Title: Murderer's Touch

Author: I_nv_u50

Rating: PG13 for some sickness and blood…

Disclaimer/Claimer: Characters so far are mine, but the world is Mercedes Lackey's. Does that count as fanfiction? I'm gonna go with yes…

Warning: Slash (m/m) ahead. Not very soon, but definitely coming…

Author's Notes: New story. I'm qualifying as mad. That makes it… roughly five stories… but oh well. This plot sounded interesting O.o; Read it, enjoy, and please review! Let me know if you want the next chapter ^^

Pounding feet echoed behind him, thudding onto the ground in an eerie echo of his own hammering heartbeat. His own feet flew as he sprinted down the alleyways, trying to ignore the aching stitch in his side, his own sobs for air cutting through the monotonous sound of racing footfalls.

Desperately he looked over his shoulder again, trying to place an identity on his followers, and as he looked, he misplaced a step. He tumbled to the ground after a quick stumble that lost him both his momentum and his lead on the pursuers. With a muffled curse, he tried to get his arms out from under him to help himself up before they could catch him, but his muscles protested against the lack of air, his biceps burning and his shoulders shaking with the strain of effort.

Before he could try again, his chasers were on him, and roughly kicked his side.

"Get up boy."

He struggled to lift his head, and spat at them, muttering a foul word under his breath, knowing all was lost. With the blood not even dry on his hands, with the dagger still unclean in his haste to get away from the crime scene, all the evidence pointed against him. There was nothing between him and the death penalty now… especially considering the person he had killed.

The hard kick was repeated on his aching shoulder. "Get up, boy. We don't have all day, and there's a trial for you to get to."

Kylan got up slowly, purposely trying to annoy the guards so that they would be rough on him and kill him before he spoke. Or even better, if they were too rough, he could always claim that they had treated him too harshly.

One of the guards looked up, listening to something that Kylan couldn't hear yet, then reached down and grabbed the back of his tunic. The blood didn't seem to bother him negatively, only seeming to make him angrier, and he shook Kylan roughly when he was finally standing.

"Herald's coming now, boy." Another guard growled, and Kylan sensed a grim kind of satisfaction in the gruff tone. "You're in for it now."

Kylan suddenly felt hopeless and helpless, unable to run, unable to escape, and with such a horrible crime, he would surely be put to death. In ways, death was preferable to his life, but with a start that surprised everyone around him and earned him another violent punch to the head, Kylan realized that he didn't really want to die. Not like that, anyway. Not being put to death, or sentenced to manual labor on the Karsite border until he died anyway…

The sweet chime of Companion's hooves was becoming clearer now, more unavoidable, and Kylan reflexively flinched when one of the guards raised a hand to signal to the approaching Herald. The guard grinned pleasantly at the flinch and hit him on the way down, a striking blow with a fist that would have knocked Kylan completely off his feet had he not still been held up by the scruffy neck of his tunic.

The Herald slowed down a few feet away and slid off the Companion slowly. The Companion glowered at Kylan, and he stared back, trying to glare it into submission. It hadn't worked by the time the Herald was alongside them, and he had the sudden feeling it wouldn't have worked even if he had tried to go for longer.

The Herald looked distracted, tears rolling silently down his face, unchecked, unnoticed. He had thick brown hair that was chestnut under the torch that another guard held, with eyes of an unidentifiable color that still held a very obvious grief and rage. Kylan looked into the eyes, unrepentant, and ignored the following jolt, putting it down to nervousness. After a few more moments though, as the fury grew in the Herald's eyes, Kylan looked away guiltily, suddenly feeling a lot worse about what he had just done.

"M'lord Herald," one of the guards spoke softly, sympathy etched into the face and voice. "What would you like us to do with him?"

Kylan felt the Herald studying him as if his turned away face held all the secrets of the Havens. Kylan ignored the burning feeling the heavy gaze left on his skin and let his mind drift, even though it came back repeatedly as the words and discussions surrounded him.

He wished it wouldn't. He wished his mind in places other than the one where his body was forcibly held, where the Herald looked at him with eyes that hated so much they scorched him, inside and out. After a slight argument that he had listened to most unwillingly, where they had talked about him as if he weren't there, Kylan hated the Herald.

Hated the way the Herald could work so hard even when obviously in the depths of despair, hated him because he worked so hard to stop feeling the grief, worked so hard because his friend required vengeance and he was going to have it.

Kylan knew all that. He sensed it easily, and was unable to argue when the Herald eventually, finally, told the guards to take him to gaol.

They dragged him away, past the still staring Companion, who turned it's head and fixed dark blue eyes on him, studying, giving Kylan the disturbing sensation of being examined inside and out. He hated examinations. He always seemed to come out wanting. He glowered back at the Companion, trying not to drop his own eyes because that would be a defeat. Nevertheless, he was slightly grateful when one of the guards pushed his head forward and down harshly, yet even he hear the smallest crack at the movement.

He turned his head to complain to the guard, and attempted to shake the tight grip one of them suddenly had on the back of his neck, but they obviously took that as some kind of threat.

A fist came at him from the side, and it hit him before he could even think about dodging it. Everything went black.

Someone whimpered, and it wasn't a voice he recognized. He also realized that he was moving, the subtle motions underneath him signified a horse, but that couldn't be it. He hadn't been on a horse for years now. He didn't have any now. Someone made another noise.

Kylan began to understand that it was him making the noise, but before he could stop himself, he moaned again.

His head hurt. A simplified statement that couldn't possible describe the way his blood seemed to flow through his ears, the way the side of his head ached with a surety that was promising more pain to come. He moved his head, idly curious to see where he was, and stars exploded behind his eyes, sending the already misplaced world decidedly off kilter. He tried to move away before he was sick, dimly recognizing the need to be still or he would throw up more than his stomach could afford, but arms that he hadn't noticed before tightened around his chest, preventing any escape.

He tried to babble out his reason for moving, not caring if he was being insulting or not, and the horse stopped, the rider who sat behind him swinging a leg over the rump to dismount with him.

The final, jerking movement was the final straw, and Kylan threw up, barely managing to stay on his feet as he staggered instinctively to the nearest wall to lean against something as he retched.

The rider didn't follow him, something he was grateful for. He hadn't worked out the identity of the other person yet, and he'd have preferred not to know them at all. He wondered why he was being sick, not really remembering why his head should hurt so much.

When his throat had protested violently at the bile, and there was nothing left in him to be sick with, he opened his eyes, half closing them as the world spun dizzily. It was with more regret than disgust that he carefully avoided looking at the previous contents of his stomach. The only time he got to eat well was before a job. Putting the clues together, he remembered he had had a job to do tonight. He wondered absently if he had done it.

Turning on the spot, he gazed at the previously unrecognized rider, despair and fear and guilt and anger curling in the pit of his stomach. Obviously if there was Herald escorting him, he had done the job. Even more obvious was the fact that he had gotten caught. He glanced nonchalantly at his hands, not making any move towards the Herald and his Companion, and not making any move to show he was feeling particularly better.

It wasn't the blood that had made him sick. He saw it on a regular basis; it shouldn't have bothered him now. While he was vaguely thinking about the reasons he had been sent, the Herald moved towards him carefully.

Kylan automatically dropped into a defensive pose, using movements that he had learned both on the street and from his former employers.

The Herald regarded him angrily. "What's your name?"

Kylan excused the anger, an unthinking tolerance coming when before he might have been just plain rude. He shrugged. "Depends on who's askin'." He answered sullenly. He supposed the Herald had a right to be angry; after all, one of his… teammates probably, had just died. By violence. Kylan wasn't so sure he'd be angry if one of his friends died, but if any of them did, they'd probably deserve it. He was equally sure they wouldn't mourn his death when it came, because he was obviously going to die soon.

The Herald made some sort of strangled noise and stepped closer, the flexing of his hands indicating his less than pleasant thoughts. Kylan prepared to fight, positive he'd lose in the state he was in against somebody who was trained by some of the best of the best. He didn't mind. He'd rather die in a common street brawl against a Herald who had every reason to kill him than he would die by whatever death penalty they decided to saddle him with.

Before either of them could move, however, the Companion stepped closer to its Herald, nudging it gently; it's dark eyes solemn and somber.

The Herald turned on his feet, the expression on his face giving Kylan the strangest impression that he was talking to the animal, in a silent way that he could never understand.

The thought made him angry somehow, and the anger drained him of whatever energy adrenaline had given him. He slid to his knees, careful not to go too fast or too suddenly. His head hurt.

The Herald turned back to him, his expression calm now, but sour, bitter and reluctant and still absolutely furious. "Fine. My name's Brynn. What's your name?"

Kylan cocked his head weakly, staring at the Herald with some sort of fascination. It was a nice name, actually. He could tolerate it if it belonged to himself; it was just different enough to sound special. He flushed at the thought, surprised and annoyed by his thoughts. "Kylan," he said shortly, taking out his frustration with the Herald.

Brynn paused for a second, looking back at his Companion before turning back to Kylan, his face still a mask of fury. "Why did you kill Akseli?"

Kylan shrugged, not willing to answer. If they found out he'd given them away… Well, he'd be dead before even the Heralds could get to him. "Wanted to," he replied softly. At least that was half the truth.

Brynn looked shocked, and then a raging grief filled his expression. "But why him? He was one of the best Heralds…"

Kylan scowled silently, not understanding the reason for doing so. He hated that Heralds were so perfect, and expected others to be. So he liked the sight of blood. It wasn't a crime… or it wasn't until people went as far as he had tonight.

Brynn's face closed up into an expression that would have been neutral had it not been for the hatred. "Come on then," he hissed, and whirled on his heel to stalk to his Companion.

Kylan followed more slowly, pretending not to notice when the Herald pressed his face briefly into the Companion's neck. Nor did he pay too much obvious attention to the indistinct mumbles the Herald made.

He sighed and staggered unsteadily to his feet, stumbling towards the pair when they had had enough time together. If he was being taken to gaol, then he might as well go sooner rather than later. If they heard he had failed in his escape… Well, they'd rather be safe, and that would inevitably include killing first and questions after.

It was with faint surprise that Kylan observed Brynn turning around. The Herald had a somewhat malicious grin on his face, that didn't look at all comforting. "Devoni says you're wanted at the Palace."

Kylan looked dubiously at the Companion, who stared steadily back at him, it's eyes still far too serious for Kylan's comfort. Then again, he decided, no one probably cared.

He shrugged away the information his thoughts had given him and took a step closer. When he put his weight on the foot, however, his foot twisted under his ankle and he fell forward, still trying to catch his balance when he realized that he hadn't hit the floor.

He blinked in confusion, and then looked up into eyes of an unknown color, eyes that were searching through him, seeing into him, eyes that knew him somehow. He jerked away in surprise, staring in shock at the Herald, who stared back, looking equally astounded.

Devoni, the Companion, still looked serious, maybe more so than before. But when Kylan's disbelieving gaze caught a hold of the dark blue eyes of the Companion's, he saw something far more disturbing.

The Companion also looked smug.