Rilea made it to the entrance of the back door, narrowly missing a group of fighters. A high number of injured were being taken into the battlefield infirmary. Her heart wrenched as she noticed the dwindling number of home fighters on the field. Cocking her head to one side, she frowned; those still in the fray were being assisted by the brethren who had lived away from the mountain.

"Garan was wiser than we all thought," Rilea whispered, "his foresight may save us all."

"Sure it will," Leigha said, directing the injured from the battlefield, "but it'll mean nothing if you don't get to the ritual and in time that the consequence doesn't need to be carried out."

"Goodness, I'd forgotten about that part," Rilea said, turning to the door and placing her hand over an area; closing her eyes, she began to hum before whispering words to the door just above her hand, "thank you, Leigha, for the reminder," stepping through the portal and waiting for it to close before turning to the lit tunnel and breaking into a run.

At the entrance to the meadow, Rilea veered to the right, fluidly running through the tunnel with all its twists and turns before pausing at a stone she frequently moved. This time, she needed to follow the ritual. Inhaling, Rilea stood in front of it, placing both her hands on the stones, smiling at the memory of Silas saying it reminded him of driving ... something about the ten and two positions on a steering wheel. Leaning her forehead on the rim of the large stone, she exhaled and hummed again before whispering.

"This is the last time I request you open for me to the tomb of our ancestors, which holds all the knowledge we need to survive," she whispered, "when coming back this way, I shall hand over to the new protector that she may continue to hold what is ours dear to her heart, head and all humanity."

Stepping away, Rilea waited as the stone slowly rolled to the side. She stepped into the darkness and heard voices near the altar, instinctively knowing she was running out of time. Clapping her hands together, she called for light. The sudden blaze of light nearly blinded everyone and startled two women standing on the other side of the altar.

"Andriette, you are relieved of the final clause of the ritual," Rilea called, watching the other woman sigh in relief and pocket the knife required for the extermination ritual, "I am here."

Striding forward, Rilea walked toward the alter as a small moat appeared around it. She kept walking toward the area stepping into the water but never touching it as the surrounding stone extended beneath her feet, forming a bridge to the altar, the two women and the blazing light above them.

Cherry looked around her as the space around them changed.

"What is ...happening?" Cherry whispered.

"Your ancestor has arrived, and the vault responds," Andriette said as she knelt on one knee like the knights of old, bowing her head, waiting for Rilea to join them, "acknowledge your queen."

"My ...queen?" Cherry frowned, following Andriette's gaze to the woman who had spoken about some ritual not being done, "that's... my ... mother."

The woman smiled as she stopped before Cherry, "You are my daughter, but you need to acknowledge me as your queen before we begin."

Nodding distractedly, Cherry followed Andriette's example and knelt on one knee, bowing her head in acknowledgement, "I, Cannon Basset, acknowledge you, my mother, as my queen."

The ground shifted, rumbled deeply and slowly settled.

"What was that?" Cherry whispered.

"The vault preparing for a new protector," Andriette whispered, "now, hush. We can begin."

"Rise and join me around the altar," Rilea said as she moved toward the stone table in the small island's centre.

Rising Cherry moved with the two women, unsure of what to expect but trusting in the little she did know that whatever was to be done from now on, she would be able to understand more of what was expected of her and how she could protect whatever her family had found so valuable for so many years.

The rumble of the earth was felt among the fighters, and the invaders hesitated briefly before intensifying their efforts.

"What was that?" Stan asked, looking around.

"If you don't do something to that bridge, we're all dead," the Commander said, "now go ... we've got you covered."

"Go," Stan repeated the word looking around, "go where?"

"Under the bridge," another of his protectors said, punching behind his head and pulling the attacker over into the bending knee, "that rumble means the coming-of-age ritual has started," another punch, duck and elbow to the nose was dealt before continuing, "they will bring more forces to bear pushing us into the mountain ... if that happens ... they will destroy everything to gain what they want."

Stan ducked, squatting as he made ready to swing under the bridge. The chasm below left him feeling breathless, with his heart sitting in his throat and constricting his chest, "What do they want?"

"What every dictator has ever wanted," the third of his protection detail said as he sent an attacker's body flying into the deep waters, "eternal life. Now ... go."

Stan followed the direction of the hand and found a long vine hanging under the bridge; his heart seemed to jump right out of his body as he took in the danger he was putting himself in but looking around at the determination of the defending brethren, Stan knew he could not fail them. No, he didn't know or understand them, but he knew a people fighting for their existence when he saw it, and this was a desperate bid for survival. Easing under the bridge, Stan reached for the vine pulling it toward him; looking ahead, a small ledge jutting from the rock face could be seen in the dinginess under the shelter of the bouncing wooden boards. Could the shelf be big enough to hold him while he cut the ropes?

"One way to find out," he whispered, pushing the knife into the band of his pants, pulling the vine towards himself, kicking away from the wall, and swinging toward the other side.

Miraculously his actions had gone unnoticed for now. Straining to get a grip on the stone wall, Stan finally pulled himself onto the ledge, catching his breath before pulling out the knife he reached to cut the rope off one side of the bridge. Inserting the blade, he began to slice at the thick twisted yarns.

"They mean it to stay in place indefinitely," he muttered as he worked, flinching as the stone next to his cheek shattered, spraying fractured rock into his face, slicing across his brow and cheek. Checking the gunfire's direction, Stan tried to shift himself for maximum protection. It wasn't easy, and no matter what, he was determined to continue sawing at the thick ropes holding the bridge in place. The call for defence on the defender's side was heard as one side of the bridge sagged. Stan edged out of the way toward the other side, narrowly missing the blade swing aimed at him, flipping himself to face the rock face. Sweat poured into his eyes, and his hair stuck to his forehead and front, making it challenging to see unhindered. Unable to defend himself and under fire, Stan took a moment to acknowledge he may die doing this. It wasn't the first time he had put his life on the line for people; however, this was the first time his actions would make or break life for those he was helping. Bullets peppered the rock face again, and his handhold slipped a little; hugging the rock face, Stan wondered about continuing. How would he get out once the job was done? Glancing up and around, Stan noticed brethren in the black-clad gear using the branches to get to the home side, catching those who may fall and not thinking of their personal safety to help the others. If they could give wholeheartedly and stare death in the face while trusting that someone would have their back, he had no excuse about finishing his side of the mission. Resolution rose through his tired body as Stan inhaled, reaching for the rope and flinching as the rock face shattered before his eyes. Stan paused, shifting his position before stretching across the space toward the yarn holding the bridge in place, pushing the blade between the knot and the piece attached to the bridge he sawed with all his strength. A hiss of hot metal moved past him making him gasp in pain as a bullet grazed his working arm, leaving a long bloody gash, but he didn't pause even when the pain made his arm cramp. Forcing his hand to move, cutting into the rope steadily as the call to protect Garan was heard, startling him. Could it be that bad already?

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"Come on," he hissed as he shifted, changing hands and cutting faster, pushing through the rope and forcing it to fray more quickly, "almost ... there," he grunted, "break confounded yarn ... break."

Suddenly it gave way, and the bridge swung free. Bodies fell past him into the darkness below. A hand brushed past his chest, grasping his shirt front and pulling him from the ledge. Frantic Stan looked around; his only way of surviving was to launch himself at the falling bridge and hope he found a handhold. Ripping the hand from his shirt, he pushed out toward the bridge; feeling the wooden rungs under his hand, he wedged his fingers between the wide wooden beams and held on. The jolt of the bridge slamming into the other side winded Stan. He hung there, easing his legs up slowly, finding a way to climb to safety without his shoulder giving way, or the oozing bloody wound didn't suck him of all the energy he needed before he could get help.

"Slow and steady wins the race," he whispered, concentrating on the words as he began to climb, ignoring the dropping bodies around him, looking up at the next rung and focusing his energy on climbing one more rung until suddenly there wasn't any more to climb. Gasping with effort, Stan reached over the top, feeling for something to grasp, but his hand landed on air and dried earth. Suddenly heat slammed into his side, the fresh pain blurring his vision as he floundered so close to safety.

"No," he panted, "not this way ..." his flaying hand suddenly found an anchor blinking. Stan looked up at the arm attached to the hand grasping his, continuing until meeting the determined gaze of the Commander of his protection detail.

"Let's get you up and then finish off these invaders," he said, pulling Stan onto solid ground, "you need to get that seen too," he pointed to Stan's arm as the Commander took the knife from him, "... and the bullet out of your side," he grimaced, "the infirmary is this way."

Stan wanted to object, tell him he could fight beside them, but he knew his limits. Between muscle fatigue and blood loss, he wouldn't be helpful now and needed to be happy that he had helped them so far. In the back of his mind, Stan wished there was a magic potion he could take, giving him abnormal abilities to continue. Sagging against a young man helping the injured inside for medical treatment, Stan glanced around.

"I should be fighting with them," he whispered, "not retreating."

"Everyone who needs help today feels the same way," the young man said, "if you died when we could help you, it would be unforgivable."

"Fix me up and let me help them," Stan whispered, staggering, "they don't know what's coming."

"Our brethren are here, and they will help just as you did," the young man whispered as they slowly walked into the infirmary, "a few more steps ..." he encouraged, "here is an empty bed ..." he whispered; easing Stan to cool sheets, "you're safe, and you will get help."

Stan grasped the young man's arm before he stepped away, "Thank you ..." he murmured, "thank you for your ... help."

Stan felt his hand pull from the strong arm and held between two soft hands as the young man bent to whisper in his ear, "Brother, you are welcome; now rest while we restore."

The tugging darkness pulled at the edges of his mind forcing the encroaching oblivion to expand, pushing everything from his mind, and the world around him disappeared.

The young man straightened, still holding Stan's hand in his while the brave outsider's body went limp.

"You did have to call him Brother," Leigha said, sighing as she stopped next to the bed, "he has lost a lot of blood," she glanced at the young man who was rolling his cotton sleeve up his arm, "what are you doing? You know blood bonding is forbidden with outsiders. We need to get this bullet out ..." she paused while examining the side, "it seems to be wedged in his ribs. Very fortunate it didn't penetrate."

"Is he an outsider?" the young man asked, "he fought alongside us. Bringing down the bridge to save our people; even coming in here, his desire to fight for our way of life was strong. That is not the heart of an outsider," he swabbed at his arm, "that is the heart of brethren ... of a brother. We cannot give stored blood, but I cannot allow him to die either."

A tall man drenched in sweat and blood-flecked leather war gear stopped beside the bed, "How is he?"

"We can stop the bleeding on the arm and attend to any infection there, remove the bullet from his side," Leigha said, "but he has lost a lot of blood."

"He cannot die," the man said, looking around the infirmary and finding one of the black-clad brethren rising from a bed and preparing to join the fight again, "they have the means to survive," stepping in front of the man as he turned to leave, "would you be prepared to initiate a dying brother?"

The man looked at his leather-clad counterpart, following his gaze to Stan's bed, "Who is he?"

"An outsider," the tall man said, "he saved us by bringing down the bridge."

"Then he is no longer an outsider, brother," the black-clad warrior whispered, "but the young man cannot violate your restrictions by giving his blood. I only require a moment to assist, and restricted brethren cannot attend such a bedside while I follow the process."

"What do you need?" Leigha asked.

He looked around, "Everything I require is here. Leave and attend to those who need you," he

gently grasped Stan's hand, "I have our brother in hand."

Nodding, Leigha asked the young man to follow her, leaving the tall man with the black-clad warrior.

"What are you going to do?" the tall man asked.

"Save his life by giving him the tools to survive," the black-clad warrior said, turning to meet the concerned gaze, "be at peace Batair Tamnais; he will live as will I; then we can once more be a family."

The tall man smiled slightly, nodding and clasping the warrior on his shoulder, "Thank you, brother. Our parents would've been proud of each of us ... one holding to tradition and the other embracing the changes required to save our people ... be strong in whatever you need to do, Tavey."

Leigha watched from an alcove, the tears streaming over her cheeks as she watched the pair, a spitting image of each other, embracing the differences about the other, knowing their parents would be very proud of their sons and the paths in life they had taken.

"Leigha, are you injured?" an assistant asked, following the woman's gaze, "you cry over a set of twins; why?"

"They are not any ordinary set of twins," she whispered, "they are the boys of Shianne and Stuart."

The assistant gasped, "They were among the first to stand against the Tenderhooks."

"Yes, they were," Leigha whispered, "Shianne was my twin sister and the one person in my life I could not save, but Andriette helped her boys live. They were among the first designed to survive. If Shianne and Stuart saw them now, they would burst with pride."

"Perhaps," the assistant nodded, "or hand you a tissue and tell you to get back to helping those who need it."

Leigha looked up at her assistant before chuckling, "Child, you have a way of making me smile," she shook her head, "thank you for helping an old woman get past being sentimental."

"Old woman?" the assistant looked around, "I don't see an old woman, but I do see someone wise beyond her years, and about to tell most of your medical assistants they have no idea what they are about."

Chuckling, Leigha wiped at her cheeks as she glanced once more at the remaining twin bending to whisper in the ear of an unconscious Stan and returned to the task of saving as many lives as possible. Today was a day of many firsts, and somehow she felt it wasn't over yet. There was more to come, and she hoped it would bring a new beginning and end the agony of the past.

"All things have a beginning and an end," she whispered as she approached an injured warrior placing her hand in the middle of the woman's chest and whispering, "brethren, be still. We are here to restore."