Never before in her life had Ayla had to threaten her own soldiers to get them to open the gates. And never in her life had they refused, even when threatened with being dangled from the east tower on a washing line.

"Damn you!" Ayla yelled, forgetting for the moment that such words could gain you years of roasting in purgatory. "Open those gates, now!"

The nearest soldier just looked uncertainly from the bar across the gate to her and back again. He had been up on the wall, and had seen what had happened outside. It was obvious he'd been far more comfortable dozens of yards seperating him from what was approaching outside, and didn't like to thought of removing this last flimsy bit of protection.

"M-milady... I... I can't..."

"Get out of my way!"

Shoving the soldier aside, Ayla ran to the gate and grabbed the heavy wooden bar. She took a deep breath and pulled. The bar didn't move an inch.

"Mary, mother of God! Why can't this thing be lighter," she groaned, pulling again.

"Um... because it's supposed to keep people out?" the soldier behind her suggested.

"Thank you! Thank you so much! Now stop wasting my time, come over here and give me a hand, will you?"

Again, the soldier hesitated. A few beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

"Err... I'm not so sure that's a good ide—"

"Open this gate!" came a growl from outside the walls, in a voice Ayla knew all too well. "Now! Open it, or I'll climb over the wall and rip your heads off!"

What little color remained in the soldiers face drained away. Before Ayla knew what had happened, he had pushed her aside and put his burly shoulders under the weight of the bar. A few seconds later it thudded to the ground, sending up a spray of mud.

From behind her, Ayla could hear the sound of hundreds of heavy boots approaching. The guards and recruits, no doubt. But the footsteps stopped the moment the heavy gates began to move. An eerie creak echoed over the courtyard, as if the doors that were opening were not the doors to Luntberg Castle, but the very doors to hell. And a moment later, when light flooded in through the opening, framing a muscular, blood-splattered figure with wild, black hair and fiery gray eyes, you could almost have believed the devil had entered.

Almost.

Ayla would never make that mistake. She hated the devil. Yet she loved this man.

Reuben strode into the courtyard. Ayla saw his eyes flit searchingly over the assembled crowd. Then his gaze found hers, and flared with heat more intense than that of any red hot iron. The smoke curling up from the burn scars on his chest seemed to undulate and dance around him in triumph. Yet Ayla saw it only out of her peripheral vision. She couldn't once take her gaze off his face. She felt as though she could see the whole world in those gray eyes of his.

"Reuben..." The word was a strangled croak. Until that moment, Ayla hadn't even realized how soar her throat was from trying not to cry, not to scream.

He stepped forward, and held his arms wide open—an invitation. And in this aprticular case, a rather bloody invitation.

Raising one shaking finger, Ayla pointed. "R-Reuben... your arms... your poor arms..."

"Oh." He glanced down at the halfs of the arrow shaft still sticking out of his forearms, as if he had only just noticed them. "Sorry."

Plucking the wooden splinters out of his flesh, he held them up, questioningly. "Where should I put these?"

"Oh Reuben!"

Ayla threw herself at him with the force of a battering ram. She didn't even have a conscious recollection of having started to move. All of a sudeden, she was flying forward, and then she was in his arms, and everything was bloody, and messy, and wonderful. She was home, at last.

The arrow halfs clattered to the ground, forgotten.

"You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!" She whispered it over and over and over again, as if she couldn't believe it was true. Part of her really couldn't, even though just then, his arms came up to grab her in as tight a hug as she had ever had. "You're alive! You're alive!" Needing more physical evidence of his vitality, she pressed her face into his chest, inhaling. He smelled a bit like a roast joint, but so what? He also smelled of Reuben. And he felt like Reuben. Hot, hard, and hers. "You're alive."

"Of course I'm alive!"

He had the gall to sound offended! Raising one eyebrow, he gave her his best devil's smirk, just as evil in its way as the one which had practically sent the entire enemy army running not five minutes ago. Ayla would never have thought that a smirk that evil could make her heart sing the way it did right then.

"And I even kept my word," he added. "I didn't kill all of them. Just a couple of hundred."

She was about to reply, when she felt something wet through the fabric of her dress—something wet that was coming from Reuben's arm. Oh God, blood!

"Reuben, your arms! I have to..."

"My arms are fine."

"No they're not! They're..."

"They're holding you. That's my definition of fine."

Ayla raised her face from his chest to argue, but she didn't get a single word out before he gripped her by the back of the neck and brought her mouth up roughly, almost desperately, to meet his. The moment their lips touched, all thought, all fear, all pain vanished as if had never existed. She could feel the iron taste of his blood in her mouth. But it didn't make her remember his horrendous wounds. It only made her think of the strength of his love for her. He had come back! He had fought, and won, and come back for her!

His lips turned more insistent, and then his tongue suddenly plunged into her mouth, plundering it, taking all she would give and more. Ayla simply let herself grow limp in his iron hold, and slowly and deliciously drowned in the feeling of his arms around her. He was alive! He truly was alive. And he loved her. Just then she didn't have a shred of doubt. No one could kiss like that if he wasn't in love.

Not that she actually could make any comparisons in regard to kissing, but still...

"Ayla," he murmured against her mouth, ceasing the warfare of their tongues just long enough to attack her with words. "I love you."

He knew exactly which words to choose to defeat her in the sweetest way.

"I... I love you too, Reuben," she murmured. "So very mu—" Before she was even finished, his lips silenced her again.

The guard, who still stood beside them, chose that exact moment to cough, delicately.

"Clear your throat again," Reuben growled, "and I'll cut it for you. We're busy!"

"Um... but Milord, don't you hear..."

At a glare from Reuben, he shut up, blunched, and placed a protective hand over his throat. But by then, Ayla could hear it herself: the sound of dozens of trampling feet, coming down the tower steps. The other castle guards were approaching, and with them Captain Linhart and Burchard. Oh God, Burchard! And her lips were still glued to Reuben's!

She jerked away as if stung by the devil's pitchfork. If not for Reuben's arms around her, she would have tumbled backwards.

"What's the matter?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Out of breath?"

"We... we shouldn't be doing this."

One devilish corner of his mout quirked up. "On the contrary. We should be doing a lot more. I've spend the last three nights lying on cold dirt. I'm really quite desperate to lie on something softer for a change." His right hand slid down her side, caressing her body suggestively. "Or on someone."

"Reuben!"

"Ayla."

He bent to kiss her again, but she ducked to the side. A shocked gasp escaped her when his lips caught hold of her earlobe.

"Reuben!"

"Is there any reason why you keep repeating my name as if it's an insult?" he murmured, softly nibbling. Ayla felt her knees grow week.

"Because it is! A really bad one! Now let go!"

"And why exactly?"

She opened her mouth to point out the indecency of what they were doing—only to realize that Reuben's only answer to this would probably be: "So what?"

"Because... because I have to take care of your wounds!"

It was true enough. Now that the insane surge of passion had abated, she could once more feel the wetness of blood from his wounds seeping through her dress. She could remember the horrible lashes across his back, and smell the stench of the burn marks on his chest.

"Wounds? What wounds? I don't hurt, Milady."

Ayla couldn't suppress the involuntary shudder that went through her. No matter how much she loved this man, what she had seen from atop the wall had seered itself into her brain, and frightened her to her very core. What Reuben had done... What had been done to him, without him batting an eyelid...

"No," she said softly. "But then, I guess you wouldn't would you?"

He stiffened. His lips on her ear ceased moving.

"I know you're wounded, Reuben," she continued, trying to keep her voice calm. "Show me. I have to take care of your wounds."

"These scratches?" He gave a dismissive grunt, glancing at the punctures in his forearms. His gray eyes focused on her, burrowing into her very soul. "As if I cared! For you, I'd suffer a thousand days of torture. For you, I'd walk through fire."

Once more, Ayla couldn't suppress a shudder. This wasn't just platitude. She heard the truth in every word, and heard too what he wouldn't say: that unlike most mortal men, he was not afraid fire or torture might harm him. Not in the least.

"That's very nice of you," she told him, softly. "But at the moment, I'd be satisfied if you'd let me look at your wounds. Please, I'm worried for you."

She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. But still, he lightened his grip and straightened. He didn't let go of her, though—something for which Ayla was intensely grateful. She didn't know whether she could have remained upright on her own. Her knees felt as wobbly as wet clay. At least her and Reuben's position was now slightly less incriminating.

Just in time, too. She heard the door of the tower fly open behind her, and dozens of men spill out into the muddy courtyard. Ayla didn't look back, though. She was too busy ripping the sleeve off Reuben's shredded tunic, to get at the puncture wound in his forearm.

Thank God! There wasn't that much blood. Maybe the arrow had missed all major arteries. Ignoring the muttering behind her, she quickly wrapped a piece of linen from her medical bag around the arm to staunch the worst of the bleeding, then did the same to the other arm. She'd have to clean the wounds, maybe quarterize them, but that had to wait until later.

What next...? The burn wounds she could ignore. They couldn't be fatal. But his back...

"Take that off," Ayla ordered, gesturing at Reuben's tunic.

"What?" He blinked at her, taken aback.

"Take your tunic off."

Slowly, a devious smile spread across his face. "Finally! I knew you couldn't resist me!"

He grabbed what rags still clung to his body, and started to pull them over his head. Ayla stepped closer, and raised her hands.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing? Get away from him, girl now!"

A second after she heard the growling voice, strong arms grabbed her from behind and pulled her away from Reuben.

"And you," the voice growled at the wounded knight, "stay the hell away from her!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Ayla saw the shadow of a big, shaggy man and the ends of a wildly twitching mustache.

"Burchard?" She tried to twist out of the steward's grip, but his fingers were like vices of iron. He continued to drag her back, away from Reuben. "What's the matter, Burchard? Let go of me!"

"Not while you're within a hundred yards of that creature!" Burchard snapped. His voice wasn't very steady, and Ayla felt his breath come against her neck in short, irregular bursts.

He's scared, Ayla realized.

And he had good reason to be, all things considered. What Reuben had done... A shudder ran through her body. Once more, she saw the scene outside the castle pass in front of her inner eye: Reuben bound, Reuben whipped, Reuben burned—and all the while, smiling like a demon.

Yes, Burchard was definitely scared, and for good reason.

So why aren't I?

Well, there was that little thing called love...

"Burchard! Let me go!"

Reuben, who had been looking at her up until than, slowly raised his eyes to Burchard.

"You had better do as she says, steward," he growled, a thousand times more menacing than the older man. His hands coiled into fists, and he took a step forward. "Let her go, or I'll..."

There was a scrape of steel against steel from all around, and suddenly, the soldiers who had come with Burchard down from the wall surrounded them in a half-circle, their spears pointing at Reuben. Half in a daze, Ayla noticed that every single spear tip shook violently.

"Don't make another move," came the cold voice of Captain Linhart from behind Ayla. "I don't know whether a spear through the heart would kill you, but by all the angels, I'm willing to try!"

"You wouldn't stand a chance," Reuben told him, matter-of-fact to the point of death. Other people's death.

"That may be," Captain Linhart replied stonily. "But I cannot stand idly by while a sorcerer uses his dark magic against innocent children of God."

A gasp went up from all around, and the spears began to shake even more heavily.

"Linhart!" Ayla exclaimed, twsting around to shoot a betrayed look at her Captain of Guard. "What in God's name are you talking about? Reuben isn't a sourcerer! Stop this at once!"

"I'm sorry, Milady." Linhart's face was stoic. "I cannot follow your orders in this. It is possible that you have been bewitched by this beast of hell. I can't allow him to—"

Before he could utter another word, Reuben was in motion. In two strides he was in front of the soldiers. The spears came up to the level of his chest, but he didn't even try to attack. He planted himself, or rathere mountained himself, directly in front of them. Plants can only grow so high. Reuben towered like a mountain over the men who owed him, as commander in chief, their complete and utter obedience.

"Kneel!" he commanded.

Just one word. But that was enough.

The soldiers dropped to their knees in an instant. Spears clattered to the ground. Shields fell from slack fingers.

Captain Linhart took a step backwards, all color draining from his face. Reuben stepped towards him, and stopped only inches away, looking down at the other man contemptuously.

"I won't kill you now," he told him, "because you acted out of concern for my liege lady, and because you have proven yourself to be a reasonable competent soldier so far. But never forget who is in command again. Understood?"

Linhart managed a barely perceptible movement of the head. A shake? A nod? It was hard to tell. Reuben seemed to take it as affirmation, though.

"What are you?" the Captain whispered.

"I'd like to know that very much, too," Burchard rumbled. He still hadn't let go of Ayla.

"So would I," growled Sir Waldar, somewhere from behind the protective mass of soldiers. "Preferably from a safe distance!"

Reuben glared from one of them to the next. All eyes were on him now: the knights', the soldiers', even Aylas'. Hers were the ones his landed on, finally. She held his gray gaze, steadily, silently asking the question the others were voicing aloud. She'd be lying to herself and to him if she said she didn't want to know. She burned to know the truth. His truth. Still, she didn't know whether she could bear to hear it.

He held her gaze for a few more seconds—then lowered his eyes.

"To Hell with it! Oh well, if you have to know, you have to know." His eyes flashed up, threateningly. "But don't say I didn't warn you!"

Somehow, Ayla knew the words had been meant only for her. She nodded, and Reuben returned her gesture.

"Let's go up to the keep," he said, motioniong uphill. "It's a long story, and I don't want to grow roots here. I'd rather sit down."

"Lie down," you mean, Ayla said with emphasis, freeing herself from Burchard's grip. "I have to take care of your wounds."

"Nonsense," Reuben rebuffed her. "I'm perfectly fine. I—"

He tried to take a step forward, and stumbled over his own feet. He would have fallen had Ayla not dashed forward and grabbed him. His weight slammed down on her like a cartload of cobblestones, but she gritted her teeth and held her ground.

"Let go of me," Reuben protested, his voice slurred. "I'm... per... perfectly fine."

"Of course you are," Ayla panted. "That's why your legs are shaking like grass in the wind."

And they were, really. Ayla felt a twinge of shame that she had only notice it now. How could she have been so callous? Pain he might not feel—but exhaustion was another matter.

"Someone help me get him up into the castle!" she called out, staggering under his weight. "Please, I have to get him to his bed, or he'll collapse. Please!"

Nobody moved. Burchard pointedly took a wooden comb out of his belt pouch and started combing his mustache.

"Anybody? Please, help?"

The crowd started shifting. Someone was trying to get to the front. A moment later, the soldiers parted and Theoderich the squire, pale-faced but determined, stepped out towards Ayla.

"I would be glad to offer my assistance, Milady, if you would let me."

Doubtful, Ayla looked the slender boy up and down. He didn't exactly look like the kind of person who could support Reuben's mass of muscles, but then neither did she, and besides, beggars could hardly be choosers.

"You're not afraid?" she asked.

The corners of Theoderich's mouth twitched. "Oh, I am. Very much so, in fact. But I swore an oath."

He met Ayla's gaze, and she saw the iron determination in his young eyes.

"All right." She nodded towards Reuben's other shoulder. "Take that one, and then start to drag him forward."

Ducking under Reuben's arm, Theoderich slung it over his shoulders. "I assume that if I am crushed to death, I shall get a hero's funeral?" He asked Ayla, his eyes twinkling.

Ayla couldn't suppress a relieved giggle. "The very best! Masses will be sung for ten days to honour your brave sacrifice, I promise you."

"Thank you, Milady."

"If you two are done making jokes at my expense," Reuben growled, "you can let go of me now. I'm perfectly able to stand on my feed without help."

He attempted to right himself, and promptly slipped, toppling forward and nearly bringing Ayla to her knees.

"Of course you are," she panted. "Now be good and come along, or Theoderich and I will have to drag you up to the castle by your feet."

Though he muttered something not very polite, Reuben relaxed once more and let himself be helped along, up the hill and towards the inner gate. Silently, Ayla was glad for every stumble and slip he made on the way. It wasn't that she reveled in his exhaustion—not at all. But every slip he made reminded her that he was still human, that, despite what terrible secrets he might have been hiding, he could still feel fatigue and needed to rest. If that was the case, then maybe, just maybe, what she had seen from up on the wall didn't mean he was an inhuman monster sent to earth by Satan himself.

That would really be wonderful.

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!

So, finally we get to hear Reuben's backstory. Are you all excited?

Farewell

Sir Rob