I know the second Fal regains consciousness. Our twin-bond re-wakes, exploding with pain and confusion on Falkirk's part, and worry, relief, and anger on mine.

I'm sitting in a hard chair beside my brother's bed, watching his pale, translucent face and holding his hand. Have been holding his hand all while his guards carried him to his bedroom and laid him down. All while Fal's physician bustled around, tending my brother's wound. All while said dratted physician stitched up that awful, bloody gash.

It looked worse than it really is. I hope. He's been unconscious the better part of two hours.

"Fal." I say softly, stroking his white-haired brow, feeling my stomach go for a ride with his surging emotions. "Falkirk. Wake up, brother."

He stirs and opens his eyes.

I could weep as I see their beautiful green-tinged grey. Fal's personal physician bends over us, checking my brother's vitals.

"Blackbird." Falkirk whispers, turning his head to gaze at me. I smile shakily.

"There we are." I say.

"My lady, Lord D'Adrian's vitals appear to be holding steady. He is just severely concussed. I believe his lordship will be fine in a few days, provided he does not engage in much excitement." The physician informs me.

I snort.

Excitement is Falkirk's middle name. I couldn't keep him from it if I tried. It draws him like a fly to honey, usually dragging me along.

The bedsheets rustle as Fal tries to sit up.

"Easy." I say, reaching to aid him in rising up or leaning back, whatever he wants.

"My lady, I do not think it wise for his lordship to rise yet!" Protests the physician, probably hoping to appeal to my better mood. Not that I'm in one. The poor doctor's misread me. Falkirk's mood is better than mine right now.

I'm in a mood to kill.

Whoever had the nerve to do this to my brother is going to pay.

"Oh, my head..." Fal moans, still struggling to rise. He presses the heel of his hand to his brow, turning slightly green. I lunge for the nearby wash basin, empty it into the fireplace. Slide it under my brother's face just before he is sick.

I wrinkle my nose, turning away.

"Serves you right for sitting up too fast." I mutter.

He murmurs agreement as he slides back down under the sheets. He's paler than normal, which you wouldn't think you'd be able to see in a changeling's true skin tone, and sweating.

The physician hovers and clucks as Falkirk relaxes. He busies himself with rechecking vitals and dabbing a cool wet cloth on my brother's brow.

Well, at least someone's happy.

My foul mood darkens further.

Fal moans, turning toward the basin. I breathe deep, trying to calm my roiling emotions. Realize that Fal is feeling them too strongly through our bond and that they're making his nausea worse.

I stuff my emotions down in a place where they are instantly numbed with cold. Where they don't matter.

Instantly, Fal brightens. After a few minutes, color begins to enter back into his face and hair.

In a few seconds, he is the half-elf dandy I am used to seeing him as.

I watch him a moment more until I am satisfied that he will be fine.

He senses my thoughts.

"I will be fine, Avalon." He promises. "I hope nobody was too worried. I've suffered worse than a crack on the head before."

I smile grimly. "Oh, we were worried, all right. I had your officers double the guard throughout the whole palace, and your best men are hunting down that cursed would-be assassin as we speak."

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My anger and shame surge again. My brother had nearly died on my watch. If that sling-stone hadn't been a glancing blow... if it had struck but an inch to the right... my brother's brilliant brains would be nothing but scattered pulp and bone on the balcony stones.

Fal takes my hand in his own, and squeezes.

I can't sit idle anymore.

If Falkirk is going to be fine, as he says-- and I detect no lie through our bond-- then I have work to do.

I stand abruptly. Lean down to press a kiss to Fal's forehead, right above those bloody stitches. He winces, but doesn't pull away.

"Don't worry, brother." I whisper to him. "Your blood will be avenged. By my own hand. Now excuse me, please. I'm going hunting."

With that, I pull away and stride out the door. I don't look back.

I start my hunt in the place where I first saw that shadow move within a shadow. Using a little-known talent of mine, I cast telepathy in a wide arc, searching for an alien mind.

I detect nothing.

So I bend down near the stones and search for tracks. Find some-- dried mud where someone had scampered over the wall into the courtyard, now heading into the lesser-used wing of my brother's ginormous palace.

This intruder isn't being very stealthy. Not to trained eyes such as mine, at any rate. I follow the signs, alert for any danger.

Casting telepathy every twenty feet for a long period of time is tiring and uses manna I don't want to spare. Fortunately for me, and less so for my quarry, my mind brushes against someone else's a few feet into a dusty, abandoned passage back of the servants' quarters.

The strange mind shrinks away, as if it can sense me. I feel it drawing rapidly away, hear a whisper of sound in the passageway before me as the intruder flees.

Cursing myself for not taking time to change back into more sensible garb, I hike up the hem of my long dress and give chase. My steps are utterly silent, courtesy of my levitated slippers.

I gain rapidly, catch sight of a shadowy figure ahead of me. They're running full tilt down the passage. I draw a long knife from a sheath bound to my thigh. Fling out a hand to cast a shield bubble.

What can I say? It's one of the only mage-y things I know how to do.

The manna drains from me, and the bubble shimmers into existence around my quarry. It's one of those shields where nothing can get in and nothing can get out. It also seems to be the only one I can cast, ever. It will stay in place, draining manna from me until I cease the spell.

The intruder smacks into the side of the shield at full speed. Staggers back, clutching a blood-streaming nose with both hands. I abruptly release the shield and cover those last few feet, reaching with my free hand to spin around a-- female?

Elvish, by the looks of her, and spitting mad. Her clothing shows she's a rogue like myself.

Blood cascades down her lip and chin, but she shows no sign of pain as she whips out a short dagger.

If I weren't so angry, I might laugh. That little weapon is no match for my long knife. This whole fight is going to be very one-sided, even though I'm in a dress.

The elf strikes at me, and I merely lean aside, feeling the wind of the blade as it streaks past my face.

I counter by altering my form to mirror that of hers.

Mind games.

And it does throw the elf off balance. Her eyes widen and her next stab is wildly off course. I merely let it whistle by as I drive my knee into her gut and slam her against the wall. She gasps and sags, but recovers quickly.

I catch her third strike on my own blade, deflect it. Stab in lighting-quick to pierce her dark leather armor.

She gasps and pulls away. Her hand presses to her side and comes away bloody.

I've nicked her.

She attacks again, with all the strength and speed born of desperation. I meet every blow with contemptuous ease. This fight could have been over ages ago.

I'm playing with her now, and I hate myself for it.

Time to finish this.

I shove my anger aside and go on the offensive. In seconds the elf is off-balance and exhausted. I knock her dagger away one last time.

My knife flashes once, twice.

The elf's head thumps to the floor. The torso slowly crumples after it.

I stare at the body for a moment, not daring to look at my hands.

"That was for my brother." I say quietly to the corpse. But all my ire has blown out of my sails, and I am left nothing but an exhausted husk of self, feeling as empty as the elf's dead eyes.

I kneel after a moment, close the elf's eyelids gently. Wipe my knife on the skirt of my dress. Spattered heavily with blood, it's ruined now anyway.

Can't really blame the poor woman. My brother and I have probably wronged her at some point in our lives.

I can't, for the life of me, begin to guess what we'd done.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe she was just a rogue, hired to do someone else's dirty work for them.

Lot of good their gold did her.

I sigh, shake off my weary thoughts. Stand.

Then I stoop and take up the elf's head. With it tucked in the crook of my arm, I drag the corpse back down the hallway, out into the courtyard, all the way into the inner gatehouse. I cast it, head and all, at the feet of the startled guards.

They swallow, calloused but sightly sickened nonetheless. Eyes flick fearfully between me and my kill.

I feel the vestiges of my anger begin to rise again as I feel the aura of their spinelessness.

I gesture to the corpse.

"Take this to the outer wall and stake it there for all to see!" I snarl. "Let it be a warning to all, that this is what happens when you attack the High Lord of the North."

The guards bow and acquiesce and I spin on my heel and stride out the door.

It's not like they can do anything else.

I sigh again, feeling Falkirk send me calming emotions. I know he felt every savage moment of that fight, even the rush of my pent-up emotions releasing at the end.

I lift my weary head and trudge back into the main keep of the palace, seeking a bath and new clothing.

Maybe sleep too.

After all, time and missions wait for no man.

Or woman.