Yes. A new story. Again. I really want to hone my version of Kartik's POV. This shall be the ultimate test. The entirety of A Great and Terrible Beauty, in his point of view. I hope you are honest about my portrayal of him, but please remember that it is bound to be different from Rebel Angels, for he still has a bit of growing up to do, mentally, at least. Libba Bray created him, and I cherish him. Enjoy.

"You have to follow her." The man's face is partially hidden in shadows but I can hear that he is eating an apple rather noisily. "Watch her every move." He takes a large bite that sends bits of juice flying off in every direction. "Make sure no harm comes of her."

"I will," I say in earnest.

"It will not be easy." He clears his throat. "It will take much sacrifice." Another wet crack into the apple. "She must always be within reach." He lights a cigar. The putrid smoke curls into the air, burning my eyes. "You must be strong."

I cannot help it. I cough.

He smirks and leans back into leather chair, completely submersing his face into shadow. "The life of a Rakshana brother is never easy," he says bemusedly. It is ironic and he knows it. "Go now, little Kartik." My eyes narrow at the name. "I believe you have a ship to catch."

"What ship? When?" This is the first I've heard of any ships.

"The Mary Elizabeth." He flicks open a pocket watch. The gold casing catches the light; I am briefly reminded of the bejeweled dancers I watched just before…it happened. "Hmm. It seems you have ten minutes."

My stomach drops. I make for the door, but my superior has one last show of dominance to humiliate me.

"Kartik, before you go…"

"Yes?" I cannot mask the terseness of my voice.

He holds up his cigar. "My ashtray, if you'd be so kind."

It is within arm's reach of him. It takes all my control not to fling it at his head. I set it in front of him wordlessly.

He chuckles, a hateful sound. "You may go now. And remember…" I turn back to see the smoke engulf his face. "Watch her."

I nod silently, and then I am free, running as fast as my legs will take me.

The Mary Elizabeth looms before me, a monstrosity of metal against the placid Arabian Sea. People swarm about, carting luggage and saying their last goodbyes. I have nothing but a rucksack on my shoulder, and I've already said my last goodbye.

Amar is gone now, burned to ashes and floating along the Ganges. It was what he wanted, and yet…I selfishly wish for something to remember him by, a gravestone to visit or something of the sort. Instead I have two material possessions, a journal and a blade, but at least I can keep them with me.

Thankfully I am not the sentimental type; else I might never have made it to the ship in time. Stealthily, thanks to years of training, I dart in between passengers and deckhands alike, securing a hidden spot among the cargo. It is cold and the machine room's nearness drives me mad with the groaning and vibrating machines, but there is enough food and water to feed an army (ironically enough, it is meant to), and warmth can be found near a steam vent.

I have only one complaint. As many times as I have traveled by water, I have never found my sea legs. Or stomach. Whatever food I eat does not stay down for very long. That, coupled with lack of sunlight (for there are no windows, not even a measly porthole), does not make for a very healthy looking person. I catch sight of myself in the shiny doors of a carriage on board and grimace. I look as if I've been battling cholera, and no one ever fares well from that disease. Even hypothetically, as that is the cover-up for Mrs. Doyle's death.

I suspect "murder by evil spirit" is too much for the English public to handle. The daughter of the deceased, my charge, Gemma Doyle knows the truth. She saw it happen, but probably has no explanation of why, or how. I wonder if she has tried to tell anyone the truth, or if she attributes her vision to temporary insanity and buys the cholera excuse. Though she'd be labeled mad even if she did tell the truth. The English rely too much on their God to believe in evil spirits and other realms.

The Indians however…they believe too strongly in such spirits. Good, bad, human, or not, the Indians will worship them and only hope their offerings are enough. I cannot complain, for I am named for such a spirit – the god of war. It is a name I carry with pride, though I do not believe in any gods.

Let's just say I am glad to be Rakshana. We believe in the truth. Our brotherhood is based on the importance of truth, whether it is math, science, philosophy, or religion. We know what happens when one dies; we know Heaven and Hell. When some cultures base their lives on blindness and hope, the Rakshana puts faith in facts. And we are never disappointed.

It is an oddly empty life that I lead. I suppose once I transition from my training into full acceptance from the brotherhood, the secrets and mysteries I am to learn will fill the void. For now, the part of me that should be occupied by religion or companionship is an empty hole. Though I am used to it, it stills drives me mad.

The void has grown bigger as of late. I find it hard to focus sometimes, hard to breathe, hard to see, hard to feel. I grew up in an atmosphere of strong, jaded men. The only emotions worth having were those of determination, or anger. Sadness was considered weak; happiness was only attained as a result of success or revenge. I was therefore not prepared for my brother's death, or how my life would change in its wake.

I have been through denial, the short and tormented stage of grief. Every moment in the hours that followed his murder was spent anticipating his return. I could practically visualize him walking up to me, disheveled from the fight but alive. Every second ticked off made my heat beat faster and faster until I was certain I'd drop dead. Part of me wishes I had.

Anger followed closely after. I spewed strings of curses that I don't think were even valid. The blasted girl, it was all her fault. I hated her. I vowed to do everything I wasn't supposed to, track her down and hurt her, show her just some of the pain she caused me. I was so tempted. The feeling flares up even now sometimes, though I prefer to think of her with indifference. She is nothing but a means for me to move on with my life.

But my emotions are more unpredictable than I have ever known any other sober man's to be. It is with shame that I compare myself to a woman, fine one moment and crying the next. On this ship, it is intensified. I have nothing to occupy my time, nothing to keep the memories at bay. It is often that I relive that day and often that salty tears drip down my face and down my throat. I am waterlogged in more ways than one. I feel as if I'm drowning, but I know I must keep swimming. Land is on the horizon, and the grief will eventually ease.

I have no means to tell day from night, and I rely solely on my internal clock to tell me how far into the trip I am. At night, sleep ends abruptly with the terror that the ship has already made it to England, and I have failed to depart. These dreams terrify me, for I'd never willingly fail the Rakshana. Even if I had to stay awake the entire trip so I didn't wind up returning to India, I would. But I know that I'd never miss the ship docking, especially as I am right next to the machine room. Even with that knowledge, I still awake drenched in cold sweat, the thought of failure fresh in my mind.

During the daylight hours (more irony, as there is no daylight, at least not for me), I discover new heights of ennui. There is even a routine to it. When I get tired of reading from the same books over and over, I snoop around the cargo area. Then the rocking of the ship becomes too much for my land-favorable stomach. It is in this stage of the day that the most psychologically destructive things occur.

While I lay on the iron floor, the great stacks of luggage that conceal me from any intruders (other than rats, I've so far had to deal with none) appear to threaten to fall on me. Thanks to vertigo, I have a new fear – that I will forever be entombed by brass-studded leather and splintery wood. Here lies Kartik; this end up.

It is also with odd humor caused by lack of human contact that I notice other funny things about myself. My fingers are too long, but by the light of a stolen (borrowed?) lantern I can make them look like animals against the wall. My hair doesn't curl as much in the back of my head as it does in front. I've developed a liking to the scent of cinnamon (there was a crate full of it that I accidentally opened), but it makes me sneeze quite easily.

All of these realizations are ridiculous and insignificant; they will not help me protect some English girl that aims for the jugular with strong legs. I still fear for my fertility, though within the Rakshana I may as well become a eunuch. I will not be able to marry, and I hardly see the point in getting tangled up with women otherwise. They are complicated and better admired from afar, especially ones that kick.

The large chamber echoes with my laughter, for I cannot seem to rid myself of the image of myself as a hijra, sari and all, begging at a wedding.

The shudder of machines winding down from their seemingly endless work snaps a bit of sobriety into me. The ship must be docking, and I must be leaving. I gather my things quickly, frantically thinking up an escape plan. It isn't until I feel the ship shudder to a complete stop that I have my course of action. I know from prior experience that the depths of the ship include the Third Class rooms. Therefore, if I can make it from the cargo area undetected, I should have no problem fitting in with the rest of steerage.

And it is with luck and practiced skill that I do just that. As I emerge into the first rays of sunlight I've encountered in days (weeks? Months?), anxiety hits me. All around me, people of all cultures and race talk excitedly, each in their own languages. I may not understand their every dialect or verb conjugation, but the meanings are clear. They all have places to go and people to see.

My stomach knots unpleasantly, this time not from the unsettled ocean, but from anxiety. I've come so far, but where do I go now? I've no further instruction from the Rakshana; only "catch a ship" and "watch the girl". I know this is meant to test my wits, but a break would be nice, perhaps a signal as to where to go next or at least a pat on the shoulder.

Hunger protests in my stomach. I could do with something to eat, maybe a pint of ale as well. I hitch my rucksack onto my shoulder and begin my trek to the nearest pub. It's not an order, but it's something to do. The girl can wait. She will probably wait long, for I have no idea of her whereabouts. Perhaps she joined the circus. Eloped to Paris. Frankly, it wouldn't matter if she did. The point is – England is a large country and I'm not entirely certain I could recognize her again. Though not many English girls have red hair like hers, they do wear hats often.

"The Eastern Star is hard to find."

"But it shines brightly for those who seek it." The words tumble out of my mouth before I realize what I have heard. I look for the owner of the unfamiliar voice. There is a man in a pinstriped suit leaning against the brick wall of a building. His hat, pulled low over his face, does little to conceal his prominent chin.

"Kartik," he says. "I have a message for you."

Comments? Criticism? I appreciate constructive criticism, but don't take too well to "I hate it, he's OOC" types. They make me sad.

By the way, a hijra is like an Indian drag queen that has been castrated. Look it up - it's pretty interesting actually.

No more summer camp! No more bratty annoying kids to herd around!,
LunaEquus

Reviews make Kartik happy in the trouser area.

Fixed! Gave Kartik some more depth in the Amar situation. He still may seem a bit aloof about it, but it hasn't quite sunk in yet.