He watched her as she slipped through the gardens, her hair glimmering as the sunlight fell upon it. He knew in the darkness her hair was a rich brown, but here in the sunlight she seemed all honey bronze. Her fair skin was lightly touched with gold from where the sun had graced it. Her people coveted milky white skin, and so she had been kept from the sunlight. It was the days spent in his gardens that had kissed her face so, changing her from a sickly pale color to a healthy pale gold. Her cheeks held a rose that hadn't been there, more gold streaked her hair. The soft blue of the dress his seamstresses had made for her complimented her coloring and the eyes he knew were a stormy blue. Like the storm clouds that brought torential down pours, a grey blue, touched with indico and purple. He watched hungrily from his balcony at the woman he wanted. He could not explain why his heart leapt, nor why she had become a fixation in his daily thoughts.

His eyes fell to her body, taking in her womanly charms. She had been so thin when they had taken her, so weak, but the time with his people had curved her figure nicely. He had watched her from afar for days now plotting what he would do. A marriage between his enemy's daughter and himself might bring peace to the two lands that had warred for generations. Her father certainly would not be pleased; his original plan to ransom her for peace was no longer an option

Or rather he could no longer make it an option. She had power, power that had come to her from her mother, a power her father had worked to still within her. Elegant iron bracelets had been welded to her wrists, effectively shackling her to her father's beliefs. He wondered if she even understood the power she could wield even when the iron had weakened herher abilities. She couldn't very well practice in secret with the iron around her wrists. Her father knew that the less chance she had to use it the more it would wilt away.

He could feel the strains of it within her that were almost weakened to disappearance. He watched as she raised a hand to brush her hair from her face as she bent to smell the roses that grew in this part of the garden. A beautiful deep scarlet blossom looked quite becoming next to her skin, he made a mental note to mention such a color to the seamstress. The long sleeves of her gown slipped to her elbows revealing bare wrists that still held the slight discoloration in the shape of ornamental swirls. He wondered if she even understood the reason, or need for the inricate iron that had been dipped in gold. Coated for her safety for the metal not only dampened her powers, but also was a poison to those of power. The powers only appeared in those with fae blood, and it was common knowledge that the fae were poisoned by iron. Though the fact had been watered down into legend and story.

He wondered not for the first time at his enemy. What man could bind and sicken his child for the sake of stilling her power? What man could love a child less, and use such a charming creature for his own pawn. What man could shackle his own daugher? From her fierce protestation he knew she had no understanding of the true purpose behind the shackles round her wrists. He thought of her mother, a woman of great power and great courage. He could see glimpses of her mother's sharp intellect in the girl before him. An intellect he wondered at when he remembered the sacrifice her mother had made in leaving her daughter with the husband that was slowly killing the wife he claimed to love. For it had been a severe lapse in judgement to leave the girl when she had returned to her people, his people.

Then she had also protested her mother's ablities along with the battle she had wadged to keep her cuffs. He smiled with bemusement; of course the beautiful daughter of his enemy had protested everything, just as a dutiful daughter should have done. Still, he had a feeling that her will and her duty had been forced upon her, both in training from her birth and violence from her father. When she had been brought to the castle there had been healing welts and bruises under her dresses where they would not show. He would not have known had it not been for the maids he had assigned her. Nor would he have known about the brand on her shoulder. The brand that marked her as her father's like cattle that had been marked in ownership by a farmer.

The fear that came into her eyes when he spoke of her father ripped at his heart and he knew in his soul he could never send her back now, no matter the cost to his kingdom. He cursed himself - he was a king! He had no right to think of himself or this woman above the good of his kingdom. Still, there were many options now. If her father were to die suddenly and he were to marry her, by the laws of her people he would regain the land her father had stolen from his people. They were already at war, were they not? Perhaps her father would attack in full now, but it was something that was going to happen anyway. He had just forced her father's hand.

"What will you do with the maid?" A welcomed voice asked from behind him, the voice of his mentor, advisor, and friend. He turned and smiled grimly at the man. The question he had been pondering was on the minds of everyone within his kingdom. He had to come to some conclusion soon. He had to decide between his heart and his beliefs. His people and what he had been taught. The death of an enemy at the freedom of his people, or the taming of said enemy possibly to his people's detriment. His head was beginning to ache abominably.

"I do not know Rogan. I was puzzling it out in my head as you spoke, I find the Lady Elaine a complex problem. One that offers so many different paths to tread. Some I see as unbearably dangerous, others far simpler. Unfortunately the hardest path is generally the morally correct one." He said as he rubbed the ache in his temple in an attempt to ease the pain. " The easiest action would be to continue our original plan, however I am afraid we cannot ransom her now. She has power. Her mother was my ally and her blood runs strong within her daughter. Not even the iron shackles he forced upon her has completely diminished her power. By rights she should have been tapped by now, the power should have died and her with it. Such power added to my own could allow us a victory in this war . If only we trained her and taught her to meld powers with mine we would be damn near unstoppable."

"She is an interesting puzzle to be sure, Darius." Rogan responded quietly. "Still ,the question that lies in what you speak of, is whether or not we could teach her. If she wished to remain powerless we cannot stop her."

"And then we sentence her to death." Darius argued. "Can we in good conscious allow her to die? She may be my enemy at the moment, but mayhaps we can change her. Perhaps we can show her the light, we can teach her what she needs"

Rogan smiled thinly at his pupil's eagerness and knew that within the king still beat the heart of a man. He could feel the longing of his student; the need for this woman despite the cost. Such women in the past had caused the down fall of many a good leader. If there was anything he knew, it was that Darius was the best leader they had been granted in many years.

"But you can not do to her what her father has done. It is against everything we believe in. You would be courting the dark in forcing her to do anything that is against her own beliefs."

"So how do we show her that her father's beliefs are wrong? How do we show her the light Rogan? If we keep her unshackled she is open for the dark. We can not risk her father realizing what an incredible power he has had at his finger tips for years. We can not teach her and allow her to return with the knowledge to break us. "

"Do we risk teaching her then, or do we shackle her all over?" Rogan questioned. He knew the answer, but hoped Darius would give him the correct one. He had all but raised the lad; surely by now he would know the correct answer.

"You know we can not. It is against everything we believe and tell our people. No child of magick is to be leashed; shackling is for the evil and the depraved. She is neither; rather she is a confused child in a war she does not fully understand. She has never truly known her mother. And her mother could not tell her what she was without the wrath of her father. Can we in good conscious send her back to a life that killed her mother?"

"I do not know. The best thing to do would be to train her, to show her the light behind the darkness she fears. Still ransoming her back was the best chance this kingdom had at freedom from its oppressors." Rogan sighed. "I see your dilemma and I am not feeling that either option is for the best. Either way blood will be spilled."

"Look at her, for more than likely the first time in her life she has a healthy color; she has gained weight that she sorely needed. The shackles were stealing her life, for there is a price at ignoring one's gift, especially when she has some destiny with this gift. Fate shines about her. Can we kill her? For by shackling her, the power will leach out of her and she will weaken again, and this time it will kill her. Can we poison her with iron? Can we tourcher such an innocent soul?" Darius whispered in an attempt to hide the venom in his voice. His heart ached at the thought of her death.

As he watched her, he had to admit there were women thatw were far more beautiful, and yet there was something about her, something exotic, something different, and something that made him want her more than any other. He knew he was not alone in his thoughts as, there were other men that watched her as he did -- he had seen them. He didn't know what it was about her. Was it because she was forbidden fruit? Would he want her as much if he could have her? He would have to ponder this carefully.

No moves could be made at the expense of his people. The road before him, the only one at the moment he could in good conscious follow, would be to train her. He would pray nightly that in training her he was not trading the freedom of himself and his people. At the end of her training, like all students, she would be given the choice of what she wanted. She could return to her father, or she could stay among them as his bride. Her beauty and the kindness he knew that was within her would make her a good consort. His people would fight for such a woman; they could love such a woman. Perhaps in the end she would win this war.

"Train her Rogan." Darius said softly, but firmly. "Bring Meg in from the countryside; she is both gentle and wise. A woman that might reach the hard headed Lady Elaine. Perhaps she may be made to see her father's folly. If not, at the end of her training I will shackle her and return her to her people if that is her will."

"The King has spoken, so shall it be done." Rogan replied respectfully and with a tone that held finality. Darius could only hope he made the right decision. In his heart he knew it was the only one he could make and continue to walk in the light. His heart ached with both fear and longing as he turned his attention back to the woman. Gently she touched a rose, this one wilting. He watched as she felt the soft silky blossoms between her fingers. The blossom slowly rose, soft silvery light glowed from her hands as it fanned out and returned to its former glory. He heard her gasp, and saw the joy that lit up her face, only for a moment before fear replaced it. He watched a stab of unease filling him, her fear very well could bring the death of himself and his people. Distrust brought on by prejudice against the different had caused death and destruction throughout history. He shook his head sadly knowing it would continue to do so long after he was dust.

He lowered himself to the plush grass below his feet and closed his eyes. Surely if he put the questions that raced through his mind like a fox chases a rabbit away for a moment his options would be clearer. He might know how to proceed. He breathed deeply, letting the tension slide from his shoulders and into the ground. It had rained long enough ago he was not muddy or unduly dampened by laying on the ground, but not long enough that the smell of the sweet grass wafted along the air. The sun shone on the back of his eyelids turning them red and gold. A voice broke through his concentration and for some ungodly reason he felt compelled to respond, or at the very least open his eyes.

"Wake up!" The bellowing reached his ears and he struggled to remain where he was. To finish what had begun. He had to see where everything led to. He had a country to run. "Come on ya lazy bums get outta bed!"

"Come on Cowboy, ya know if ya don't get started, I ain't ever gonna get the rest of the bums goin'."

He ignored the words and buried his head under his pillow where the sunlight filtering through the dirty windows of his current home could not take the place of his dreams where at least his surrounding had been plush and beautiful.

The pillow slipped from his head and the light slid over his tightly squeezed lids. These dreams came to him rarely and he hated to lose them. The moment his eyes opened, the dream would filter away like the mist on the streets after a rainy night to be burned off by the sun's heat.

Besides these dreams meant something. He didn't know what yet, but every time he had one, something changed his life. The last time had been the morning of the strike. At the time he had wanted to shake the dust of New York off his badly scuffed shoes and head west for Santa Fe. Instead he ended up with a lot more responsibility and a girlfriend who didn't want to leave her family. His life had effectively changed in only a matter of weeks.

He still thought of Santa Fe from time to time, especially now that Sarah was getting married. Well, possibly, but according to Dave, his best friend and Sarah's brother it as likely. He felt a wave of melancholy take him; he was getting too old for this life. Soon he would have to find another job. One could only be the leader of the Manhattan newsies for so long. Soon Les would be soon too old to pawn off with the sweet little kid banter he had been so good at. He was joining the ranks of the older kids, which was sadly leaving Jack in the position of a has-been. A little brother was great until they got old enough to take off on their own.

He couldn't discount his youthful good looks that allowed him to pass for sixteen at eighteen, but he had to face the way the world worked. This was going to be his last year among the newsies. At eighteen he should be a man, he should be entering the factory as so many before him had. He should be looking for a future, a wife, a place to settle down. Isn't that what every man in this city was supposed to do? Isn't that what Sarah wanted for him? Or rather for them? Isn't that why he had to let her go? Though to be perfectly honest with himself, his interest had dulled and he had begun to be dissatisfied with her anyhow.

With a sigh he opened his eyes. His musings were already making the dream slip away. If nothing else, he reflected with a grumble, at least he should be left him with the face of the broad. The one that always caused him so much trouble, not that he could entirely remember what the trouble was. If he thought hard enough to give himself a headache, he could remember the sable hair shot with gold that felt like silk. He might catch the memory of the softness of unbearably blue eyes -- the color he had been so certain was the same as the Santa Fe sky when the stars would fill the sky.

She had come to him many times over the years; sometimes the dreams were in far away times that Les enjoyed pretending about when he swung his toy sword. Sometimes it was in times far closer to his own. She looked slightly different, the style of her clothing changed, but he knew one thing for certain: she was trouble. No matter what the dream was, he always trusted her, and it always turned out badly for him.

"Sweet dreams Cowboy?" The wisecracking tone of the little Italian that suddenly appeared before him and grated on his nerves. "That smile on ya face said ya were dreamin' about a dame. Missin' Sarah so soon?"

"Shut that hole in ya face Race. Ain't no such thing. I wasn't gonna take the plunge she was after and that was that. Besides accordin' to Davey she's already seein' someone that her folks like and they're hearin' weddin' bells."

"Sure ya don't miss her." Race shot back, elbowing the muscular boy standing next to him with an equally smug smirk on his face. "Sure gets lonely at nights when ya don't have a girl don't it."

"She wasn't for me Race, for a little while I thought she might, but her family wouldn't have had it." Jack growled. "Would ya just leave it alone?"

Mornings were never the best time, especially when he had The Dream . This dream was the beginning, he knew it somewhere deep inside him. This is part of what started it all. He didn't understand the feelings that were flowing through him, and it only irritated him all the more.

"What do ya mean her family wouldn't have had it? Accordin' to Davey they thought ya hung the moon." Race's companion said in a teasing voice that only irritated Jack further.

"Yeah, well I hung the moon, but I don't exactly have a bunch of prospects for takin' care of a family now do I?" Jack snapped "Not that I want a family. I'm goin' in the washroom now and if any of ya bums want to keep talkin' about it I'll soak ya."

"Looks like we'll be in for some entertainment if the Delancy's show up." He heard Race say softly. "And I can't say I wouldn't rather him takin' his frustrations on them and leavin' us alone."

Jack felt a momentary pang; he hadn't ever heard the boys talking about him that way. You'd think he was Spot Conlon. He didn't have half the iron fist Spot did, and he hadn't ever taken his anger out of his boys before. Damn woman, she didn't even exist and she was causing him problems. The boys gave him wide berth as he got ready for the morning, which only frustrated him more. With a growl he threw the leather cord of his hat over his head and stomped downstairs.

The morning was clear as a bell, the kind of clear that told him this afternoon would bring a storm. After you spent years running the streets you learned quickly what the weather would do. Looking west he saw the scattering of gray clouds that told him he was right. With a sigh he headed toward the distribution center where he would buy less papers than he had counted on, no one was going to buy sopping papers. Not to mention the distribution center only took them back if they were in relatively good shape. On top of it all he was on his own today. Les had started school and Davey had gone back the moment his father had taken a clerking job for the local factory. He might limp for the rest of his life due to the leg that had broken only a year after his arm had healed and had mended wrong, but Davey's father wouldn't have to worry about that while adding figures.

The rest of the newsies said nothing as he strode to the front of the line and bought his papes. He was the leader, and with that role came certain perks. That line of thought only brought him back to his job dilemma. Maybe if he played his cards right he might be able to ask Davey's dad to get him a job at the factory. He had wanted more for his life, so much more than his father. Instead, he could look forward to a life of drudgery and back breaking work; until his body gave out from the strain or he was injured. It wasn't as if the factory cared how safe their machinery was. There were always more immigrants that would take his place. At the thought he found himself growling at the little old lady that had been about to buy a paper from him.

With a sigh, he watched her retreating and looking back at him as if he were a rabid animal, he gave up and wandered toward Central Park. There was one place there he could be sure of clearing his mind. He took the path just before 79th street until he came to Graywacke Arch. He lingered for a moment, enjoying the bridge. It had such a feeling of oldness. He wasn't sure how else to describe it, but he knew the moment he slipped under it and headed toward his destination the feeling that filled his dream the night before would become clearer. He still wouldn't understand it, nor would he really remember the dream, but he would be in like surroundings. He meandered up the path past the Great Lawn and turned on the pathway that led past the turtle pond and up to Belvedere Castle. Looking over his shoulder at the sky he could see the clouds moving closer. They were piling on top of each other, promising for a spectacular storm.

Belvedere Castle sounded so much more grand than it actually was. Really it was nothing more than a glorified lookout. The windows were open archways that let in all manner of weather, but it suited his mood. With nothing to distract him like the last time he had one of the dreams, he slipped up the steps and into the steep turning staircases in the turrets of the towers. The stone around him curved with the staircase making him feel almost as if he were in a different time. Moving out onto the lookout he could see across the Great Lawn. Vacationing families were picnicking; though he could see them glancing at the sky and it's approaching weather. He watched a man tossing a baseball to his son who held a stick. His mouth twisted in a smile that held a bit of bitterness and a bit of wistfulness. Bitterness for what might have been and wistfulness for what he was determined would happen. No way was he going to let his son grow up on the streets like him. His son would know happiness even if he knew poverty. As he watched few of the families were even beginning to clean up their food and fold their blankets. He hoped it poured ; his papes were stacked behind him just inside the turret, so that with any luck they would remain dry.

He was alone in the castle, feeling of the sun warmed stone underneath his hands and the feeling of the cool breeze rushing past him soothed him. The scent of rain in the air exhilarated him. He could hear the thunder that told him it was coming, something was coming. For a moment he felt only the freedom of the moment and savored it. It was as if he were standing on the brink of something. Soon that feeling of freedom would evaporate forever and he had only this short time to enjoy it. He lifted his arms as though he would fly as a great gust of wind swept past him bringing with it the beginning drops of the storm. He dropped his hand back to the stone and opened his eyes.

On the stairs below him he saw a dark head coming from the stone walk where he had entered not that long ago. It caught his attention as he wondered how he had managed to miss the slender figure that moved into full view. Sable hair wove down the back of a girl, and his heart lurched in his chest. Her skin was fair, and her dress told him she was not rich, but neither did she work too hard for her living. A seamstress if he was any judge, and after you spent as long on the streets as he did you learned guess rather correctly the income of those that passed you. That was not to say the seamstress of the city did not work hard, but their job was cushy in comparison to the woman that worked in the factories.

It was as if he had made some noise, called out to her, or something like it. He knew he hadn't, he knew he had remained silent; but it was as if his very gaze was calling to her. She turned and looked up at him. Her features were delicate, though small from this distance, and though he couldn't see her eyes he knew they would be an incredible shade of blue. As she lifted a hand to brush away a tendril of hair covering her one of her eyes, her unbuttoned sleeve slipped down her arm with the movement. Elegant swirls of polished metal gleamed from both her wrists; he couldn't tell the metal,only that it was darker than the silver.

The sight of the cuffs filled him with anger, the same kind of anger he had felt toward the strike. It was as if he had watched the bulls slap a pair of shackles on an innocent woman. His righteous anger must have clouded his mind, because for a moment, he could have sworn his hands that gripped the stone of the wall glowed a pale, golden color. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, but must have only been a few minutes. Then she turned and fled. He watched as she moved as gracefully as a gazelle down the long flights of stairs to the path below. Her hair swirled in the sudden wind that had picked up, her skirts swishing as she moved. His heart stuttered in his chest, as feelings flooded him, feelings for a woman he didn't know. They made what he had felt for Sarah seem like a hazy, misty, shadow. Like the fog that burned off quickly in the heat of the sun. He stood statue-still for only a moment before ran across the lookout and down the staircase, taking the stairs two at a time, and nearly breaking his neck in the process. Down onto the entryway, past the staircase he had originally taken and down the main stairs he ran, but she was gone. With a growl to himself he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed home. It wasn't until he was nearly there he realized he had left his papes.