“What did he owe the man—half-man, but wholly male—who’d raped, branded, enslaved and humiliated him? Only, as vivid as those memories were, the irritating, painful, even frightening ones—there were others that came later, which stirred things within him. Bloodraven, biting back hereditary impatience to attempt the teaching of a difficult language. Bloodraven, sharing campfire cooking tips—sharing the secrets of mountain roots that made edible, if not always palatable, meals. Bloodraven, speaking haltingly of dreams that he’d always held close to his heart. Bloodraven, fighting a lifetime of instinct and wanting the opinions, the history, the company of a human. Guilt, protectiveness—a fondness so unpracticed that it might entirely be mistaken for something else.”

“[Bloodraven] fingered the cloth, marveling at the tightness of the weave. The things that the men of the lowlands were capable of never ceased to amaze him. Those few stolen items that trickled up to the northern tribes were bartered at high prices, for even the mountain humans who worked in fear of their lives for the tribes, did not create such clever things. But then again, perhaps they were capable, but chose not to share with the race that had hunted and oppressed them for generations. Understandable. If he were in the same position he’d have offered nothing more than the simplest tasks demanded of him. Not for the first time he considered the tribal chieftains of old fools for choosing to make war with the humans instead of ally with them.”

“Why?" he asked instead. "Why do such things when my death would have benefited you far more?" Yhalen bent over his knees, resting forehead on his forearm, perhaps not willing to answer, or not able to, strange creature that he was. "Is that the way your people think?" he asked finally, as he turned his head to peer up at Bloodraven through the thick fall of the hair around his face. "That death is more beneficial than life?”

“You came after me. Against the geas, you came after me.” He felt the shifting of muscle behind him as Bloodraven shrugged. “You ride like a pregnant woman. I feared for the horse.”

“Every man is on earth to symbolize something he is ignorant of.”

“She was a little thing, too, inciting that basic compulsion in him as a man to protect her in so hectic a place as post-war Israel. Even so, his actions were borne out of an entirely different instinct, altogether: to fool her and anyone within a dart's range... to protect himself.”

“The steps a man takes from the day of his birth until that of his death trace in time an inconceivable figure.”