Starman

by Swiss

Prompt: Eight years after the events of the TOS episode "Friday's Child", McCoy is reunited with the child he helped deliver – Leonard James Akaar.

Leonard James Akaar sat in silent contemplation of the long horizon, his lithe body molded into the crouched position required for his long, solitary vigil in the high crag of rock. His life had run only a few cycles, but there was an unnatural stillness and solemnity to his features; a line that ran down his otherwise smooth forehead and marked him as one for contemplation. Some said that it set him apart. He did not like that others said so. It too closely aligned with his own deepest thoughts.

Akaar inclined his head forward, taking in the red-earth scent of early morning and the sparse vegetation moistened for just these few hours with a milky, insubstantial dew. Nearer the camp, children his own age would be running their tongues over the branches for it, if they were awake at all. The dawn was only now arriving, and the young Capellan scrunched his thin nose at it and at the stars that were just now beginning to fade.

Space. He was one of only a handful of his people who ever had call to think of it.

With a sure hand, Akaar moved from his position and slipped from the stone face. His straight, flaxen hair was bunched at the back of his head, centered as all children's were, since he had not the length yet to bind it high as the men did. It was the exact color of his entire race, the exact quality. His smoldering eyes were said to be just like those of the father whose legacy he bore as a third name. How, then, did he still feel outside, as though another man – the one whom his mother stubbornly maintained was his true patriarch – had actually contributed to his heritage and not just to his village's mythological memory?

Akaar grimaced at the thought of his distant paterfamilias. The man who his mother claimed was unlike any she had known, a father-mother, a healer with hands that brought forth life from the womb.

"He was not much of a fighter," she told him on one of the rare occasions that Akaar had brought himself to ask. He was fearful that his namesake might not be all he hoped, and her description had not relieved his mind. "Not a fighter," she repeated. "Something else. Though he was brave."

I do not want you, Akaar sometimes said to the stars, usually after he had witnessed the parents of his companion-peers demonstrate some prowess, and he was feeling the absence of his own more keenly. But he did not want the ephemeral Starman who touched with gentle magic. He wanted a warrior.

As he approached the village, Akaar began to make out the sounds of his people. There were conversations around the cooking fires, and the throaty cry of an infant. A sentry called to him as he passed the parameter, making a fist and stretching it toward him. "Strength to your arm, Akaar," he greeted in the traditional way.

Akaar. It was what the others of the Ten Tribes called him, and it was the identity he had chosen for himself. Yet it was not his true name, as his mother constantly reminded him by refusing to use any other but the one she had chosen. It was sometimes a point of contention between them, but she was his mother and she was Regent Teer. As always, she did as she wished.

Akaar lengthened his stride, his strong limbs purposeful in their movements. He passed a woman, very great with child, preparing the morning meal while she stoked her belly with a sure hand. In times past, it was said that there had been many fewer live births, but there was a liquid now that guarded off sickness from the mothers. More women were taught about the birthing touch, about where to hold and press and urge. There was far less wailing among the tents of the Capellans now. Even so, there were some who still mistrusted the Strangers. Akaar had only ever seen one, when he appeared in a mist like a rain of sparks. He had not been impressed; the man had looked a pale and weak specimen.

He was glad when he finally reached the far side of the village. There he found his friend Tyreen, sitting outside a large tent beside his home fire and braiding a bowstring with a steady hand. He looked up when Akaar approached.

"Akaar," he greeted. "Strength to your arm."

"May your own never weaken." Akaar answered, holding out his own fist.

Tyreen was the son of Braam, the village's second champion and chief messenger. To carry important news far without being killed by an animal or an enemy was considered a feat of great skill, and Tyreen was growing to be just as lean and fleet footed as his father. Akaar looked down at his own legs, which were stout and sturdy with the promise of heavy muscle. His mother's long face and aquiline nose he stood in no doubt of, but whose traits did he take after in that?

"You will be very strong," his mother assured him, but in a distracted way, as though it mattered to her only in the abstract. She added, "It is better for you to use your mind and your words. Both of your sires did that."

Akaar shook his head. It was time to set aside these restless notions. There was already a knife sheathed in his boot, but now he slung the bow that Tyreen offered and accepted his sigarut, a smaller, wooden version of the kligat he would carry as an adult. He felt the heft of it; it was weighted with lead and still dangerous, though it was not yet bladed. The bow was new and still considered a kind of toy weapon, like the sigarut. However, its effectiveness for hunting was beginning to be recognized and Akaar appreciated the skill required to use it well. He and Tyreen spent hours competing with it and with the more traditional Capellan weapons.

Tyreen brushed the dust from his legs and stood. They were very nearly out of the village and into the valleys beyond when several other boys cut into their path. The largest of them crossed his arms, which were already thick and strong. His hair was long, almost long enough to forsake the childhood way.

Akaar narrowed his eyes. This boy was well known to him. "Meel, why do you delay us?"

"Will you leave the village again, Akaar, to spend time with your frail sticks? This is not the work of a man," Meel challenged.

Akaar was unmoved. He knew that only a fool spoke rash words, or provoked others without reason. His own answer was measured. "What do you know of a man's work, Meel?" he asked. "You, who still speak like a child, and who dwells in his mother's tent."

Blood came to his rival's face. He let his fists fall down and become tight, blunt weapons at his side. "At least I do not make myself great, when I am not," he spat. "At least I do not prowl the highlands as though I were hunting the great Baamut instead of casting small stones at moving grass."

This was jealousy, or cowardice. The others his age did not yet leave the village, Akaar knew. Still, it angered him that Meel would mock him openly. He answered, "Perhaps I will find the Baamut, and then I will hunt her and take her pelt for my first garment."

"You speak highly of your own strength, Akaar," the other boy said. "But you do not impress me. I do not see your pelt. You boast of nothing. Go out into the wild and play your games."

"We do not hear your words, Meel," Tyreen said.

"Says he who follows the heels of his master," Meel sneered. He scuffed the dirt at his feet, kicking up a plum of fine dust. "You disgrace your father's name, Tyreen."

Where he had not reacted to the slights made against himself, this reproach of his friend's honor made Akaar burn. However, Tyreen answered before he could force words out of his throat. "I serve the son of the one who was High Teer," he said, and lifted his chin. "One day Akaar will have that place, and I will still serve him. But you will regret the words you have spoken, Meel."

Pride welled in Akaar. Not every Capellan in the Ten Tribes had such faith. He did not always have this faith in himself. It caused him to act impetuously. Holding his shoulders back and his head high, he made a sudden declaration, "I will catch a Baamut."

In every face, eyes flew wide. Murmurs, gaping mouths. "You lie!" Meel challenged, though truly he looked taken aback. He had clearly not expected Akaar to put his reputation on the line in such an irrevocable way.

Akaar felt swept up, captured in the deluge of his own recklessness. Yet he was still angry – and angrier still at Meel's blunt denial. His lack of confidence sounded like the words which he sometimes heard whispered at his back. It spoke to the fears that he harbored inside and amplified them.

Thus he heard himself repeating, "I will catch a Baamut." From the corner of his eye, he could see Tyreen and knew he was not pleased, but he also knew his friend would not speak against him before these enemies.

Meel's lips twisted into a snarl, and he once again he folded his arms over his broad body. "You will bring death upon your head, Akaar. Then we will see if you become Teer."

After these words had passed, Akaar and Tyreen left the village. Neither spoke as they climbed the raised outcroppings of rock. It was said that in the deep past, a great shaking had split the earth and caused the land to thrust upward. These high places remained as prime hunting territory because they allowed a warrior to see far. To the two boys, the plateaus had been both training and playground, for while most Capellan children stayed nearer to their parents to take their early training, Akaar's mother was ambivalent and Tyreen was still too young to follow his father on his long treks beyond the village.

Tyreen followed Akaar as he stepped to the edge of the embankment, surveying the long horizon.

"I do not see anything," Tyreen said after a moment, the silence finally broken. He did not say that he did not see the Baamut, for refusing to say its name was his own way of challenging without truly challenging. Even so, Akaar set his face into a stubborn frown. He had made his oath to Meel. He would not seek smaller game today. Seeing this in his expression, Tyreen made a sound with his mouth, blowing it out in a hot gust. He did not try again to change Akaar's mind.

They moved, surefooted, among the loose stones and vegetation. Like faint shadows, they stalked the deep valleys, watching for something they could target from above with their bows. Then, suddenly, a hair raising cry made both young boys suddenly freeze. Tyreen ran his hands over the bumps that had raised on his arms, his eyes wide. "A Baamut," he said.

"Follow me." Akaar withdrew his knife from his boot, the blade steadying him. Cautiously, they crept to the nearest ledge and peered over the precipice. The Baamut was there, below them. She was nosing at a hole in the dirt, the splayed dark pads of her feet making the great marks that they had often spotted. However, always before the tracks had been dry and cold. This was the living beast. Even from far overhead, Akaar could smell her musk. His fingers tightened around his knife.

Tyreen breathed. "Truly she is there."

"She is wounded." It was obvious in every movement of the great hide, which was stiff and bristly. She dragged one of her hind legs. Yet her fur was still thick and undamaged, the heavy mane flushing pink. She must have been injured while mating; he had rarely seen a ruff so full and impressive. He imagined the esteem of the village if he were to wear such a pelt on his very first cloak. He would hear no more whispers about soft hands and Starmen after that.

"Akaar." Tyreen's voice held a tone of warning. He knew his friend's mind. "We cannot."

"Meel challenged me."

"Meel is a child. You are not obligated to answer him. Do not be foolish."

Below, the Baamut grunted, moving restlessly. Frustrated by her wound, she let out another bewildered shriek. To a hunter, it was a sound of invitation. From the peek of the craggy outcropping, the animal could not reach them. Feeling reckless, Akaar used this knowledge to justify his decision to follow her when the animal began to move.

They traced her unsteady progress along the cliff as she sought relief. In heady pursuit, they prowled above, and when she finally stumbled and fell on her side, Akkar felt a great thrill in his blood.

Hastily, he sought a good position and reached for his heavier weapon. Traditionally, this was to be done with a kligat on one's first hunt of manhood. This day, his sigarut would have to do. As he prepared his aim, he was only thinking of the pelt. Only imagining the esteem of his kill. For this reason, he did not sense the instability of the ledge even when a handful of small stones crumbled beneath his boot, sending down a warning sprinkle of dirt. He inched his foot forward, seeking the precious few lengths that might win him his prize.

The ground cracked.

Unable to take his weight, the loose soil at the edge of the highland shifted and the ground fell away in a sudden, jarring slide. He heard Tyreen's cry as he too fell, and then there was only abrupt, halting impacts in a confusing blur of red and brown as the rocks came down around him. Final contact with the unyielding ground forced all the air from his lungs, and he lay stunned amidst the debris. He started coughing when he finally had breath, choked by the dust that had been brought up into the air. As his senses returned, he groaned. His entire body ached, in some places down to the bone.

It took some time for him to sit up, and then he felt his first real fear. He lurched to where he saw another blond head, wedged in close to the cliff face. "Tyreen," he called in fear, moving his friend's shoulders. "Tyreen."

Tyreen would not stir at first, his thick blood making a long line down the side of his nose. He was cut where his head had been stuck, and his shoulder was pinned by fallen stones. Akaar tried to free him, but could not. He shook his friend again, and was relieved when he made some movement. Yet his voice was weak when he finally spoke.

"Akaar?" he rasped shakily. "My arm."

The bigger boy made another attempt to dislodge the stones, but it was beyond his strength. The loose rocks made little bites into his hands, and Akaar felt himself panicking. In despair, he cast his eyes around the dry crevice, at the steep wall of rock and the long, dry path marked here and there with the footprints of animals. This place was unsafe, but he did not know what to do.

That was when the voice called to them. It echoed down to them from up above. "Hello! You boys alright down there?"

Akaar craned his head, looking to the high plateau. Overhead, a face peered down. Uncertain whether this was an enemy from another tribe, Akaar pressed his lips together and did not speak.

"Are you hurt?" the stranger called again, huffing when Akaar still refused to answer. "Stubborn tyke. Alright, stay put then."

The stranger made his way down to them. It was not an easy climb, but even so the man took it unusually slowly. Once he had reached the bottom, Akaar was able to see that he was no Capellan at all. He was undersized, with thin arms and legs that were unobscured by any cloak or fur. His cropped shock of hair was the strangest dark color, and curled like the pelt of an animal – not fair and straight as his own people's was. Nor was there anything of a warrior in the way he stood, balanced alternately on the balls and heels of his feet. With a feeling of astonishment, Akaar realized that this was one of those men who came from the sky.

"You've really got yourself in a pickle, haven't you, boys?" the stranger said.

This mostly unintelligible language had little affect on Akaar. He bore his teeth viciously, warning him away from his injured friend. His sweaty palm gripped around his sigrut, which the man must have seen, because he raised his hands.

"Now, now. I'm no threat. You're lucky I saw you fall. I was just beaming down when – well, no need to get into that. Hold on. Let me look at your friend. I can help."

Tyreen was making pained sounds through his teeth now, clearly distressed and afraid, and Akaar did not know how to fix his hurt. The stress of his ignorance welled up so strongly that he felt himself stumbling aside to let the unknown man pass.

He felt carefully around Tyreen's pinned shoulder, which made the boy pant. Akaar fidgeted, but the stranger spoke gently. "Quiet now. I know it hurts." He squeezed and probed until sweat dimpled the fringes of Tyreen's hair. "Do you feel any pain when I do this? Be honest with me, son."

Tyreen barked a sharp, bitten off cry, and Akaar could not stand it any longer.

"Stop it," he said. There was something prickling his eyes, like the points of very small knives. He swallowed harshly. "Stop."

Alien blue eyes glanced up at him, holding his gaze, then a hand reached out, as though to bestow a reassuring touch. "I know it sounds bad, but I'm going to help him."

Akaar jerked away. "What is that?" he demanded when the man pulled out a kind of stick from the sack attached to his waistband, and pressed it against the swollen arm.

"It's a kind of medicine," the man answered.

The hissing sound was unsettling, but it did not seem to harm. In fact, only a moment later some of the tension eased form Tyreen's face and he sighed. "The pain is gone," he said, looking up at the stranger in awe. "You are a magician."

"It's a pain killer, not sorcery. I'd explain it better, but for now we should get you somewhere safe in case you go into shock."

Working together, he and Akaar were able to bring Tyreen out of the rocks. Afterward, the stranger spent more time using the things from his bag. When he was finished, he wiped his forehead and said, "Good as I can do out here. If we were on the ship, I could have you right as rain in a few hours, but I suppose you'll have to go the more traditional route. Still, you'll be just fine in a few weeks."

Tyreen leaned closer to Akaar, clearly uncertain. He was holding his arm, but his color was already better. He did not seem to be in any pain.

Standing, the stranger braced his hands against his narrow waist. "Seems my coordinates were a bit off," he said. "That damned transporter. I don't suppose you know of a Capellan village near here, run by –" He chuckled. "A very formidable woman."

Akaar chest puffed out with pride. "My mother, Eleen, is Regent Teer of the Ten Tribes of Capella."

"Oh?" the man asked with rekindled interest, and Akaar found himself under a scrutiny so keen that he felt pierced straight through. He tensed as the stranger made a sound of consideration. "Yes, the age is about right. You look older than I would have thought for just eight years but I suppose it's those Capellan genes."

Tyreen touched his arm. "Akaar, who is he?"

The stranger's sudden laugh startled both boys. "Akaar. Well, if that ain't a name I haven't heard in a while. The universe gets smaller every year."

"You know the name of the High Teer Akaar?"

"Quite well," the man said, and leaned forward as though he were speaking in confidence. "In fact, I was once known to the heir of the Teer's house."

Impossible. Akaar himself was that heir. Angry at this ridiculous attempt to deceive them, he cried out, "You lie, Starman."

The man sobered. "Do I? Well, that will be for your mother to decide. Will you be my guide, son of Capella?"

Akaar flinched. The words were a very near approximation of the Call-For-Assistance, which could not honorably be denied. But how could this outsider possibly know those words?

"I'm just here for a visit, son," the man said, and Akaar felt his gut burn. He was not a son; he had no father. Certainly, this man had no claim to him. Yet his sharp retort was cut off when the stranger spoke again. "My name is McCoy."

In his mind, Akaar heard that exact word fall from his mother's lips, syllabic and accented in a way that this stranger's were not. Mak'koi. His mouth fell open.

They began the long trip back to the village, a slow progress with Tyreen's uncertain strength. As they walked, Akaar could not help but steal glances at the man who claimed to be the healer his mother spoke of. The man to whom she had credited his birth, and who had haunted all his days thereafter with the ghost of his presence.

Mak'koi.

He did not look like any of the dream images Akaar had cast for him, which alternated between weak, bent cripples and the tall, formidable monolith he would have preferred. None of them had appeared with a smile that curled as though greeting an old friend. He was also small, not so much taller than Akaar himself, and more slim. Akaar felt that any half-hearted blow would knock him over. Only his strange eyes seemed strong. They were earnest and piercing. Akaar avoided them.

They had not gone very far when Mak'koi spoke.

"Bee in your bonnet, son?"

Akaar's teeth closed very tightly together to avoid shouting that he was not this man's son. Only by a great exercise of will was he able to force his mouth around words that were less childish. "Why are you here?"

"I was supposed to show up just a ways beyond the village so I wouldn't scare anybody and end up with a dozen kligats in my belly," Mak'koi answered. "I don't know how the coordinates were so off. Though it might have been Captain Makayla's idea of making a point. Fresh air and sunshine, that's all I suggested. Now look. They dump me, and off they go to their next checkpoint. Bah. Damned Starfleet big shots. They act like they've never heard anything but 'Yes, Sir' their whole lives."

Akaar's stomach was boiling with exasperation. "I do not understand your words!"

Once again, Mak'koi glanced at him, but whereas before he had seemed to be mocking Akaar, now his eyes became softer. "No, I guess not," he said. "I'm sorry. You do know I'm not an enemy, don't you?"

Akaar wished to say that he knew no such thing, but instead he asked again, "Why have you come?"

"Just a friendly visit, to insure the diplomatic relationship between our people remains in good shape. You know about the dilithium mines."

Indeed, he knew of the place where the Outsiders took their rocks from the earth. In exchange, they gave the Ten Tribes things of value, or offered new wisdom like the use of the bow and birthing touch. It was still a subject of controversy among his people. Akaar often heard it discussed around the evening firepots.

"Because of my history here, I was sent to speak with the Regent Teer, to make sure things are going smoothly. Though I was hoping more for a reunion." The cut of his eyes shifted in a sly, sideways glance that made Akaar flinch.

He was opening his mouth to respond, when a harsh sound like the scrapping of rocks interrupted any possible answer. Akaar's head jerked up, startled. He knew that noise, and his heart was already slamming in his chest even before he saw the flushing fur. Just ahead, crouching on a boulder, was a waiting animal. As he looked, he heard its claws kneading the stone.

Akaar's throat locked. The Baamut. The wounded Baamut. They had forgotten her, yet she had not forgotten them.

Blood had matted the fur down her flank, and she was panting, her mouth frothing with pink bubbles of blood. Maddened by her pain – old and new – she let loose a caterwauling wail that bounced off of the cliff face and beat against their ears. Feverishly, Akaar fumbled for his sigarut.

Too late. Much too late. With a cry, she sprung at them.

Akaar was able to leap away from the charge, but Tyreen had frozen in his place. Mak'koi cried out a warning, slinging up the stunned boy into his arms and turning them both aside. Nonetheless, the Baamut's massive shoulder struck them a glancing blow and they were thrown against the ground.

Akaar heard his friend's weak cry and instinctively rallied, using his weapon for the first time. The sigarut flew through the air, singing with its distinctive whistling noise that was deliberately designed to increase the difficulty of a hunt. Now it was nothing but a disadvantage in a survival situation that was already untenable. The Baamut heard it coming and as a result the weapon struck not her head, but her barrel like body. It bounced off without effect and laid harmlessly at her feet.

Outraged, she roared and threw herself toward Akaar, but a sudden blow to the face made her stumble, halting her deadly charge.

The stone had come from Mak'koi, who had regained his feet. His face was smeared with blood that was an alarming shade of red, and he was making angry noises as he scratched at the earth for more projectiles with which to pebble the Baamut. Most of his words had no meaning to Akaar, but the beast heard the unmistakable aggression and turned to bellow against his petty defiance of her dominance, even as she shook her head in disorientation.

That was when he ran to Akaar, who unfroze as he felt Mak'koi's hands against his shoulders. They needed higher ground, but an overhang of rock crested above their heads, making that way impassable. As one, their eyes went back to the beast.

She had collected herself and was stalking toward them more cautiously now, the small discomfort they had caused making her wary. To Akaar, death was the empty feeling of his hands. His knife and his sigarut were gone, and his bow was lying broken under the rocks at the place where he and Tyreen had first fallen. He heard Mak'koi's heavy breathing and knew that he, too, was aware that this was the end.

The Baamut bore her knife-like teeth in an excruciatingly deliberate show of her power. Back pressed against the cliff, Akaar took a final breath and waited for the Baamut's serrated claws to disembowel him. His last awareness was of Mak'koi shifting in front of him and pressing his own body over Akaar's.

Then an unnatural whining sound overcame the paralyzing scene, and a kind of light struck the Baamut even as she reached out for their lives. From a distance, Akaar heard Tyreen cry out as a little black box went tumbling away from his hands.

Then silence came, and nothing more.

Slowly, Akaar opened his eyes fully and saw the Baamut lying on its side, as still as death. Not even her chest rose and fell.

"My God," Mak'koi panted.

"I have killed it," Tyreen said in astonishment. He picked up the strange box and held it limply in his good hand. "I have killed the Baamut."

"Very nearly," Mak'koi said, approaching guardedly. "Anyway you gave it one hell of a knock on the head."

He nudged the creature's seared body tentatively with his foot, and an odor of roasting flesh wafted to their nostrils. Akaar saw that the pelt had been rendered useless. It should have disappointed him, yet his hands were still trembling as he remembered the certainty of death.

"Best you give that to me, son," Mak'koi said, pulling the strange weapon from Tyreen's stiff fingers and replacing it on his belt. Then, giving him a gruff smile of honest relief, he slapped the boy's shoulders. "Well done! You saved our lives."

There was a deep coloring as blood came to Tyreen's face, and he looked at Mak'koi with an almost worshipful adoration. Akaar felt a flush of embarrassment to see such an unguarded expression on his friend's face, but then he remembered the way Mak'koi had bowed over him, offering the Baamut his own back. He didn't have anything to say after that.

Evening was falling. The orange sun was making its last approach on the horizon, deepening the shades of the bushes and the slender trees. The boulders cast dark shadows over the three walking wearily past them. They were almost to the village now. Akaar would never be so happy to see the guarded parameter.

Tyreen had fallen asleep, draped heavily over Mak'koi's shoulders. It had worried Akaar, but the man had sworn the condition was normal. "He's exhausted, that's all," he reassured Akaar. "He'll be fine once he's rested."

It had left them alone for conversation.

Akaar brushed against the man's shoulder as they walked. Close enough that he could feel the strange material of his clothes, and see the close cut of the hair that was wrong colored, wrong shorn. It suddenly seemed very important that he make his confession. "Mak'koi," he said. "My true name. It's Leonard."

There was a very slight pause in Mak'koi's stride, but it passed quickly. "You don't say. That's an odd name for a Capellan boy."

"It was my sire's name," Akaar explained eagerly. He sensed the understanding already, but his insistence was something more significant. It was acknowledgment. The first acknowledgement of this fact that he had ever willingly given. "My mother speaks of him as the one who brought me out of her body. This is something no other man in my tribe has never done."

"Sire, huh?" Mak'koi muttered. "I can't tell you how much I protested that. For your sake. But your mother is a stubborn woman."

Again, Akaar felt pride. "She has a the eyes of a bomen and the cunning of a klimot."

"Long may her arm reach," Mak'koi repeated the traditional words without a beat. It struck another sounding of kinship between them. Another reassuring instance of sameness in the midst of the great gulf of difference.

Without thinking of it, Akaar reached out with his hand, and wound it around the long, slender fingers of this oddly familiar other who was somehow his family – a man whom he had known and not known, whom he had spurned in ignorance...

Mak'koi squeezed his hand briefly, a soothing pressure that eased something within Akaar that he had not even recognized.

A great outcry accompanied their return to the village. They had been missed, of course, and several warriors had been sent out to search for them. Braam was only recently returned and still out of breath when he saw Tyreen on the back of the man who had come from the stars.

A cycle of emotions wound over his usually staid face. "My son," he said hollowly after a moment.

"He's alright," McCoy assured, easing the boy into his father's arms. "The arm was broken, but the bone will heal strong, just as strong as before. You have my word."

The assurance cleared a few of the tense lines on Braam's face. "My thanks, Earthman," he said after a slow, reluctant pause.

Mak'koi held out his fist in the Capellan way. The favor understood, the feeling returned. Then he pivoted on his heel and came face to face with the Regent Teer of the Ten Tribes of Capella.

"Mak'koi," Eleen greeted, favoring him with one of her rare smiles.

"Eleen," Mak'koi said warmly, coming over to take her hand. "You've barely changed. Blessings to the health of that Capellan heritage."

"More healthy in these times than ever before," she responded. "There was no sickness this spring for the first time in many seasons." She looked at her son, who was standing near, and her lips stretched over straight, white teeth. It was a look of triumph. Akaar wanted to tell her that she did not need to be so smug. "I see you have met Leonard. It seems that fate has brought you together."

"Yes." Mak'koi smiled at Akaar too, though his was much more kindly than Eleen's. "He looks very much like his father."

"His touch is that of another's. His eyes upward, his mind stretched far. He will be a great leader."

There was a murmur of agreement, and Akaar was surprise to hear that it was not only from Mak'koi. The eyes of the people of his tribe were on him, with approval and not with judgment. Something warm trembled inside him. It was a very different feeling then that which had troubled him this very morning.

"Come inside my tent," said his mother, drawling their guest along by the crook of his arm. "We have much to speak about."

Mak'koi followed, along with the prominent warriors. Akaar lagged behind, to say farewell to Tyreen. Overhead, bright stars burned in the night sky. Akaar looked up at them, and for the first time he felt no fear.

Instead there was only contentment, and acceptance.