SECRETS OF SIROC: Epilogue

It was always darkest before the dawn, when the moon had set and before the sun rose. But life did not feel dark in those early hours of the day. Life had been good to the Marcellus family. The only shadow that remained for Sancia — the eldest of the Marcellus twins — was that her brother had not spoken to her since he had walked away from her at the palace after she told him she planned to leave Paris.

Sancia believed with all of her heart that he understood her need to leave. She had known slavery for most of her life; she longed to see the places she could only dream about. Who was she without Maurice Vesey's influence? Who was she without Siroc? Did the things that used to please her as a child, still please her today — now that she had the option to try them again? She needed to find her answers and forge her own way — such was the gift of freedom.

The young woman had been sitting in front of the common room fire for at least an hour. She had not been able to sleep for thoughts of her brother, what she would do upon her return to Lyon, or where she would go from there. She had always wanted to see the mountains in the German states or the great, ancient structures of bustling Rome. Or perhaps she'd take a walk through a vineyard in Northern Italy, and try her Italian on the locals. Could she even remember the bulk of her mother's favorite tongue? Siroc was the only soul she had spoken the language with since their parents' death. They were all such lovely dreams, pleasing questions, which she longed to have the answers to.

Her only heartbreak was that Siroc would not be there to share it with her, and she would not ask him to come with her. His duty was with the musketeers, just as her dreams guided her elsewhere. It would be unkind to ask him to accompany her, because then she would beg him, and he would cave in to her whims the way he did when they were children. She wouldn't allow herself to be so selfish, not when he could build his castles in the sky where he was.

Sancia sighed. She would miss him.

Siroc was awake. She had heard him clinking around in his laboratory since she got out of bed. No doubt he was as restless as she. He had been sleeping constantly, healing, but finally had a measure of his strength back. The past two days — since their trip to the palace — she had heard him roaming the halls of the garrison at all hours. He wandered in the night, as if he were trying to avoid anyone and everything. Avoidance was how the genius coped.

Slowly, she stood and made her way to his sanctuary, winding through the narrow halls lined with doors. Outside of his laboratory, the yellow glow of lamps and the firelight flickered into the hall through the open door. She stepped across the threshold, but lingered in the entryway — just beside the shelves.

The inventor's domain had changed since last time she was in it. His large worktable had been replaced; the books had been shelved; new ceramic jars sat on top of the fireplace mantel; and several unmarked barrels were stacked in the far corner. On the table top, a spidery array of glass tubes and containers was arranged. A clear fluid dripped from the end of one of the tubes and into a wooden bowl.

On the other side of the distillation arrangement, Siroc's golden eyes were large like a bug's, magnified by the distortion properties of the glass. Although his left arm was no longer in a sling, he only worked with his right hand — fiddling with the apparatus that kept clinking in musical tones. He kept his left arm tucked close to his body. Small lines creased his brow periodically when he would jostle his shoulder as he moved. He usually hid his discomfort, although anyone who had ever been shot could empathize with his situation.

"What are you doing, Sirocco?" she asked. The waves of her blond hair framed the softer lines of her face. Her eyes were soft, glimmering with secret mirth — the kind that comes from knowing a person in the heart and in the soul.

"Trying to improve the distillation for the explosive liquid," he answered evenly. His eyes never left his experiment, but his shoulders flinched when she had spoken — a telltale sign of the surprise he'd never admit.

"Be careful with it. You may have Duval's favor, but I don't think he'd be happy if you blew up the garrison," she teased, trying to ease her shaky nerves. She smiled, lightening her eyes and face with its euphoric effects.

He snorted disdainfully. "If you can successfully do it, Sancia, then so can I." There was a bite to his voice that raised her hackles, and her smile slipped away.

"You're angry with me." The words were more statement than question. She stepped farther into the room. Her hands rang the front of her dress. "I know you think I should stay, but you, of all people, must understand why I'm leaving."

"I understand, Sancia," he relented without much of a battle. He straightened his hunched form, looking at her over the top of his project. "But it doesn't make it any easier to …" He shook his head, and then ducked back behind his instruments. He quickly adjusted the drip, allowing it to flow at a smoother pace.

"Easy to what?" she asked. He had always been open with her. She would not let today be any different. She would not leave him on bad terms. She loved him too much. "Let me go?"

His magnified eyes closed and his hand fell to the table top as if her questions had sapped his strength. "We just found each other again," he whispered. His voice was broken. His face bore the lines of his distress across his brow, and if this were not her brother, she would have thought him on the verge of tears. He had cried in front of her before, but never over something so small. He was far too strong to let distance between them hurt his heart.

However, Siroc's dejected tone was all Sancia could take. She crossed the room, rounded the table and pulled him into a tight embrace. "We will always be together, Roc. You are the half that makes me whole." Tears leaked as her emotion-filled words escaped. "I love you, my brother."

The young man buried his face into the side of her hair, breathing in her scent. She had a way of comforting him, and the delicate scents of flowers and soap only added to her calming effect. "I know, Sancia," he whispered. "But it does not make letting you go any easier." He withdrew from her embrace. His hands caressed her cheek, whipping away the falling droplets. "No one wants you to go: Not Jacques or d'Artagnan, not Duval, not me." He smiled. "And most assuredly, not Ramon."

Sancia blushed under her brother's scrutiny. "He is a good man," she complimented, but otherwise masked her thoughts. She had much in common with the Spaniard, and her fiery temperament and way with words seemed to appeal to him. But such affections were but seedlings, not ready to bud much less flower, and definitely not before Sancia discovered who she was in this life.

"You won't even stay for him," Siroc observed, as if he had held a shred of hope that love might bind her to this place. But how could it, when the person she was most bound to — her brother — could not even sway her to stay. "You truly are determined to return to Lyon?"

Sancia smiled again. "Stubborn like a demon with the face of an angel," she remarked in the hopes of making him smile. She began to laugh when Siroc caught on to her mirth and began to chuckle.

"That describes you accurately, I should think." He crossed his arms, being careful of his aching shoulder. A lopsided grin graced his features, giving him a boyish air. "This, I believe, is what I'll miss the most."

"Nonsense." She waved her hand dramatically. "Soon, you'll be off on another adventure with your friends and time will pass like the Seine. You'll hardly miss me." Her face grew serious in that thoughtful moment. She knew he would miss her. Their unbreakable bond could not be severed through time or distance. She only hoped that time and his friends would protect him in the space between.

"Sirocco?" she asked quietly, remembering that his next mission would come soon after she returned to Lyon. "Have you read father's letter?"

The inventor shifted uneasily. He turned and began taking notes on his experiment once again. "Yes." He scribbled a few lines in the notebook lying open on the table.

"Did you tell Duval?" She leaned against the table's edge. They were so close that the fabric of their clothing shifted against each other.

"No, I haven't." He spoke as if the topic were a matter of housekeeping that he would get to later.

Her head spun reflexively to stare at him. "Why ever not?" Her eyes were wide.

"Because it was a technically a private letter. And besides, you are the brash one and I am the one that considers the details. I have not decided what to do as of yet," he said dryly. "And, there is also the fact that I spend most of my time sleeping still."

"But you will?" she pushed. "Tell him?"

Siroc stood erect, turned around and leaned against the table so that he was shoulder to shoulder with the elder twin. "I will look into the contents of the letter, Sancia, but the intelligence has held for twelve, nearly thirteen years — a little longer will cause little harm."

She leaned in, placing her head on his shoulder. "Just don't wait too long, Roc. I should hate to return and find you've only just left."

Siroc dropped his head, resting his cheek on her hair. "I'll always be here, San."

She knew he always would be there. Perhaps not so much in the physical sense, but in the fact that he would always be there for her when she needed him. There would be times that he would take her hand and lead her out of danger, while others, he would be the shoulder she cried upon.

Sancia didn't want to cry anymore though. What she wanted was one last happy memory to keep her until she returned to him. A sly smile graced her lips. "Sirocco, I plan on leaving tomorrow, you know?"

"Yes, I am aware." He sounded almost dejected over the thought.

She lifted her head from his shoulder. Their eyes met, keeping locked as she continued her line of questioning. "Will you do something for me before I go?" She would name her price, but only after he agreed.

"You know I'd do anything you asked, San." Such words famously led to regret.

"Spar with me. Like when we were young." Sancia's smile widened when her brother jerked away, standing up straight.

Siroc shook his head negatively. His lips pursed pensively. "Absolutely not, Sancia. My shoulder has barely healed and besides …" he scoffed. "You cheat."

Sancia feigned shocked. "I do not cheat — at least not very often," she confessed the truth at the last. "Please, Sirocco. It would cheer me immensely and I know you'll have fun as well."

"No." The single syllable was his last dejection before he went back to his work and pretended she was not standing beside him. He chewed his lower lip as he watched the flowing liquid course through the glass tubes. His eyes followed the path to avoid his sister's gaze.

With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she leaned close to his ear. "What's the matter, Roc? Are you afraid you'll lose to a woman?"

"No," he said quickly. He took a step to the left, trying to escape her persistence.

"I think," she said sweetly, but still keeping her air of mischief. "That you are afraid. But I don't blame you. After all, you are second born, you cannot help but be …"

Siroc turned, his movement so fast they nearly collided. "Don't even say it, San!" he barked. His jaw set in annoyance.

"Then spar with me, Sirocco." She picked up his rapier from the table on the wall behind him, the place he usually kept it. Slowly, she withdrew it from its sheath. She extended her arm, feeling the weapon as an extensive of her limb. "I promise I will not embarrass you."

He crossed his arms, tucking his hands between his arms and his torso. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" he asked rhetorically.

Sancia squealed with delight.

———

Dawn had come with its usual grace and with it the endless chatter of nature. Birds darted about the garrison courtyard, diving until they almost smacked the cobblestone and then pulling up at the last moment to soar high above the rooftops. The sun warmed the earth, dampened by dew and the light rain from the night before. The moisture left a chill in the air that only a good workout would ward off. Barely any stirred inside the military headquarters, if any at all, thus leaving Sancia and Sirocco alone in their play.

They twins stood in the middle of the courtyard. Sancia's long hair hung freely about her shoulders. It cascaded over the work dress she had thrown on when she rose. The blues of her gown were faded, warn and slightly frayed around the edges. It was the perfect attire for war — for a warrior woman was what she resembled. Her eyes burned with the brightness of a million suns. Her free-flowing hair blew wildly in the slight breeze. She rotated the hilt of her blade across the back of her hand so quickly that it was back within her clutches before gravity could do its work. The lady was prepared to face the man across from her.

In contrast, Siroc stood stoic. He kept his left arm wrapped across his stomach and clutched at the white fabric of his undershirt to keep his arm secured. He would have wore his sling, but knew that the extra fabric would hinder his movements more so than if he just kept his wounded arm tucked for safety. He wanted nothing to bridle him against his sister's game, for Sancia always found a way to use his handicaps to her advantage. With his shoulders back, his head held high, he lifted his sword arm and leveled his blade. He swiped it quickly in salute, and then did what he did best. He waited for the aggressor to come to him.

Sancia had always been first to strike when they'd spar as children. The difference, however, was that Siroc was much better with a rapier than he had been at eight. He hated fighting, wishing only for his father's books or to witness his father's feats. Donatien had been nothing short of amazing to the son who worshiped him. But that was then and Siroc was stronger, taller and, he hoped, wiser. Yes, he had several handicaps at the moment, but that meant he would just have to outthink his sister, which really was all it came down to — the ability to out-match your opponent with the methods in your arsenal.

True to form, Sancia began her attack leisurely. She would extend her sword, taking aim at his appendages first. With each calculated jab, Siroc quickly deflected the blow, leaving her to try the same tactic on the opposite side. When her attempts failed, she crossed her legs as she moved — one behind the other. She kept her circle wide, pausing at each quarter to try the soft prods of Siroc's defense. He continued to deflect with ease, smirking in his knowing way, but all the while bidding his time until her offensive strikes would come full blown.

In and out, one breath and then two, and the battle had begun. Sancia's attack was swift, starting out with the smaller assaults before her blade moved from side-to-side in a blinding blur. Siroc had no problem countering the fluid strokes. His arm lifted and fell, deflecting the blade with ease. He retreated in his steps as she drove him hard, only to skirt to the side as she lunged to strike at his mid-section. As she stumbled off balance, he swatted her on the backside with the edge of his blade.

His smirk grew into a devilish grin as she yelped loudly and jumped back. "Is that all you have, San?" he asked, quite pleased with their game thus far.

Her hand massaged the sting she had received. "And you call me a cheat, Roc." She growled, annoyed that he had managed to embarrass her with the act. He had never done anything like it to her before, but if he wanted to play at such things, the petite female was happy to oblige.

She readied her arm and narrowed her eyes, trapping her brother in the dagger-filled gaze. Sancia was determined now, but hardly angry. They would tease and taunt each other until one was crowned the victor, and the girl was determined that her reign would continue. But the arrogant air that wafted from her brother in near tangible waves made her a bit uneasy — her arm slackened a fraction, leaving her vulnerable.

Siroc took the opportunity to go on the offensive. He cut his blade upward, knocking her flimsy arm to the side before she could react. She squawked in surprise, but recovered fast enough to deflect the bulk of his blows driving her back toward the courtyard gates. Siroc was much stronger, and the weight of each strike tired her arm. She panted, sucking in air as if it were the drug that would keep her moving. Beads of sweat formed on her creased brow, and a single droplet trickled past her temple.

Sancia was not the only one overwhelmed by their dance. They had only been at their game for a short time, and already Siroc's left shoulder throbbed from the exertion. Was he crazy for agreeing to this match? He had begun to think so, especially since he still spent the bulk of his nights and days asleep. His face flushed from the exertion; his breathing grew ragged; and the endless scratching of metal against metal continued to reverberate throughout the courtyard, mingling occasionally when either fighter would shout.

Those very cries slowly drew a handful of soldiers, who were gathering near the garrison entrance. They watched the battling duo, whispering amongst each other about the quiet inventor and his opponent. The musketeers reveled in delight when the upper-hand would change — first to Siroc and then back to Sancia, neither of which had noticed the group clustering nearby.

The dueling slowed, but the circling did not cease. They watched each other like hawks prowling for food from high above. Their movements were animalistic, predator while they waited for the other to strike once more. As was tradition, Sancia advanced first. She whipped her blade in hard, downward strokes, trying to dislodge her brother's rapier, but he only managed to deflect, circle his blade around hers, and then push her back. She growled through her heaving breath.

"You never did have the patience for dueling, Sancia," he chided. It was his patience after all that gave him the upper hand in many fights, when his skills were no match.

"Patience only balances skill and I believe I still have the upper hand, little brother," she replied sweetly, for in that moment, she had found the perfect opening.

Just behind her brother was a puddle that had yet to evaporate with the sun. She jerked her body as if she were going to attack. Siroc stepped back to avoid her. His boots slipped on the wet stone and he landed hard in the puddle behind him.

He growled indignantly, but could not keep the smile from forming on his face. Countless times he had landed in pools of water and mud when they would duel on their family estate. Sancia had a knack of putting him in his place, which in dueling meant someplace damp.

He didn't have much time to reflect on his wet backside. Her rapier came down. He caught the sunlight glinting off her blade, seconds before it struck the cobblestone. He had just enough time in that moment to draw his blade and arms close to his body and roll across the ground. One, two, three rolls he managed before he flattened his foot against the stone and used his sore arm to launch himself back to his full height. His arm throbbed in protest, and he could not hide the pain that etched his face.

Sancia's progression slowed. She held back, watching Siroc clutch his arm. "Are you all right, Roc?" she asked. She usually would not yield, but this was supposed to be fun, not destructive.

"I'm not yielding to you, sister," he said evenly. His chin lifted slightly; his jaw set in determination. For once in his life, he was going to win one of their matches, even if he had to play his sister's favorite card and cheat.

"Very well." Her words were the only hint that their game was back on. She charged him and he rushed backward as well. He jumped onto the hay cart and leaped higher in the air when her blade swiped at his feet. He used the momentum to vault behind her and returned to middle ground. His body would hate him later for such a stunt.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn't hesitate to advance on him again. As she rushed him, her golden eyes caught sight of the crowd massing along the edges of the courtyard. Among them were a sleepy looking d'Artagnan, a bright-eyed Jacqueline and a rather animated Ramon.

"Come on, Siroc, don't let a woman beat you," d'Artagnan called in encouragement, baiting the woman soldier beside him with his arrogant remark.

She glared at the Gascon before adding her support. "Come on, Sancia, show them what you're made of!"

Ramon cried next, but the twins had returned their attention back to their duel. Sancia dropped into a ball and rolled when her brother swiped at her head. She rolled easily out of the ball and back onto her feet. She pivoted on one foot and brought her weapon up just in time to deflect the secondary blow. She pushed hard, causing her brother to stumble backward. She used his off-balance to crash the rapier down countless times in a matter of seconds to dislodge the weapon from his hand. When he started to loose his grip, she dropped and swept at his legs.

For the second time that morning, he landed into a pool of cold water. His blade flew just out of reach as he landed. He blinked in surprise up at the figure standing over him. Sancia smirked as her rapier waved in front of his face.

"Do you yield, little brother?" Sancia mocked, for clearly she had the upper hand.

Siroc scowled. "Never."

"Never?" she echoed. "Come now, Roc. Your weapon is out of reach and mine is in your face. I'd love to see you get out this one … but since you cannot, the honorable thing to do is yield — to me — yet again." She was enjoying herself far too much.

But even as she spoke, Siroc's eyes flitted from her face, to his rapier, to her feet. He formulated a plan in those moments that brought a smile to his face.

Sancia tilted her head; her brows furrowing. "What are you …" She never finished the question. As she had spoken, Siroc's boot had edged just behind her heal. He hooked his toes, yanked at her foot and knocked her to the ground. Her blade cut upward out of his face as her arms flailed in the arm. He reached, moving his body enough to grab his blade and was on his feet before his sister landed on her back. Her weapon hit the stones with a loud clank as it bounced.

She blinked in surprise at the man now hovering before her. A wicked smile lit his features. His unruly bangs hung partly in his eyes. "I may be second born, Sancia, but it seems I am no longer second best." He chuckled, softly at first from the hollow of his chest, but it grew in volume when he heard the calls of his brothers-in-arms.

He had won, no matter how she tried to finagle her way out of it. He had won a match for the first time in their lives. She was not so proud that she did not feel joy in watching the happiness envelope his demeanor, neither was he so vane to admit that she did have the upper hand through most of the battle.

Siroc extended his hand, righting his sister to her feet. "When you return to me," he said quietly through his heaving breath, "and my arm has healed, we'll do best two out of three."

Sancia tightened her grip on his hand. "Every day," she promised.

She slipped her arm around his waist as he led her back toward the garrison doors. They paused so that she could retrieve her blade and then settled comfortably back into his side. As they reached their friends and the other musketeers, there were general calls of congratulations to Siroc and well-dones even for his petite sister. But what Siroc held on to the most in the aftermath of his first win over his favorite sparring partner wasn't the fact that he had won; it was the fact that someday, they'd be able to do again. No matter how far she roamed, he knew she would always come back to him and they would always have each other. It was the sweetest consolation, in lieu of the greater prize — having his sister by his side everyday.

THE END

AUTHOR'S END NOTES: I've been working on this story since the Spring of 2005. Yes, I said it. Five years. Chapter 32 and the Epilogue have actually been written since last March, but I am a very busy person and finally made time to finish the edits and post.

About this story, well, it is my first novel-length fan fiction story. I had a recent review note that my writing has gotten better as the chapters have progressed — I should hope so, since I've spent five years working on this. I use fan fiction, though, as a practice tool for my writing, to discover what I like and what I don't like. As you've read through the 33 chapters, I'm sure you've noticed different voice, even different style, and that's because, as my first story, I really was trying to find my voice as a writer. Looking back, there are many things I would do different, but ultimately, I'm glad that I can finally tag the story as complete after ten months of the final chapters waiting for me to edit them and five years overall.

This story really is for the people who got me started with it and honestly have helped me most as a writer. Without them, their encouragement, and overall support as I played with my first fan fiction, I wouldn't now be working on my original stories.

So, mayor thanks goes to my Sally girls. Sally 'Jedi' and Sally 'Jean.' I tag this complete for you ladies.