much like what he saw. Now that Matthew was looking, it wasn't difficult to find the signs of a long-term neglect -- food and sleep both appeared to have no more than a passing acquaintance with Vasili, and the ease with which the boy's current fear had settled along his bones bespoke a long familiarity with the state. Clothing well-worn and patched, clean beneath the blood and dirt Matthew himself was responsible for putting there, but not equal to the task of keeping the weather out at this time of year, either. Skin and hair fairly clean as well, bar the same recent additions as to Vasili's clothes. Water at least appeared to be a constant, even if food, sleep and warmth were not. Has he even relaxed at all since he became Immortal? How long has he been running, I wonder?

"When did you die, Vasili?"

"About a half hour ago. You should remember; you shot me."

Perfect. Now he's sullen and smart-mouthed. "The first time, boy."

When no answer was forthcoming Matthew added, "You're not going to claim to have forgotten that too, I hope?"

Whatever fight had been in Vasili's eyes drained away into a grief so intense Matthew had to hide his own instinctive flinch.

"No. I remember."

Matthew gentled his voice, "When?" And how, I wonder? Who died with him, that it left such a wound in its wake?

"What does--" a painful shrug that clearly said What the hell? "Five years, more or less."

It has been a while, Matthew thought, since I've last seen anyone look quite so lost. He's been on his own five years, and he's still alive? He re-evaluated his impression of Vasili's potential and abilities. Not bad at all. "And who trained you?"

Back to bewilderment. "Trained me to what?"

"Who told you of what you are?"

"I don't -- nobody trained -- nobody told me."

Matthew sighed inwardly. He'd been expecting it, but... I hate it when I'm right about these things. "But you knew."

"Yeah."

"How?"

A shrug, listless and sad. "I've always known."

Matthew frowned. "You didn't grow up expecting to be immortal," he disagreed. Too desperate, too lost and hurt and haunted.

Another tired shrug. "About syni molniya,"* Vasili clarified. "When I..." he trailed off, expression haunted. "It wasn't hard to recognise the symptoms," he finished.

No, I don't suppose it would have been. Matthew reached behind him, found the bottle of water that had been in Vasili's backpack, and tossed it to him. "Here." Frowning, he noted the exhaustion that blurred Vasili's movements as he made to catch it, the fumble as he almost dropped it.

"...What?" Puzzled grey eyes raised to his, while Vasili held the bottle as though wondering if it would explode, or merely bite him.

Has it been so long since anyone showed him even that little kindness? "Drink."

Vasili did, deeply enough for Matthew to wonder when he'd last done so. "Thanks," he muttered grudgingly, as he put the cap back on the bottle and made to hand it back. A sudden pause, and Matthew could see the moment when it clicked. "You went through my things."

Matthew nodded unapologetically. "Yes."

A flash of outrage, quickly damped as Vasili remembered he was in no real position for it. "Why?"

Matthew smiled at the irritation Vasili couldn't quite suppress. Good. He's not yet been so long lost his spirit has forfeited its resiliency. "Know your enemy. Information is never wasted, Vasili."

"Is that why all the questions?" Suspicion wove through the words, and highlighted the shadows of Vasili's expression.

"Partly. I don't like to kill the innocent, or the undeserving."

"Innocent?"

Matthew raised an eyebrow, amused. "You don't appreciate the description? I wouldn't worry; you don't qualify."

Bitterness laced Vasili's tone as he responded. "Because I'm syn molniya."*

This time, surprise raised Matthew's eyebrows. "Because you shot Lawrence Dunn."

"Who?" Genuine puzzlement behind Vasili's question.

Matthew nodded toward the blade on the ground a few feet distant. "The man whose sword you couldn't keep in hand."

Vasili looked in the direction indicated, and what little blood was left in his face drained from it as his gaze lit upon the sword. Matthew wondered at the strength of the reaction, but contented himself with watching as Vasili swallowed nervously. "I -- why aren't I dead?"

Direct, at least. "Should you be?"

Vasili kept staring at the sword, that blank look back on his face, Matthew noted with an inward sigh. I could truly come to hate that expression.

"Since I'm not... innocent..." Vasili stumbled over the word, stopped. He changed tack, words tumbling from him in a desperate, confused rush. "You, I, we're syni molniya.* One of us should be. One of us... someone..." He paused, took a deep, deliberate breath, and continued more slowly. "Me. I should be dead. I should... shouldn't I? One of us should..."

"There can be only one?" An ironic lift of an eyebrow showed what Matthew thought of that doctrine.

"What?" Finally, Vasili looked back at Matthew, at the naked sword across his lap. "One of us should be dead," he repeated, uncertainly.

"The Gathering is not yet, Vasili." Matthew spoke gently, not wanting to spook him more than he had already. "I don't particularly want your head."

"No." A shudder wracked Vasili's too-thin frame in conjunction with the instinctive denial.

"No?"

"It -- it doesn't work like that." Huddled in on himself, Vasili's words were a thin, desperate cry. "It doesn't."

"Why not?"

Eyes large and haunted in a face far too pale for Matthew's liking. "Death is what we do. What we are."

"Do you like to kill?"

"I don't want to die." A dogged, desperate plea.

Who is he trying to convince? Me? Or himself? "You crave the Quickening, then?"

"The... quickening?" The studied blankness of Vasili's expression faded imperceptibly into the blankness of sheer incomprehension, before a sudden glimmer of insight lit his eyes. "You mean -- do you mean the lightning?" Vasili asked, revulsion clear behind the question.

Matthew nodded calmly. "So you do not crave the Quickening, nor do you crave the kill. I feel no overwhelming urge to take your head, therefore it is not yet the Gathering. So, explain to me why one of us must die?"

"I...." Confused, lost, Vasili wrapped his arms about himself, eyes focussing unerringly on the drying blood that flaked Matthew's forehead. "I would have killed you. If... if I could... you..." he closed his eyes, despair underscoring his shattered words. "Syni molniya. We're syni molniya,"* he finished, hopelessly.

"If I take your head, it will be for what you have done and what you will not do. Not because of what you are." Matthew studied the frightened boy before him carefully. "If, Vasili."

"If." The word a choked laugh, and Matthew wondered if hysteria would follow. But Vasili cut it off, opened eyes gone dark with unnamed emotion. "Why wouldn't you?"

Matthew shrugged. "I'd rather not kill if it can be avoided."

Vasili nodded, eyes unreadable. "You said -- you don't like to kill the innocent. But I'm not innocent, you said."

Matthew watched him. "No," he agreed. "You're not innocent."

"Then -- why?"

"Haven't I killed you? Because I'm not convinced you deserve it, yet. You're misguided, but that can be set right. If you want it to be."

"Misguided?" A laugh, dark and not a little desperate and on the edge of hysteria. "Misguided? I'm not the one insisting on swordfights and rules for how it is and isn't permissible to keep someone from killing me. And you think I'm misguided?"

"Generally, rules have a reason for existing, Vasili. Breaking them without at least knowing the consequences is plain stupid."

"Consequences? You have to be alive to worry about consequences."

He has a point there. "Continue to ignore the Rules, and you won't be alive to worry about consequences. Sooner or later, it will catch up with you."

"I don't--" Vasili swallowed, tried again. "What did I do? If it's not because we're syni,* then what?"

Well, that answers that question. Wherever he got his information on Immortals, it didn't include the Rules. I wonder what else it left out? For that matter, I wonder where he got it? "You shot and then beheaded another Immortal. You did shoot and then behead Dunn, did you not?"

"I--" involuntarily, Vasili's gaze turned toward the sword lying on the ground. "He would have killed me. I was supposed to just let him? Let them?"

So, more than one. Matthew nodded to himself, unsurprised at the implication. He's been doing this all five years, with little or no idea what he's about, and no one has caught up with him yet? Impressive. "The past is done, Vasili. What matters now is the future, and how you choose to face it."

"What?" Bewildered grey eyes turned back to Matthew. "The future?" Vasili's voice clearly conveyed his disbelief that there would, or even could, be a future.

"Yes." Matthew considered him levelly. "I can't leave you to go on as you have been, Vasili."

"So that's it, then?" Bitter eyes watched him from behind Vasili's favourite blank expression. "Time's up, and now you kill me? Here? Or were you after having me pick up that sword yonder first, so you can tell yourself it was 'fair', and sleep easy at night?"

Back to this again? Matthew studied him, unperturbed by the outburst. "That's one option, yes."

"You should have killed me at the start." Resignation had replaced the mingled anger and fear in Vasili's eyes, reinforcing the bitter weariness of the words.

"It's not the only option. There is another."

"What, I promise never to shoot another person, you take my gun as collateral and generously allow me to toddle off into the sunset, a quick, hassle-free snack for the first syn* whose path I cross?" Vasili raised his head, baring his neck. "Just do it."

Matthew took note of the defeated slump of Vasili's body and the exhaustion evident behind the bravado in his gaze. "I thought you weren't in a hurry to die?"

"Svoloch'."*

But the word held no real heat, and Matthew frowned. Time to finish this. He's long past the end of his tether, and fast running out of reserves.

"Come along, then. I suspect we'd best start by feeding you." Matthew rose to his feet, cleaned and sheathed his sword with practised ease. Gathered up Lawrence's broadsword, his own coat, and Vasili's backpack. "Well?"

Unmoving on the ground, Vasili stared stunned back up at him. "Feeding me?" he repeated incredulously.

Matthew grinned wickedly, sudden humour buoying his words. "Of course. You are hungry, are you not?"

"Hungry." Vasili shook his head to clear it, looked about him as though seeking answers from the air itself. "You -- what are you doing?"

Matthew studied him seriously. "We need to talk. There's no reason we can't do it in comfort, over food. Come along, Vasili."

"I don't have a lot of choice, do I?"

"At the moment? Not truly, no. But you'll get a free meal out of it, at least." And not before time, either. Matthew watched, concerned, as Vasili struggled to his feet, exhaustion and cold and lack of nourishment combining to stiffen muscles and make the process more difficult than it should have been. He reached out a steadying hand as Vasili swayed, shrugged philosophically when the boy flinched away from it, and led him toward the street.

At the car, Matthew checked and rewrapped the broadsword before stowing it safely in the trunk. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a pack of Neutrogena wipes and threw them to Vasili. "Here. Clean off some of that blood." He swiped one over the blood on his own forehead before looking the boy over carefully. He pulled the extra jeans out of Vasili's backpack and tossed those to him, as well. "The jeans need to go. Change into these."

"Here?"

Matthew looked around the deserted street and shrugged. "I don't see why not." He passed Vasili's spare shirt to him also. "You certainly can't wear those." He watched, patiently, until Vasili finally began to strip first his shoes and then his jeans off, his movements the mechanical jerkiness of someone nearing shock. He considered the sweater Vasili had pulled off only briefly before pitching it into the trunk as too threadbare and worn to really do any good. Reaching into the backseat of the car, Matthew pulled out one of his own and handed Vasili that, instead. It'll hang far too loose on him, but at least will be warm. And I do believe he's long since forgotten what that feels like.

"In the car, Vasili," he prodded gently, to get the boy moving again; watched concerned as he obeyed unprotesting. Shock, Matthew diagnosed. To be expected, I suppose.

Now. To get him warm, and fed. Matthew opened the door, climbed into the car himself. Somewhere with people, I think; someplace where the smells and sounds will convince him that it's neutral ground at least, if not necessarily safe. Someplace where he won't think every stray sound or motion is his own death rolling down on him. I'm surely not accomplishing anything with him out here.

The car window was cold against Vasili's skin, the glass smooth and cool in sharp contrast to the unfamiliar wool that scratched at his arms, and just at the moment he thought it might perhaps be the only real thing left in the world. He cast a glance at the silent man beside him and sank lower into his seat, wondering whether, if he tried hard enough, he might not be able to fade into the fabric and disappear.

Dream, he decided. One of the bad ones where everything was sharp-edged and bright and slashing, and nothing made sense. His grasp on the reality of it was certainly tenuous enough for it to qualify. And if that's the case, isn't it best to go with it? So, his dream-captor wanted him fed? Wanted to 'talk'? Fine. I'm tired of fighting it. Sooner or later, I have to wake up.

If only he could believe that....

He looked out the window, focused his gaze on the scenery passing by. He was lost, his knowledge of the city already exhausted, but concentrating on the buildings they passed was better than wondering why he wasn't dead, or what happened next. More productive, too, probably. Less gibbering involved.

The building they finally pulled up in front of was old, the bricks grey and chipped. Vasili climbed out of the car, then followed unprotesting through a door and into what was obviously an establishment far less dubious than it appeared from the outside.

"Sit, Vasili."

He did, sliding obediently into the booth Matthew indicated, shivering in the warmth of the room. He watched, surprised, as Matthew moved off to the counter, leaving him behind in the booth. Considere -- No. Too many people in here. Vasili looked around, cataloguing exits and possible routes to them with his habitual eye to detail. And he could easily get between me and the door before I cleared the booth. Giving up the idea of escape for now, he instead sat sideways on the bench, pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, wanting the comfort and not caring how much the position gave away. He leant his back against the wall and closed his eyes, just for a minute. So bloody tired. Movement around him, something being put on the table, a body sliding into the seat opposite, murmuring voices, a pen scratching over paper...

"Kogda bwilo tvaya posclednaya eda, Vasili?"*

He looked up, attention caught more by the unexpected Russian than by the words. A glass of water stood on the table in front of him, the waitress waited next to the booth, patiently tapping her pencil against the order pad, and his -- captor? companion? -- was looking him over with dark, unfathomable eyes.

"Food, Vasili." Matthew patiently repeated his question, in English now. "When did you last eat any?"

"Uh..." When had it been? "Morning?" he hazarded.

"This morning?"

Was it? Vasili shrugged, not really caring. "Might have been yesterday. Today, uh, maybe..." Not liking the look that answer brought into the other's eyes, he hurriedly lied. "Da.* Definitely. This morning."

Dark, unreadable eyes studied him, and Vasili fought back a flinch. I wish I could see what he's thinking.

"There was food in your backpack." The tone of Matthew's voice was as neutral as his eyes, still studying Vasili with that same discomforting intensity.

Had there been? Vasili shrugged, not knowing what response was wanted. "Monday," he said at length, when the silence had stretched out too long and he couldn't stand it any more. Anything, to get those eyes off me.

"Monday?" Puzzlement in Matthew's voice.

"The bread. I got it Monday. In..." Where had it been? "Twisted streets, crazy drivers, colonial-style buildings." Boston, that was it. "Boston. In Boston."

"It's Thursday."

He shrugged tiredly. "Is it?"

"You got bread, in Boston, on Monday." The voice flat, and Vasili leant warily back and away. Matthew waited for Vasili's careful nod before finishing, "That's all you've eaten since? That bread?"

Was it? "I guess." Probably.

That got him a muttered comment in a language Vasili couldn't recognise, let alone translate, and he shivered again. It's bad enough trying to guess what he's thinking when I know what he's saying...

"Do you mind a suggestion?" Vasili glanced up at the hesitant words, and shot the waitress a look of pure gratitude as Matthew's attention shifted off him and onto her. Oh, thank you, lady. It wouldn't last, he knew, but any kind of breathing room was better than none, just now.

"We've got a good, thick homemade vegetable soup that they can have warm for you in a couple of minutes, and bread I can bring out now." She hesitated again, but whatever she saw in Matthew's face must have encouraged her to continue, "He really looks like he could do with something hot, and fast, and it'll go down easy, too."

Vasili stopped listening and tried to just relax and soak up the warmth of the restaurant, glad not to be the focus of Matthew's lethal attention for a few seconds, at least. He shivered, cold despite the heaters in first the car and now the restaurant, and sank back into the corner of the booth again. In any other circumstances it might have been a good place to eat: pleasant decor, friendly staff, and the smells coming from the kitchen were enough to tempt a saint. If he ignored the presence of the syn molniya* across from him, the place felt like the little hole-in-the-wall restaurants he'd frequented through university, in another country and another life....

"Vasili."

He started, called back to the present by the calm voice. Something pushed into his field of vision and he flinched back and away, as far as he could get in the confines of the booth, before the object resolved itself into a mug.

"Drink."

Milky-brown liquid steamed gently in the warm air. Vasili took a breath, another; forced himself down and into some semblance of calm. How did I miss the waitress unloading all this? He reached out a slightly-shaking hand, closed it tentatively about the cup in front of him, and sighed almost imperceptibly as heat began to soak through his fingers. Pulling it to him, he wrapped both hands around the ceramic and looked over the table. Milk, sugar, tea and coffee both -- do I dare ask which this is?

"It's only tea, Vasili."

He took a sip. Sweet, milky. Could do with a lot less of the latter. But it was also the first hot thing he'd had in -- days? Weeks, maybe. He struggled to remember, then gave it up as irrelevant and concentrated on drinking, instead. Closing his eyes, Vasili focused on the warmth that flowed down his throat and into his centre, that seeped into the small bones of fingers and palm. Oh, that's good.

"Better?"

Vasili shrugged, not wanting to admit it was.

"There'll be soup here in a bit," Matthew continued, undaunted. "And bread. You'll do best to eat slowly, Vasili. It'll do you no good if it doesn't stay down. In the meantime, the tea should warm you, and God knows you could do with that."

Vasili closed his eyes, the better to deny the concern in Matthew's voice and gaze. "What do you care?" It's not real. He's syn molniya,* and it's not real.

"Why shouldn't I?" The words hung in the air a moment, and then Matthew continued, "You've been alone five years, Vasili." Concerned dark eyes studied him, and Vasili fought the urge to slide under the table and hide. "It doesn't have to be that way."

Oh, God. It took all his strength to tamp down the longing that roused. If only.... Vasili's hands clenched tight about the mug, knuckles whitening as he waded through the turmoil, struggling to find an answer, to muster the arguments to support his bone-deep knowledge that, yes, it did have to be that way. All the years, his friends, his family -- he was syn molniya,* and trying to live his life as anything else was no more possible than reversing the sun in its tracks and staying human had been five years ago.

The arrival of the waitress distracted him and Matthew both. Vasili shifted, wincing as the movements pulled at muscles that had tensed and stiffened during his internal struggle. Or perhaps they'd been stiff all along, and he was only now noticing. Now facing the soupbowl in front of him on the table, he thanked the waitress absently, swapped his mug for the spoon and began to eat with a fierce concentration, as much to avoid the issue as to satisfy his body's need for fuel. The soup was good, thick and full and nourishing, and unless he missed his guess, had never seen the inside of a tin or packet. He ate steadily, grateful for Matthew's silence as he did so, for the time and the space to gather his thoughts, the tattered remnants of his self-control. He ate slowly, to draw it out, give himself more time; savoured the heat and the taste, the unaccustomed feeling of food lodged heavy and warm in his stomach.

A bang, a clatter of pots from the kitchen, and Vasili jumped, spilling a spoonful of still-hot soup over his hand. "Yob'."* He wiped it off, began to push his sleeves up his wrists, out of his way -- and stopped, struck by the realisation of just how long they were. Where...? He frowned at the weave, trying to recall just where he'd picked it up.

His. Memory slunk in: cold by a car, stripping off bloodied jeans; a voice, a pile of wool in his arms, 'Put this on,' as he reeled under the knowledge that he should be dead, and wasn't. His jumper. Food. Warmth. Alive.

He shuddered, convulsively. What the hell is his game?

As if he'd heard the thought, Matthew spoke. "So." He stopped, waited until Vasili reluctantly looked up at him, away from the near-empty bowl. Reprieve over, Vasili diagnosed with a sigh.

"You've been five years running," Matthew stated matter-of-factly, once he was sure he had Vasili's attention. "You don't know the Rules, and you don't see why they should apply to you. You can't use a sword, and don't carry one anyway. If I took you to Holy Ground and handed you a weapon, you'd probably try to use it. And you have a reputation as a Headhunter who likes to play with guns." He paused in his recitation, eyes boring into Vasili's as though he'd see through to his soul. "God Almighty, boy. How have you lived this long?"

Lightning flashed through Vasili's mind. Ripping, tearing, illuminating blood-spattered concrete as it drove through his body, his mind, his soul. He flinched, away from the question and the memory and the horror he hadn't been fully free of in five years; wrapped his arms about himself and tried to bring himself to order. I can't do this now. Change the subject. Another shudder he couldn't stop rolled through him. Fast.

"Are you ever going to tell me these rules you say I broke?" The question came out more belligerently than he would have intended, and the subject was not so far removed as he could have wished, but it didn't carry with it the smell of ozone burning through storm-wracked air, and he raised his head, defiant, to meet Matthew's steady gaze.

"God knows someone surely should." Matthew leaned forward to refill his mug -- coffee, Vasili noted, automatically freeing a hand to pass him the cream, sitting just out of Matthew's easy reach. "The first is this: If your head comes away from your shoulders, it's over."

Vasili snorted, memory colouring his voice bitter. "Tell me something I don't know."

"The second is this: We do not fight on Holy Ground."

He blinked, surprised. Considered the statement, and found he wasn't any more enlightened. "Why not?" he asked finally, puzzled.

"It is our refuge." Matthew's voice was sure and certain, carrying a weight beyond the words themselves, and his gaze on Vasili's was level and unwavering.

"Holy Ground." Vasili made the words flat, wary, heavy with scepticism. "Whose?" He studied Matthew carefully, waiting for the lie. Refuge. Oh, God, I wish....

"All Holy Ground, Vasili. Irrespective of creed."

An unbearable longing made the words more bitter, more disbelieving than they needed to be, "And I'm supposed to believe syni* just... respect that?"

Calm eyes regarded him. "In all of our history, there is only one known instance of two Immortals fighting on Holy Ground, Vasili."

Yeah, but it's the unknown instances that worry me. He said nothing, merely waited for Matthew to finish.

"Have you heard, perhaps, of a volcano by name of Vesuvius?"

Vesuvius? But.... he swallowed, suddenly nervous. Oh. "Oh."

"Holy Ground is inviolate." The words final, absolute, tone brooking no contradiction. "One way or another."

He nodded, not willing to argue the point. It might not be true, but if it was.... Right. Stay off Holy Ground.

Refuge. He closed his eyes, suddenly dizzy. Oh, God. Grandfather, your tales never mentioned this....

There was refuge.

After a moment, Vasili pushed away the thought and the tangle of emotions that went with it, and opened his eyes again. The daydream is nice, but it's not within reach and there's no time for this now. He reached for his mug, clasped it between both hands, let the heat filter through his palms. Did his best to keep his voice neutral as he asked, "What else?"

"What makes you think there's more?"

Vasili shook his head, impatient. "If there's not, why am I here?"

A raised eyebrow as Matthew sipped at his coffee was his only reply, and Vasili sighed, edgy and frustrated. "You said, 'Why should I play by the rules, if you won't?' " he elaborated. "And we weren't on Holy Ground."

An approving nod from the other man. "And we both have our heads. So." Matthew set his mug down, and considered Vasili carefully. "Holy Ground, that is a Rule we do not break," he reiterated. "It would kill you, your opponent, and the landscape about you impartially, and that is not a thing most are willing to risk." Eyes dead-serious, locked on Vasili's and commanding attention. "Never take a head on Holy Ground. Never. Do you understand me?"

It took him a moment to realise the question wasn't rhetorical. There had been certainty of utter doom in the voice, and Vasili knew enough of tales and the grains of truth behind them to feel the consequences Matthew had named, down through his bones. Sheer luck I haven't.... He swallowed, hard, reached a shaky hand to refill his cup, simply to have something with which to distract himself. Somehow, I don't think 'I didn't know' would have held much weight in the face of the act....  "Da," he agreed, feeling shaken. "Ya ponimaiyu.* I understand."

Matthew's sudden relaxation was the last touch that hammered home his preceding intensity, the utter conviction he'd espoused. "Good." Matthew reached for the cream and sugar, handed them to Vasili, watching almost approvingly as he automatically added them into his tea. "So: that is the Rule we do not break. The rest is more... flexible."

"Flexible." Vasili scowled. "What the hell does that mean? Are they rules, or aren't they? What in hell are they?" Flexible. I'm going to die over something that's not even defined enough to be consistent?

A casual shrug from the other man. "They are, and they aren't. It's possible to break them. There is no built-in consequence, as with Holy Ground. The only reckoning you'll face is with those of us who do not appreciate such tactics." Matthew's voice hardened, became subtly threatening, as he added, "But know this: such a reckoning will come. It was by no accident I came to be in that bar this afternoon, Vasili."

"You were look--" Vasili swallowed, throat suddenly, painfully, dry. "Looking for me." He didn't doubt it, not that Matthew had come looking for him, nor the purpose with which he had come. I should be dead. Why aren't I dead?

"Yes." The word stark and uncompromising.

Vasili reached blindly for his cup and gulped at the liquid contained within, heedless of the heat scalding his throat and mouth. "How did -- what -- why?"

A pause, long enough for Vasili to wonder if he would answer, before Matthew finally spoke. "Dunn. I've a friend in New York; when a decapitated corpse turned up with bullet wounds and evidence of a lightning storm in the surrounding area, he called me. Then I picked up Dunn's sword in the pawnshop this morning. It wasn't difficult to follow your trail from there."

"Oh." I should have left town after visiting the pawnshop. Vasili frowned, struck by the sudden realisation. A year ago, I would have.

"I see." Vasili closed his eyes, feeling sick. "Does it matter at all that he was trying to kill me?"

"Yes. It does. But, Vasili," Matthew's voice was astonishingly gentle, and Vasili opened his eyes, sure he'd imagined it. "You shot him, and then you took his head while he lay dead and could not defend himself."

Vasili shivered, suddenly bone-cold again. "What did you want me to do?" he asked wearily. "Stand there while he killed me? Kneel, to make it easier for him?"

"No. You're not expected to lay down and die, Vasili."

"Then what?" He waved a hand, frustrated. "What did I do that was so damn wrong? He was trying to kill me, for God's sake! He wasn't about to just bloody leave!"

"You shot him, Vasili."

"You shot me."

A raised eyebrow at that. "And you'll recall that you woke up with a sword, and the chance to defend your life. Can Lawrence Dunn say the same?"

"Not anymore," Vasili said tiredly.

That got another raised eyebrow, and Vasili had the oddest notion that his answer might, another time, have amused his captor. Why would that...? He replayed his words in his mind, and almost laughed himself as comprehension hit. So, he has a penchant for gallows humour? God, why me?

But when it came down to it, this wasn't another time or place, and Matthew simply said, "It's not that you shot him, Vasili." He watched Vasili closely as he went on, his tone so reasonable and patient Vasili wanted to scream. "Given the situation, it's probably the best tack you could have taken. But you shouldn't have killed him."

Vasili closed his eyes, hung grimly to what little was left of his temper. "He wanted to kill me."

"I don't doubt that, Vasili. But murder is rarely a good solution. And there are usually alternatives. A blade through the heart, for instance, ensures ample time to leave the scene, and isn't permanent."

"Leave the scene," Vasili repeated, struggling to keep the words flat and expressionless. "As easy as all that, was it?" Try as he might, he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "Just... walk away." He closed his eyes, sought calm in the darkness. Found frustrated, broken anger instead. "Don't you think I tried that?" He caught his breath on a sob, opened his eyes, favoured Matthew with a look that held all the helpless despair behind his rage. Resisted the urge to yell curses at the walls. "It didn't bloody work."

That, it seemed, got Matthew's full attention. Very quietly he said, "Vasili, what have you tried?"

Vasili forced himself to breathe, to take a sip of too-hot tea, and to push away any hope that this bewilderingly inconsistent man might actually help him. Why should he, when he's already had me down twice, now? "Why haven't you killed me? Since you went to the trouble of hunting me down especially?" He tried to make the question sarcastic, cutting, but it sounded more tired and lost than anything else. And it didn't seem to matter; whatever he tried, it seemed this man saw through him regardless. "I certainly couldn't have stopped you."

"Why should I blame you for trying to stay alive with what little information you had, however incomplete or wrong it was?" Matthew studied him from those unsettlingly composed eyes. "On the other hand... now you do know better. Would you handle it any differently? You might have been safe if you'd stayed in the bar." Matthew's voice, calm and reasonable, served only to strengthen the morass of confusion and emotion Vasili couldn't seem to pull free from. "Among witnesses."

"No." The denial, strong and immediate, bypassed thought entirely to hang stark in the air between them. "No. I had to leave."

Across from him, Matthew watched consideringly. "Why?"

"People." Vasili shuddered, once, closed his eyes. "I had to leave."

"Because there were people there." Matthew's words were slow, drawn-out, slightly puzzled, and Vasili nodded reluctantly.

"Yeah."

"I don't -- oh." A wealth of comprehension in Matthew's voice, and Vasili didn't want to open his eyes, didn't want to see the reaction that word embodied. "You thought I might harm them."

Vasili squeezed his eyes tighter shut, tried not to flinch at the images that replayed inside his mind. "Da."*

"Because it's happened before?" Matthew's question flat, unemotional.

Silence, stretched like taffy between them, marked only by the tremors Vasili couldn't any more control. I can't do this now. I can't. He concentrated on the feel of the bench beneath him, the wall solid against his spine, the wool soft under his palms where they were clenched about his arms. On breathing, on the warmth of the air about him, the smell of the soup still strong in his nose. On anything but thinking, remembering, feeling....

"Vasili."

His name a command, and he looked up despite himself.

"Breathe, Vasili."

He choked back a laugh. God, he sounds so sincere.... Vasili couldn't keep up, not with Matthew and not with himself. One minute eyes like ice, the next he's actually worried, or acts it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, another. What's wrong with me? I have got to get a grip. One by one, he forced his fingers to release the death-grip they had on his wrists and slowly, deliberately reached for his cup. Drink. Swallow. Breathe. Don't think. He forced himself up, away from the huddle he'd fallen into in the corner of the booth; straightened his back, his legs, swung his feet back down to the floor. This is not a good time to be flaking out. Reached deliberately for the teapot, relieved when his hand pouring the liquid shook only a little. Added a little sugar and sipped, grateful when Matthew merely slid, unspeaking, into his own ritual of refill.

"I wouldn't, you know." A pause, until Vasili looked up, found his gaze caught and held. "Whatever you choose to do, or not do -- these people are safe from me, Vasili."

He gave a jerky nod, and his breath, when he released it, was shaky. I think I believe him.

"I was rather wondering," Matthew asked in that too mild voice. "Why didn't you lay ambush in the alley?"

The alley...? What...? Confused by the non sequitur, Vasili ran recent history back through his mind: the first tendrils of warning, the silhouette in the doorway to the street, the slow drawled voice. Leaving the bar by the back door, the bullet squirreling through his flesh, the encounter in the empty lot.... Zhdai.* Backtrack. Alley, he said.

Brick, cold air, dumpster -- oh. Ambush. That niche, between the dumpster and the wall....

Ambush. He was expecting me to... oh, God. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms about himself. Well, what do you expect? You did try to shoot him. You would have killed him.

Why in hell hasn't he killed me yet? What does he want? What's his game?

He opened his eyes, tilted his chin insolently, assumed a devil-may-care expression. "I miscalculated."

"Really." A wealth of meaning in that one word, and Vasili wasn't sure which was predominant. Not that it really mattered, the one thing that was clear was that Matthew wasn't buying it. Dermo.*

Vasili sighed. "It wouldn't have worked."

A level stare. "And running did."

He winced. When you put it that way.... "You wanted me to ambush you?"

Still that level gaze. "You'd likely be dead if you had."

Vasili started to gesture, frustrated, then caught himself and wrapped his fingers about his mug, instead. He'll kill me or not; I'm too damn tired to continue fretting it. "What difference does it make, then?"

"A lot, Vasili."

"Maybe I didn't see it."

Vasili watched, hopefully, as Matthew calmly considered that, groaned inwardly at the rejection. "No. You saw it. What I want to know is why you didn't take it."

K'chorti.* What am I supposed to tell him? I didn't want his bloody lightning; I just wanted to get away. "Would it have worked?"

Another measuring look. "Unlikely."

He shrugged. "So that's why I didn't try it."

"Unlikely."

A hint of humour in the flat word, and Vasili closed his eyes. Dermo.* "Look, I thought I could get away; I couldn't. What more do you want to know?"

"The truth?" The words sardonic and uncompromising, and Vasili shifted uncomfortably under the dark scrutiny.

"I just wanted out of there!" He snapped the words, hoping some of the truth would satisfy Matthew, and waited with a sinking heart as the silence just got heavier. When he couldn't take it anymore, Vasili spoke softly, "Because I'd never seen you before." He wrapped his arms tightly about himself, dropped his head to rest on drawn-up knees, eyes closed, not quite able to keep from trembling, hating the words that spilt from him without his full consent. "And I thought -- if I could just -- through the alley. If I could have just gotten out the end -- I wouldn't -- I thought, if -- I could get out, get away, and I wouldn't have to shoot you at all."

A thoughtful pause. Then, "It makes a difference, does it?"

"What?" Vasili didn't look up, didn't much want to see the expression on the other's face, to have to try to guess the thoughts behind it.

"Whether or not you've seen an Immortal before. It makes a difference?"

He stiffened. Yob'.* What did I say? "Ah...."

"Yes or no will do, Vasili." Again that hint of humour in the calm voice.

"Dermo."* Vasili didn't want to answer, didn't want to give more of himself to the scrutiny of this syn molniya* who wouldn't kill him, and wouldn't go away. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Why?" Vasili opened his eyes, looked up at the other man. "What do you mean, why?"

"What difference is it whether or not you've seen one before?"

"I...." Vasili contemplated not answering, and saw again the blade of a sword flying at him as he crouched in an empty lot, the shock of knowing that his death was slicing towards him, and he with no way left at all to dodge it. He tried to swallow, his throat dry, and freed an arm to reach for his tea. "They -- if I've never -- they might not be after me."

"And that matters, does it?"

He flinched. "God." The voice so cold, and the eyes with it.... Vasili dropped his head, hid from that terrible gaze. Left the cup on the table and wrapped his arm about himself again, hugged tight. "It hurts." Voice muffled, buried in his knees. "The lightning, it hurts." He was shaking again, he could feel it. "I don't... I can't...." He trailed off, at a loss. "I don't want their lightning. I never wanted their lightning. I just wanted them to...." he broke off, gulped air. "I just want to be left alone," he whispered, softly. "Just left...."

"You have to breathe, Vasili. And you have to live, because you're not willing to yield to the alternative." Matthew actually sounded almost sympathetic; the contrast was enough to shock Vasili into looking up at him again. "Breathe," he repeated, almost gently. "Everything else will come from that."

Matthew watched him intently, and those steady eyes lent an odd measure of calm. Unpredictable, yes, and they saw too well -- but the strength behind them hadn't wavered yet. Even from a man Vasili was sure would kill him, once he was done with whatever strange purpose held him now, that was somehow reassuring.

So Vasili quit worrying about food or tea, or just what that purpose was, and tried very hard to think about nothing but air moving in and out, steady, calm, even. Not about ribs that had had a bullet through them all too recently, nor the still-surprising not-quite ache in the arm that rose and fell with each movement of his chest. Certainly not about this stranger, and why he was letting him regain his composure. Just... air.

"Did you never wonder why we carry swords?" The question slid into Vasili's attention easily, without the pain of a blade or the sudden explosive numbness of a bullet.

He didn't look up, carefully kept the rhythm of his breathing, said only, "No. I saw their eyes; thought them mad."

"How did you learn to take their heads, then?" Level, that question, too level to be anything but dangerous.

Vasili wasn't at all sure how well the truth would go down with the other man, but.... Not a good time to lie. "I don't know."

Silence from across the table, more considering than threatening, then a very thoughtful tone. "Then you have been pushing too close to your edges. Or did you never hear about the memory that comes with the healing?"

Vasili frankly stared at him, startled out of his concentration on breathing. "What memory? I didn't get anything useful when I--" He broke off, clung desperately to his fragile self-control. "I certainly didn't get any of these 'Rules' you say I broke."

Matthew shrugged lightly, but his eyes were taking it much more seriously. "The Rules." Voice neutral, as steady as his eyes, holding Vasili's own. "You'd like to know them, then?"

Vasili made himself shrug, as casually as Matthew had, and forced a shade of nonchalance into his reply. "If you're going to kill me for them, I might as well know what they are."

Another of those penetrating looks. "You're not dead yet, boy."

"Yeah, well." He tilted his head stubbornly, pulled unconcern about him like a shield. Tried not to show how much it bothered him that Matthew had gone back to calling him 'boy' in that so-cold tone of voice. "These rules of yours?"

Dark eyes measured him, and he could see the moment Matthew decided to let it pass. "Simple, actually. Sometimes we fight, but it's one on one. We don't use poison, and we tend to frown on projectile missiles: bow, crossbow, pistol, whatever."

"Sometimes." Vasili couldn't quite muster shock over idea of being attacked with bow or crossbow -- not after being handed a sword earlier and being expected to know how to use it....

"Yes." Matthew caught his gaze, held it. "Sometimes, Vasili. Not always."

"And you'd have me believe that." Vasili didn't have to work to get the edge of disdain into his tone, nor the disbelief he knew had to be echoed in his eyes.

"Whether you do or not, it's truth."

He stared, astonished and outraged simultaneously. Sometimes? To not have to fight... but -- no projectile weapons? Swords? One on one? He's saying... God. "Whose durachnaya idea was this? Rules and swords? You're telling me the syni* expected me to pull out an oversized breadknife to defend myself? "

"Probably, yes."

His anger seemed to wash over Matthew, water over stone, and it occurred to Vasili to wonder just old this stone was... but his anger had control now, and he didn't have the energy to haul it back. "So you're saying that if I'd pulled a knife on them instead of a gun, everything would have been just perfect?" He didn't even try to keep his confused outrage out of his voice. "That no one would have cared? What was I supposed to do? Treat them like that stupid game at the fairs where you shoot the duck every time it comes across until you run out of bullets or the vendor runs out of prizes?"

Matthew obviously understood exactly the game he meant, but something in that had caught his full attention, drawing the man to lean forward over his cup of coffee to stare at Vasili. "Vasili, are you saying you weren't shooting them until they kept chasing you? That you were trying to avoid the fights?"

Vasili stared at him. "Bullets are expensive. And noisy. And I told you; I never even wanted their goddamn lightning. But they kept bloody coming...." He broke off, searched for the words to explain, tried to force them past his growing anger at this interrogation, and the weariness welling up under that....

"It's been my experience that most of us who wake up with a knife in the heart and a scar itching along the base of the throat don't make the mistake of pushing our luck further," Matthew said with the faintest of shrugs. One corner of his mouth twisted in apparent distaste for the admittedly effective tactic. "Did it never occur to you that a convincing threat is almost as good as the reality?" he asked thoughtfully.

"A threat. Do I look threatening?" Vasili sipped wearily at his tea, tried to think through the tiredness besieging him.

"Gauging us on looks is always... dangerous," Matthew said mildly.

"Yob'."* Vasili didn't even try to answer that, only sipped at his tea, missing the strong black stuff his grandfather had always made. The bitterness of that loss goaded him to say, "Next you'll be telling me you've family."

A fond smile spread unawares over Matthew's face as Vasili watched. "There are those of us who reckon certain relati