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Xanthe M’rindas struggled fiercely in the arms of two guards from her unit, screaming a curse at them every once in a while. They were none-too-gentle with her, either, and the fresh whip marks on her back stung and tugged against her struggling, reminders of the murder attempt she had tried to execute. “Let me go, you jerks!” she screeched. She could have used far worse language but decided it would go worse for her if she did.

The guards did not answer, only came upon a prison and shoved her into a cell. “You stay in there till we figure out what to do with you,” said one gruffly and angrily. But Xanthe had not only attempted murder, she was a slave, and there was only one way her stay in jail could end.

Xanthe spat back at him, glared until they were out of sight, and fell face-first onto the cold stone floor, giving her a split second to notice that there was another person in the room, someone who was in the corner. “You stay away from me,” she hissed. Certainly now was not the time to get into another fight.

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Atles hardly heard the strong female voice directed towards him, his own voice drowning out all sense of the outside world. The soothing tones of the ritual chant were like music to him, the words ingrained into his mind so long ago that he said them without any real thought. He felt uneasy though and his thoughts began to disrupt the holy flow in his mind. She was a prisoner, and though Areans never needed much reason to torture or imprison a slave the thought still kind of unsettled him, ever since the slave ship. During the ride to Areas a group of war criminals had stolen his food every meal for the duration of the trip. And since he had been wary of other human beings, he turned his eyes from the small burnt offering to Panar to her. Her skin was darker than his, but he never got much sun. Corana had nights that lasted longer than the rest of the world and he had hardly been brought outside at all since he had been thrown in the mines. Her hair was a crimson that surprised him at first, something about her radiated a sort of power even in her state. He frowned before speaking.

"I-I won't." he said meekly. He hadn't meant to sound like a coward. He cleared his throat. "I mean you no harm." he said in a bit too deep of a voice.

"Thanks be to Weia for that," breathed Xanthe in a sigh of relief. "You'll get hurt if you do." She finally lowered her head to the ground and let the pain she had been holding back for the sake of her guards finally consume her. She groaned tremendously and writhed a little on the ground, wanting escape from the stings on her back, wanting to just hide for a few moments from the hard, cruel world.

After a moment, no longer gasping but just breathing away the pain, she realized she had heard the man chanting. She looked up from her position on the ground, seeing the burnt offering in the corner. "What tribe are you?" she asked curiously, and a little warily. She knew that some people were the type to fight for their beliefs, to convert others on pain of death, and Xanthe surely hoped he wasn't one of those fanatics. Besides, she reasoned with herself, he was a slave just like her. Or, he probably was. "What did you do to get arrested?" she demanded suddenly. That last question was for practicality's sake. She didn't want to get too friendly with a bad man.

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`He wasn't sure what she meant when she had asked him about tribes but he responded quickly. "I am from the island Corana." He just barely kept from grimacing as he saw the woman in front of him writhing in pain, she was not doing well. There was a certain urge to help her that somehow his slavery had not managed to beat out of him but he fought it down. She had the look of a cornered animal and he had a deep certainty that she would respond in a similar fashion.

"I stole." He left the answer concise. Every since he had been brought to work in the mines he had gotten kicked around for being a 'pagan.' Beleiving in more than one god was considered uncivilized and he had been looked down upon. Every time he had acted on, or told someone of his beleifs some harm had come of it. The offering he had made to Panar was great, he only hoped that his prayer to be guided in his travels was answered, the personal pain the theft had brought him would be worth finding his father. His father was the man who had taught Atles to beleive, the man who had shown Atles real courage and strength. His father was everything. Panar guide him.

"Oh, stole," said Xanthe, lowering her head. Nothing to worry about from a pagan thief chanting in the corner. She sighed, her body shaking a bit with the rest of the pain. Finally when she thought she could bear it Xanthe got to her knees with a grunt and looked around the cell, finding a small bucket with drinking water in it. Without asking Xanthe cupped the water in her hands and drank. She was thirsty. She had been beaten and she hadn't had water for nearly a day.

"Turn around," she said to the boy, giving him a warning look with her gaze. She stripped her short tunic, gingerly because it stuck to the welts in her back. Xanthe hissed softly and dipped the untainted parts of the tunic in the water, then twisted to get at her back as best she could. She knew from years of training not to be foolish when it came to wounds. While the foolish men she had met grunted and toughed out pain, Xanthe knew better. Cleaning wounds was very important; it helped them heal faster and prevented infection.

Xanthe scrubbed relentlessly at the welts she could reach and left the ones she couldn't, quicky tugging on the damp tunic. She sighed. At least that was taken care of. And now she lay back down face-first on the ground, closing her eyes. She didn't feel like sleeping, she just didn't want to be aware anymore. If she could have, she would have gone out to fight the men that imprisoned her, fight that jerk of a commanding officer who hadn't given her the time of day. At least Sir Svolek, a knight serving under the officer, had treated her with respect. As another human being. He had never once mentioned the fact that she was bound to him, that he could tell her to do anything and it would be her duty to do it. He hadn't even branded her as she knew most slaves were - a deep burn with a piece of iron to the skin. Xanthe had been spared that, thanks to Sir Svolek. She sighed, knowing that most people in this country weren't like that but holding out a little hope for them anyway.

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The dismissal was probably not a personal attack but it got under Atles' skin. He didn't like being considered weak, no threat. But then what was he? A theif. And what, really, was a theif too weak to rely of his strength and too dull to rely on his wits. So she may have been right to discount him, still something about the way she had dropped her guard was insulting. He frowned and stepped toward her.

The sharp command, however, turned him around and he found himself peeking at the slender, beaten, body much less than he had intended. He could hear her movements could almost feel her react to the pain as she pressed her wet shirt against her back. At the sound of her pain it became, to him, an infinitely less erotic experience. He kept his eyes on the small pile of ashes in the corner and winced at each of the gasps of air the warrior took. He had felt pain like that before, it was only prayer that had gotten him through it. He could feel the warming embrace of Amalia as he lay imobile on the ground. He wondered what it was that drove this woman to fight the pain. Silently he said a small prayer to Amalia that she might show some mercy to the warrior in his cell.

The injured had always made Atles drop his guard. Women as well. When an injured woman ended up in his cell he could not help but sympathize.

"What did you do to deserve that?"

Xanthe looked up sharply at the sound of his voice, wondering if he had been watching her all along. She glared, a spark of fierce anger in her eyes. The look was not for him, it was for the commanding officer she hated with all her heart. "Tried to kill a man. A captain, no less," she said proudly, wanting to drill in the fact that she was very powerful and no one to be trifled with. "I would have killed him, too. If not for him being a coward," she spat derisively. It was true. Xanthe was indeed not a warrior to be underestimated, neither for her sex nor for her slenderness nor for her youth. She could almost see the glinting knife in her hands, inching its way toward the man's throat...The officer's fear plain on his face, as if he were looking into death's eyes...until three or four men had pried her off of him. "Coward," she spat again. "All men are."

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The hint of fire in her response made him back away for a moment. But then he frowned and stood taller, he wasn't going to be pushed around. Amalia would protect him no doubt if this woman did attack him, and he had no real reason to suspect that she would. She was angry at what had happened to her, at the man who had mistreated her, while she could take her anger out on him, he just had to hope that she would not.

He concealed his shock rather poorly as the story she told went on. She was strong, he could see that, but he would never have guessed at the enormity of her strength, the fact that she had been so close to the murder of an officer, how many men it took to prevent that death. He smiled at the thought, wicked as it was. There were quite a few men he would have liked to have sent to Mae's dark embrace. At the last comment he finally stepped forward. "No. Not all men." as brave a face as he put on he was shaking.

Xanthe looked up again sharply, a small smile around her face. "No?" she asked, and, ignoring her pain in order to prove her point, she stood again, this time tall and strong and looking directly into the young man's eyes with a warrior's fierceness. "Am I supposed to believe you are not a coward? Am I supposed to think that a foolish pagan thief, stupid enough to get himself caught, and stupid enough to stand up to who he does not yet know is a Zonian warrior - " she said the words proudly, badges of honor and remainders of her proud history - "is not a coward?" She considered the words briefly. "More fool than coward, maybe. But coward nonetheless."

Xanthe took a menacing step towards him, fists clenched and teeth almost bared in a snarl.

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Atles only just stopped from collapsing under the weight of her stare. Her worse passed over him, they meant little, he had heard every kind of insult in his time in the mines. The look in her eyes, he taught muscles seeming ready at any moment to strike out, the obvious pain she felt as she threatened him, those were the things that spoke to him. Though he had never claimed bravery, he had not meant to challenge her, he would not back down, he had been beaten before. Those beatings had not been from a warrior but they were likely similar.

"Not me. My father. . ." he stepped closer to her. "My father was a brave man."