Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.

This story has been beta-read by VesperRegina, to whom I owe even more thanks than usual. It's dedicated to Shi Shi, for her friendship and encouragement, and for making me laugh when I most needed it.

Bernhard Muller and Em Gomez used by kind permission of Volley and Chrysa respectively.

This story is AU. Warning: it contains bad language and some moderately graphic violence. Anyone who is offended by these should consider this before reading it.

More than anything, it was the eyes that made them afraid.

It was a day like any other, out on the High Plains; a day with the hint of autumn in it, a coolness that came as a relief after the long, baking summer. But this was not to be a day like any other. Such days as these the gods should announce, but that day the gods were silent; unless a god spoke in the faint, falling notes of a skylark far up in the sky, so high that even when I stopped and looked upwards, shading my eyes against the glare, I could not make out the shape of the bird as it soared.

Legend says that skylarks are sacred, the birds that rise to the home of the gods, and certainly it is widely held to be unlucky to kill them, even by accident. Not that I would kill one, even if I could. I have always loved to hear them. They are such dull creatures on the ground – in the summer months they remain on their nests among the grass, hiding their chicks, until one may almost step on them – that it never ceases to be a source of wonder that something so plain and dowdy may hold within it such a torrent of song…

The tents were deserted, save for the usual scatter of noisy children and one or two of the older members of the tribe who had chosen to follow their pursuits outside in the sunshine. Most of the women were in the kiwa-we, the House of Making, for we are a sociable people, and there is always pleasure to be had in the company of others while we work.

Well. In the company of some others, for unluckily there are always those who find their particular pleasure in tormenting those less fortunate than themselves.

The skylark fell silent, and although I waited a while, it did not sing again. In a little while I saw the dark arrowhead of a falcon cut the sky, and thought that the skylark was wise to be silent; the small sleek hunter will strike a bird almost as big as itself from the air.

I looked around for Bihiv, for my brother loved to watch a falcon playing with the wind; though it is not a thing a man would discuss with a woman (even a beloved sister), it was not hard to guess that he hoped with all his heart that when his time came to receive his tribe-mark, he would wake from Trance to find the Sickle on his shoulder. Nevertheless, I knew the looking for the foolishness it was. I would not find him. He was away with the rest of the men, hunting, and we did not look to see them again till the following day. I watched the falcon as it swooped away towards the westering sun, and hoped that its flight would take it above the hunters and that Bihiv would look up and catch a sight of it, and take it for a lucky omen.

As the falcon disappeared into the blue, I caught the sound of hoofs. Even that first breath of sound told me that the horse was being ridden hard, with a speed that was careless of cracks in the hard-packed ground.

Foreboding caught me by the throat. Would that I could write honestly that I had some foreshadowing of what was to come; but alas, I am no more than an ordinary woman, and had no thought that it was more than news of some accident to one of the hunting party – to which I would naturally be summoned.

It has given me a status of sorts to be the Healer for the tribe. A status that otherwise I would lack, given the colour of my eyes: brown like the earth, rather than brilliantly blue like the sky.

But with this status has come responsibility given to few other women. When there are injuries or sickness, it is I who am expected to treat and heal. Success is expected: failure is shocking. It is especially true when it is the young and strong who are involved. The tribe is not so great in number that we can afford to lose any of our young people.

So I stared out across the expanse of parched grass, shading my eyes once again. A lone rider, on a tired horse. After a moment I made out the familiar form of Atreh, crouched alongside his beast's neck to urge it to greater speed, and my already fast pulse quickened. He was easily the best rider among the young men, and valued his mount, but both of them were risking death with that mad gallop.

Others had heard him. Old Garv the Horsemaster was already hobbling out to the herd, whistling them to come to him. Ever watchful for danger, Syach the red stallion began circling his mares, blowing down his imperious nose, but Garv had brought him into the world and was trusted. Mere moments passed before the man emerged from the press of warm bodies, leading my sweet little dun Arach towards the heap of horse-blankets and tack; he already knew that I would need her.

He had Arach blanketed and bitted almost before Atreh pulled his lathered horse Vey to a plunging stop beside me.

There was no explanation; words would have used up precious time; help was clearly needed, help was my duty, and the case must be truly desperate for a young man who was generally gentle enough with beasts to have used his own in such a way.

Vey was spent, and could not be ridden on the return journey. Atreh cast an eye on the line where the remaining riding horses were picketed, and while he was hastily choosing one I ducked back into my tent and pulled out the doeskin bag in which I kept the things that were generally needful for emergencies. I also exchanged my skirt for a riding dress, silently thanking my father for having seen the need for his daughter to learn to ride at least as well as a man, however unfeminine it may still be thought.

Not Bihiv, my heart was silently pleading; let it not be Bihiv lying injured. Perhaps dying – perhaps already dead….

But whoever it might be, they were in urgent need of my care. Perhaps Atreh would tell me as we rode. He was one of those who seemed not to care overmuch for the stigma of brown eyes, and was friendly enough with Bihiv. He was not unkind towards me, either, and there had been times when I entertained foolish daydreams, but those days were past. I was content enough with things as they were.

Atreh was already up on his remount and holding Arach's rein by the time I emerged, the bag slung across my shoulders. His handsome young face was filthy with dust and sweat, and wore a look of suppressed impatience, but he said nothing as I put my hands on her withers and vaulted up on to her back. Garv was leading away the exhausted Vey, and scowling over the ribbons of sweat that streaked the strong neck and flanks.

I did not want to see such marks on Arach's satiny hide, but the life of a man and of a horse are of different values.

Still, all the best horses were out on the hunt. Those remaining in the picket line belonged to the old men who no longer had the sheer physical endurance for long days on horseback with all the associated discomforts of scarce water, dried food and hard lying at night, and they too had seen better days. In a straight race Arach would have burst her willing heart trying to keep up with Vey, but press as he undoubtedly would, Atreh would get nothing like Vey's speed from the horse he bestrode now.

Without looking to see I was ready, he urged his borrowed mount fiercely forward. They were galloping almost before they were past the last of the tents, where a couple of children and another of the old men stood to watch us go, doubtless wondering what the news would be when the hunting party returned. Three of the tribe died when the marsh fever came in the spring, for all that I could do; and somehow the eleven whom I saved seemed to be of less account, in the eyes of some, than the three I could not.

The priests say that every man dies at his appointed time. It had been with me ever since that some, particularly among the women, whisper that for those three their time might have been further distant had it been other than I who attended them….

I urged Arach after him, and she responded eagerly. It has ever felt to me that this must be how it feels to a falcon, feeling the wind rush past; though I could never before remember driving her so hard, and in my heart I whispered a prayer to the Mother of Mares to direct her feet surely, for neither she nor I had time to check or turn aside if some hidden danger lay in wait.

Our menfolk have an unerring sense of direction, even when clouds hide the sun and the plain stretches featureless from horizon to horizon. Atreh rode without hesitation back the way he had come, Arach obedient behind him, stretching her neck to keep up.

Ai! It was a long way, and a cruel distance to keep horses at the full stretch. For all her willing heart, Arach was no Vey, no Syach. Presently I heard the note of her lungs grow laboured, and stroked her wet neck to give her all the comfort I could; but I could not let her rest, and as the ride went on and on it came to me bleakly that I might well be riding her to her death.

Presently the broken landscape yielded up the shape of a low, stony hill, forerunner of the mountains that heaved up their heads against the horizon further north, and at sight of it I had to fight against the urge to pull on Arach's rein. This was a place I never came to willingly, any more than the men did. Senseless and maybe blasphemous as it is, I have always felt that this place and those who dwell here are in direct opposition to everything I stand for.

And yet, they have their place in the life of the Tribe, even as I do. I yield them the due respect, as they do me, but on both sides it is a guarded truce even now.

My mind was full of questions as Atreh pushed his also labouring horse towards the cliff where the cave mouth lies. As we drew closer I saw the horses of the hunting party gathered there, and with a small rush of relief I saw Bihiv's sorrel Kav among the others, seemingly uninjured.

The men were gathered as close to the cave mouth as awe would let them, and heads turned as Atreh and I rode up. Normally they would have come to take the horses and help us down, but nobody moved; some great emotion had them in its grip, for I saw their faces were pale and set.

Not Bihiv, O Great Mother, let it not be Bihiv…

Arach stumbled to a halt, her breathing like a pair of bellows, and I did not even take the time to pat her in sorrow and gratitude as I slid down off her back in a rush. "Who is it? What has happened?"

The crowd parted to let me through, but no-one answered. On legs that were suddenly so shaky they seemed hardly able to bear me, I hurried through the gap towards those who were waiting silently in the very mouth of the Cave itself.

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