I know what I am. I know who I am. The two are very much entwined, and I do not know if they can exist apart. I would curse the circumstances that made me thus, but I no longer care enough to do it.

I kneel in the mud beside the little stream and scrub off the blood that is caked on my hands, between my fingers. I glance over at the body laying in the grass about five yards away. A paladin. Young man, half-elvish. His body is rent with the numerous cuts I scored during our fight, his throat slit with a death wound that I administered. Someone is going to miss their son, brother, friend. Pity, that. Not that I have any pity left for anything or anyone. The paladin had pleaded with me before his end, trying to appeal to my better nature and conscience. I doubt that I have one. When he saw that I wouldn’t stop and that he could not best me in the end, he’d called on his god. His god didn’t save him.

I shove the echoes of his last cries to the part of my mind I never visit. The part of my mind where I stuff away every tragedy that ever happened to me and the faces of every person I’ve ever killed.

Huh.

Maybe there is the last vestiges of a conscience in me after all.

I finish washing my hands, hold them out in front of me for inspection. They’re as clean as they’re going to get. There’s still red staining the underside of my nails and the lines in the palms of my hands.

My vision flickers, and suddenly my hands are covered, soaked, dripping with blood. I blink, squeezing my eyes shut. Swallow hard.

When I open them again my hands are back to clean, dripping only with clear stream water.

I sigh, stand and turn toward the paladin’s body. It’s three hours’ long, sweating work to raise a cairn of stones over him. I may be a killer, but I have some decency.

Like, I will not leave a body to be ravaged by wild creatures.

And I will never ever raise my hand against a child. Of any race. At all. Ever.

I’d rather die first.

I stand silently before the cairn I’ve built, wondering for a brief moment what the paladin’s name was, and if I should say some words over his passing.

The moment passes.

I have no love for the gods. So I don’t say anything over the paladin after all. Just growl out,

“You didn’t save him from me, didn’t reward his faithful service no matter how hard he called on you. You had better give him peace, or so help me, I swear I will burn down every one of your temples and shrines.”

I’d do it to, and it’s the least I could do for that poor paladin who was betrayed by his god.

Like I said, I have no love for the gods.

Fickle beings, often mucking up the affairs of us mortals for their own amusement.

Bah.

I turn away at last, pulling a small marble from my pocket. It’s a tiny thing, only about as big around as a robin’s egg. Made out of slate stone, polished by many years of loving hands.

It’s the dearest thing I own. My brother imbued it with transportation magic. It’s my way back to him. No matter where I am, or what I’ve gone through, with the right command this marble will bring me to wherever my brother is at the time.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve used that marble over the years.

I tap into its magic, whisper the word

“Home.”

Because that is what my brother is to me: the only piece of home I have left.

A heady rush fills my body. It feels like this every time my cells are pushed through the barriers of space and time. The paladin’s cairn, the stream, the surrounding forest, it all fades from my view into misty white. I open my eyes a second later in a lush bedroom high in a fortress tower. A ginormous window overlooking the castle courtyard is open, and an early summer breeze stirs the cream-colored curtains. The bed is neatly made, the room free of any dust or dirt. My brother is still a neat-freak. A smile touches my lips.

It’s bright in here. The sun shows it’s around mid morning here. I look around the room, noting a new trophy that my brother must have collected. A sword. Drow-made, by the look of it. I wonder which poor soul he got that from.

I smile fondly in the sunshine, breathing in the scent of the bedroom. My brother’s room.

And speaking of my brother, he’s nowhere in sight. Usually, I end up within five feet of him when the spell transports me to him.

“Fal?” I say. Someone yelps behind a changing screen in the corner of the room. Five feet away from me.

The hot scent of fire reaches my nostrils.

“Whoever’s out there, you had better be Avalon, or in the next ten seconds you will be nothing but a charred husk!” Fal’s voice shouts from behind the screen.

I laugh off his threat.

“It’s me.” I say. “And if you’d use your head, you would know that already. You better finish dressing or whatever you’re doing, because I’m back and bringing news.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I turn away from the screen, biting back a smile, hearing the rustlings of someone hurriedly slipping on clothing. Fal grumbles as he dresses, and I only catch a word or two here and there.

“…no decency… didn’t know… be back… soon… couldn’t’ve waited….”

Fal finally steps out into the room and I turn around, drinking in the sight of him. My brother.

My twin brother. Falkirk D’Adrian. The one person left in the world that I love. He is all that I have and all that I live for.

There’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do for him.

He grins at me and opens his arms.

"Blackbird." The sound of my nickname leaving his lips is like a drink of water in a parched desert. I step into his embrace, holding him close, even though I know I stink like blood and dirt and sweat. Fal’s scent (smoke and pine and sunshine) fills my nose, and I breathe it in deep.

Blood and stars, I’ve missed him.

He pushes me back, holds me with his hands on my upper arms. We study each other, searching for signs that all is not well with the other.

But there are none.

And we should know. As twins, we share a bond with each other, a bond between souls. It allows us to keep an exact pinpoint on each other’s location, to know the other’s mood, emotions, even physical wellness. Fal can tell if I’m wounded or hungry or thirsty or sad or if I’m all the way over in the Deserts. And I can do the same for him.

I study his face, noting the tinges of green in his grey eyes. Every face he’s ever worn, every guise he’s ever donned, he’s always kept his eyes the same. And I love him for it.

He’s added a bit of grey in his hair at his temples today. It makes him look distinguished, even with his boyish half-elvish features.

I reach up and ruffle his dark hair.

“You look like a lord today, brother.” I say with a teasing grin.

He ducks away and laughs.

“Yeah, well, appearance is everything.” He replies. Our mood shifts and we look at each other soberly. “You of all people know that.” He says softly.

I nod, then change the subject before we can get too weepy.

“I’m going to slip into your closet and see if you’ve left any of my clothes in there.” I say. “I need a bath and a change of clothing.”

He smiles, then laughs. “Of course, Ava. I’ll just stand out here and wait.”

I smile in spite of myself. “No, you can stand out here and we can talk as I bathe, about the tidings I bring.”

And so that is what we do. Fal placed a spell over the closet door that enables sound to pass through freely, but no sight. He also heats the bath water for me. So thoughtful, my brother.

We talk as I wash. I can feel his mood shift with the news I impart. The high clans are finally getting over their differences and banding together. Against us. They’re rallied by a young paladin who claims to serve one God, a God who, the paladin claims, rules over everything. If this paladin continues to succeed in his mission, the high clans are going to bring their combined, formidable might against us in full force. Soon.

Fal’s not worried, exactly. But he is concerned. And if he is, then I am. And I have a pretty good idea of what my next mission is going to be.

But Fal surprises me by saying,

“Ava, I want you to befriend this paladin, get close to him, find out his plans and try to thwart them, if you can. But I want to know everything you find out.”

I expect no less.

He continues, “This is not an assassination mission. Not yet. Information only, and keep me in the loop, understand?”

I do. Perfectly. My brother’s orders, if not his motives.

I slip into a dark maroon dress with a tight bodice and a modest neckline. I never like showing off. The skirt falls full-length to the floor in beautiful volume, hiding the soft leather slippers I have on underneath.

The slippers have steel toes. Fal cast levitation on them a while ago, so I am silent when I walk. But I can still do damage when I kick. I sweep my hair up on top of my head, pin it there so it falls free, thick and long and dark, down my back. Then I step out into the main bedroom.

Fal looks me over. Smiles. This is the face I like to wear best, the half-elvish damsel. It’s the one I’m most comfortable in, being female even when I’m in my true form.

I know Fal likes this face as well. It’s the one he sees me in most of the time. It’s the one I wore all of our childhood years, albeit younger. He doesn’t seem to mind that I look younger than him. Neither of us appears to age unless we want to.

Not that we’re that old, only in our thirtieth year.

Fal’s smile fades and he gestures to his own attire.

“What do you think?” He asks. He’s so sweet: bloodthirsty one moment and worried about his looks the next. I smile, chuckling. In a cream-colored silk tunic and pearly grey breeches tucked into knee-high leather boots, with a sword belt over it all, he looks fine, and I tell him so.

Then he smiles again. Holds out his arm for me to take. I do so.

“I have to address my troops, little sister. Would you care to join me?” He asks. I laugh.

“Why not?” I say. “And by the way, I’m only two minutes younger than you.”

Fal chuckles. “That still makes me older.” He says as we stride down hallways and stairs, neither of our feet really touching the polished floors.

My brother’s an excellent mage. One of the best I’ve ever seen.

I’m not great at magic, though. Never have been. Stealing manna, yes. Casting a bubble of silence or shielding, yes. But not really anything much else in the mage arts.

That’s what Fal’s for. He takes the power and the crowns, and I take the lives and do his bloody work for him.

I shoulder all the burdens for him that I can.

It’s our life, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Not unless I could go back in time and stop the events that started this all.

Falkirk and I step out into a wide balcony overlooking the main courtyard. It’s a vast place, and nearly all of Fal’s soldiers, the ones that aren’t off fighting, are gathered here. They stand in perfect-straight ranks. Silent. Awaiting my brother’s command.

Fal raises his hand, mine still tucked in the crook of his other arm.

“My good men and women, valiant soldiers all,” he speaks, his voice amplified by mage-craft. They erupt into cheers. He motions for silence before he continues,

“The high clans gather their forces and prepare to march on us. Their might is sufficient to match ours. But will we falter before them?”

“NO!” They roar. These are the outcasts, the rejects, the betrayed and the remade broken souls. They are like us, and that is why they follow my brother. They believe in him. He promised them vengeance, and so they fight for him, body and soul.

“Will we allow them to take what we have fought so hard to obtain?” Fal’s voice swells as his fighting blood rises.

“NO!” The soldiers below roar.

I catch a glimpse of shadow within shadow down by the wall of the courtyard. A glint of sunshine on metal.

“Will we surrender?” Fal shouts, just as hyped up as his troops.

“NO!” They cry.

Fal crumples as the metal sling-stone slams into his head.

“FAL!” The scream is torn from my throat. Guilt and anger rise up in me in a nearly overwhelming flood. I should have been more suspicious of the shadows. Should have seen what was coming.

Should have prevented it.

The courtyard goes dead silent.

I catch Fal as he falls. I’m driven to my knees on the balcony stones by his weight. His half-elvish face, dark hair and all, fades into pale, nearly transparent skin, hair that is white, translucent, almost invisible, and glittering rainbow streaks in the sun.

His true form.

Blood streams from a gash on his head at the hairline, by his ear. His eyes are closed in unconsciousness, and I cannot see their lovely green-tinged grey.

Our twin bond is abruptly silent, empty, in stasis.

My heart stutters in my chest. This is bad. Changelings never revert back to their true form unless by choice or if they suffer a wound grievous enough to force them.

For changelings we are, Falkirk and I.

I guess I had better back up to the beginning.