Author Archives: paleololigo

Scientist (Paleontology, Geochemistry, Geology); Writer (Speculative and Science Fiction, plus technical and non-technical Science); Mom to great boy on the Autism spectrum; possessor of too many hobbies.

Society of Vertebrate Paleontology invades Raleigh!

This post was written a while ago, but my blog (for whatever reason) was down. It’s fixed now, so I’m publishing it – after the fact. My musings on the meeting will come later..

—–

I’m currently in Raleigh, North Carolina, sitting in my hotel room, winding down after a crazy-awesome day-and-a-half. I’m here for the annual meeting of the Society of Vertebrate Paleontology, which is, hands down, my favorite meeting. Every year I go to this meeting no matter what the cost. (I’ve been going to this meeting since 1994, and only skipped a few when I was a poor, starving graduate student.) The Society of Vertebrate Paleontology is the one professional organization that I likely will never allow myself to not be a member of.

This year, the meeting is proceeding as it always does for me: Interacting with colleagues; learning about new methods; developing collaborations; making new friends. I brought some research (as I always do) and will be presenting it this afternoon in a poster session. Tomorrow will be busy as the Friday of the meeting always is, because of the annual auction and that I’m an auction committee member.

What’s different about this year over the others is that I’ve decided to join the ranks of those who use social media to disperse what is being discussed in sessions to the wide world. I’ve been ‘live-tweeting’ sessions: commenting on speakers using the hash tag #2012SVP so that other interested parties can know what’s happening if they couldn’t come to the meeting or if they’re just in the room next door listening to someone else. I don’t say much, only commenting on things that really grab my attention and I think others out there would be interested to know.

This experience has been great so far. Over the past year I’ve begun to think that social media and science outreach was a better fit for my interests and passions than hard-core research (even though I do plenty of research and have new results to present every year). The interactions (face-to-face and electronic) I’ve had during this meeting have been amazing and now, more than ever, I’m realizing that my suspicions are true. Research is great. Sharing it with others is even better.

There are two and a half more days to the meeting. I expect my feelings will grow stronger as this time goes on. I like where I am right now. I like where things are going. Stay tuned!

Quotation Inspiration – “Courtship”

Writing.com has little contests, where you write a short story based upon a single quote. Here is this month’s quote:

“Let us celebrate the occasion with wine and sweet words.”
~Titus Maccius Plautus

And this is what I wrote:

—————————–

All eyes turned to Trey as he stopped and stood in the doorway to the Great Hall. He wore his finest burgundy gown, against which the highly polished steel of his swords stood out brilliantly. His heavy chain of office, which bore the Mark of Herongarde, lay proudly upon his chest. His crown, that he had so seldom worn in recent years, was polished and shown like a halo atop his head.

Trey looked sourly at the courtiers in the Hall as they gasped in awe at him. He had combed his hair and pulled it off his face, showing the angular contour of his jaw, and his jaw muscles working beneath. He was looking for someone. This was the first time in many years, he had presented himself as the heir that he truly was. Most of the time he had looked like nothing more than an ordinary warrior, even concealing the fact that he bore the Mark of Herongarde, placing him in the brotherhood of the most elite of Herongarde’s warriors. But today, he was the Prince of Herongarde, and in a few short months he would be King. This future he now embraced, because of her.

The courtiers stood up respectfully, but were silent, waiting for Trey to say or do something. He had been known for his violent temper and quick steel, and people gazed upon him nervously. Trey looked at the faces, scanning the crowd until he spotted her. Hanna gazed at him warmly, a faint smile on her lips. Trey felt his heart lifting and coyly looked down at his hands. He held a single white flower between his fingers, that no one had noticed until that moment. There were a few more gasps and some whispers.

Trey looked back at Hanna, now smiling broadly. The courtiers were shocked by the transformation. Who was this man who so suddenly seemed happy? He walked slowly into the Great Hall, calmly approaching Hanna who was sitting among the Ladies of the Court. The other Ladies stood and moved away and Hanna rose to her feet to greet Trey. She nervously brushed and straightened the fabric of her new gown, only just completed this afternoon. Trey stopped in front of her and they faced each other, saying nothing, raptly staring into each other’s eyes. He reached up and touched her cheek, tenderly stroking her smooth skin. He frowned as he looked at her other cheek, which remained swollen and stitched from the blow she had taken in battle four days earlier. She smiled, drawing his attention back to her eyes.

He looked down at his hands again, slowly bringing up the flower so she could see it. He offered it to her. She took it and inhaled its scent, smiling at Trey all the while. She stroked the petals. Trey reached out and took her hands. He grinned. Hanna giggled in response. They gazed deeply into each others eyes for what seemed to be an eternity, losing themselves into each other’s soul. They were oblivious to the happenings in the Great Hall, even as gasps and whispers filled the air.

“Beautiful, it is,” said King Anthony, breaking the silence.

Attention turned to Anthony, though Trey and Hanna were reluctant to turn away from each other.

“On this day – and from this war – we have discovered a great many things,” continued Anthony. “We have emerged victorious—.” The courtiers cheered, interrupting Anthony. He smiled and clapped his hands, allowing time for celebration. He held up his hands to quiet the court. Attention turned once again to Anthony. “Not only have we defeated Falgarth as they attempted to rob us of our lands,” he started again, “but in our efforts to maintain our boundaries, our own Prince has found again peace within himself and will within the year take this crown from my head.”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. “Long live Lord Trey!” shouted Lord Balayn, with a nod to his cousin, Trey. The court erupted again. Trey smiled, enjoying the accolades, nodding occasionally, yet wishing the cheering would stop. His eyes turned back to Hanna’s. She was grinning. A tear rolled from her eye.

“Hold! Hold!” shouted Anthony over the din in the Hall. The crowd continued its celebrations, unaware of his shouts.

“SILENCE!” roared Lord Markus. The room quieted immediately. Markus turned to Anthony, his brother, with a bow. “Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Lord Markus.” Anthony turned to address the court again. “We have many things to celebrate this day. Our victory. Our future King. Our newest Mark-Bearer…” Anthony smiled an held a hand toward Hanna. She curtsied slightly.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” she said.

Shouts and whoops filled the Hall once again, which Anthony silenced with a raise of his hand. “Today we also celebrate what I hope is the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship. For these two here,” Anthony held his hands toward Trey and Hanna, who were still holding hands. “These two this day shall begin a proper and formal courtship, under the Codes of Herongarde.”

For a moment, it seemed all the air in the Hall would be sucked out as the courtiers inhaled in unison. Suddenly, cheering exploded. Trey and Hanna grinned at each other, pressing their foreheads together. They kissed softly and the jubilation grew louder. Trey and Hanna parted and waved to the court in acknowledgment. Trey raised an eyebrow at Anthony.

Anthony smiled, holding his arms up once more for silence. “Let us celebrate this occasion with wine and sweet words,” he said. Boys began to circulate with ewers of wine, filling each person’s cup to capacity.

Trey motioned Hanna to sit. He sat down beside her, watching her arrange her skirt. He was completely captivated by her. A boy approached and bowed. “My Lord, Lady. Wine for you?”

“Aye, Tomas. Wine,” replied Trey, holding up his and Hanna’s cups. Tomas moved on, and Trey turned his attention back to Hanna. She was once more inspecting the flower.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“Courtship,” replied Trey. “His Majesty acknowledges our love.”

Hanna smiled and sighed. Her lips shook and her brow wrinkled. She put her hand over her mouth and leaned into Trey’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her as she wept quietly. These most recent days had been horrible for her. Neither of them had thought they would be allowed to be together. Anthony had wanted her gone. Somehow, all of that had changed, and there they sat now, finally allowed to openly love each other. Trey squeezed his eyes shut, holding back his own tears. Yes, it had been horrible for them both.

Hanna calmed and straightened up, gazing softly at Trey. “Finally,” she whispered.

“Aye, finally.”

“So what now?”

“We love each other as always.” Trey sighed. “I shall need you. More than ever.”

“I’m right here.”

Trey stroked her cheek again and gave her a gentle kiss. “Aye, my love. Forever and always, I shall need you.”

On Literary Genre

One of the crazy things about working on the Herongarde novels is having to think about genre. I chuckle a bit to myself, because the story doesn’t exactly fit into the “typical” genres like romance, mystery, fantasy, historical fiction, speculative fiction, science fiction, or thriller. It really includes aspects of many of these genres, which perhaps is a reflection of the interdisciplinary nation of my life as a whole. After all, I could call myself a “biogeochemist, and have degrees in biology, chemistry, and geology. I know what it is to not fit any category properly.

So what genre is a book that takes a 21st century woman and thrusts her into a parallel universe (or maybe back in time), to a place much like medieval Europe once was? It’s not historical fiction, exactly. OK, so it’s speculative fiction, sort of. Let’s try “speculative historical fiction.” That sounds good, but what about the parallel universe bit. That’s science fiction, right? Well, it’s not that important to the story, so we’ll forget about it. Maybe it can be called “alternative history,” because the place is like medieval Europe, but not exactly…

And! Oh, wait. Hey! It’s a love story. So maybe it’s “romantic speculative historical fiction.” Naw that’s no good.

Well, I need to figure this out, because literary agents want to know the genre of your book. It helps them decide on a first, very rough pass, whether they want to even read the rest of your query letter, much less the synopsis or any part of the manuscript.

So, what is the genre for Herongarde? Pop over here [Herongarde – the pitch] to read an older (but still accurate) synopsis. Oh, hey. Look. I call it “medieval speculative fiction” there.

Comment your thoughts below or on my Facebook author website.

Penny’s new armor.

I’ve been doing a lot of writing of late, mostly on my Herongarde novel. I also have become involved with the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) – specifically with heavy weapons (aka swords and such). I have this character, Hanna, who is transported back into medieval times. She finds herself in situations where she must wield a sword. I want to write the story with some level of accuracy, but reading about medieval swordplay can only get you so far. And, let’s face it, what we see in movies most of the time is pretty bad swordsmanship. So, twice a week, I strap on some armor and learn first-hand what it’s all about.

I *really* enjoy it.

Yeah, it’s a hell of a workout. Armor is heavy. It’s hot. And since I’m borrowing armor, it’s also awkward and uncomfortable. Most of the bruises I get aren’t from sword blows, but from the armor itself. I need my own kit. I have to decide what I want my persona to be.

Armor includes many layers. One usually starts with a light shirt. Over that comes the gambeson, which is a padded shirt – so the armor doesn’t bit you as much. I’ve made myself a gambeson. It makes a huge difference. I need to make padded legs, too. I’ll get to that eventually.

Here I am, sporting my fancy gambeson.

What after that?

The SCA has its rules, so I’ll start there. You have to protect the knees and elbows from the front and from the sides. There are lots of ways to do this, but when I get my own kit, I want to go for metal knees and elbows.

Metal Elbow

Other necessities include protecting the Xiphoid process (the lower tip of the sternum or breastbone) on the chest, and to protect the kidneys and floating ribs on the back. A He-man style breastplate and a big ol’ weight lifting belt might do the job. My reaction: functional, but too Xena-esque. And, given my interest in medieval Europe, a better choice for me would be a bringandine or “coat of plates” which is basically metal plates riveted onto thick leather. This was the predecessor of plate armor.

A fine brigandine-maille combo modeled by my favorite human to watch: James Purefoy
Another image of the brigandine worn in Ironclad by James Purefoy

SCA rules insist that the neck be protected. The most common way to do this is with a gorget – basically a thick leather collar. I’ll probably go with that initially, since it will be relatively easy to make and can be made in any number of styles.

Obviously, I’ll also need a helmet. Hmm. Obviously, something like that, I’m not going to make myself. But I got people. And the Internet, if that fails…

Gloves are important, since the hand must be protected. For now, I’m using a sword and shield with cages over the hand for protection. Ultimately, I want to ditch the cages (making my equipment lighter), and get armored gauntlets. A good hockey glove does the trick, but is seriously NOT period. This will be a challenge to create.

Then there are the other bits that aren’t required by SCA rules, but I think might be foolish to do without if they were real swords, not just rattan rods with hilts.

My kit will include pauldrons, which sit on the shoulders like the pads that football players wear. (Clarify: American football, apologies to my non-US readers.) And they shall be shiny and metal.

James Purefoy (on the right) sporting a nice brigandine with pauldrons. Hey, check out his gauntlets, too. The Rory Kinnear (on the left) is wearing plate armor.

I need something over the thighs, hopefully wrapping completely around the thigh. Those wrap shots to the back of the leg really smart! These can be leather and simple, basically something to hang the knees off of.

Similarly, the elbows need to connect somehow to the shoulder, probably to points (or ties) under the pauldrons. Might as well protect the upper arm as well.

So far I’m glad I have the gambeson made. All these straps are gonna leave marks.

Ultimately, I dunno if I’ll put anything on the lower leg (greaves) or on the lower arm (bracers), but these can be independent of the knees and elbows, and that may just be how it goes.

Over top of all this, typically goes a tabard. This is a simple covering usually bearing the colors of the fighters nation. I made a really basic one with the colors of Herongarde. By wearing a tabard, the gaps in the armor are hidden (if there are any). A tabard can also be asthetically pleasing. For now, the tabard I’ve made will do. Later, I’ll make one with the proper materials (linen instead of cotton).

What about that chain mail? You ask. Well, mail (or maille) would be worn over the gambeson and under the brigandine. I have a maille shirt. It weighs 25 pounds. Not planning to wear it for any SCA practices, since it would be overkill, but in real action. I don’t think I’d leave it behind. I need to fit the shirt I have to my body a little better, though. The sleeves are too big. I might just discard them altogether. And the leather trim might get tossed too. We’ll see.

Me, ready to act wearing my maille shirt and the colors of Herongarde.

Of course, no one does the maille-brigandine-tabard quite as well as James Purefoy.

James Purefoy: Maille, brigandine, and tabard. Le *sigh*

Character Sketches – Markus of Herongarde

Markus of Herongarde is the younger brother of King Anthony of Herongarde and Uncle of Trey. Markus is ever the diplomat, capable of diffusing volatile situations with a smile, but quick with his sword and among the best swordsmen of Herongarde. Were in not for Markus’ cool temperament, Herongarde would have plunged into war a hundred times due to Anthony’s fiery temper. Markus is a man who would defend the codes of Herongarde to his death, but has a soft spot for those he loves and has been known to look away if codes are breached in the name of love.

Character Sketches – Hanna Tisdale

Hanna Tisdale is a tenured academic (in the physical sciences) in a functional, but dull, marriage, facing mid-life with a sense of apathy. She’s busy nurturing her own and her husbands careers and raising their son, but is losing herself in the middle of it. She’s discouraged by the little paunch she’s developed and yearns for the more active, exciting days of her youth.

Character sketches – Trey of Herongarde

Trey of Herongarde is a disenchanted Prince. His world has been dark to him since the loss of his beloved wife and son in childbirth ten years earlier. It grew still darker when, soon after, his elder brother – the heir to the throne – was killed. For years, Lord Trey has moved through life, disinterested in everything except for a good duel at tournament and the unconscious hope for his own death. Though heir to the throne of Herongarde, Trey has done all possible to avoid the politics of the realm, preferring to ride wide and dangerous patrols. He refuses to be addressed as royalty. He wishes only to be acknowledged as a warrior and a Bearer of the sovereign Mark of Herongarde.

I Am From

This is a fun little writing prompt that someone posted over in the Litopia Writer’s Colony.

It’s a fun little exercise suggested by someone else (NOT MY IDEA), to help establish place in a story.

All you do is write a paragraph where every sentense starts with “I am from…” It could be you or a fictional character you describe. Give it a go:

—–

I am from the Earth. I am from what once was. I am from what could be. I am from my own imagination and from my own experience. I am from textbooks and novels.

I am from Utah, but left the place as I did not belong there. I am from the West, the East, the South, but have since departed. I am from the Northeast, where I now call home.

I am from the laboratory, where seemingly impossible phenomena occur each day. I am from the place where new knowledge is born.

I am from Herongarde, where I visit when I wish to be alone, but you may join me if you wish.

I am from wherever I happen to be.

 

Reunited

Here’s something new for your enjoyment. This is the seed of what may later develop into a whole story. Or maybe not. It’s a little dark. Maybe you’ll like it; maybe you won’t.

—

His world was dark. He was lonely… And in pain. So alone. Hopeless.

Marshall lay there in quiet agony, waiting for the death blow. He wondered weakly how it would come and what it would feel like. A shot to the head, perhaps, as he had witnessed to many times before? He hoped for something quick. This torture seemed endless.

For once in his life, he truly felt old. His body ached. He was weary. His future was empty, irrelevant. He was old and worthless. Unnecessary. Unloved. Not hated, really. Just held in contemptible indifference.

His mind drifted to happier days. His life had been his own. He had been powerful. People adored him and he smiled. He loved them back. He had peace when he wanted it, but he enjoyed his fame.

Then the Masters came and took that all away. They destroyed people, not just by killing, but by stripping men and women of what made them human. They were nothing now. No one was anything. And he was alone and all was dark.

It was dark to him, anyway. In truth, lights blazed all around. But he kept his eyes shut, fearful of what scene they might capture should he open them. He listened dimly to the sounds around him. The shuffle of feet, the slamming of doors. A chain rattled. In the distance, he heard a man cry out in pain. He wondered if he had made that sound himself.

He was prodded, but he did not stir. Perhaps they would think him dead. Tears ran freely from his eyes. This he could not restrain. But otherwise, he lay completely still. One of the Masters grunted and moved on. A sob escaped Marshall’s lips, then he was silent again.

At least the cage in which he laid was padded. He almost felt warm. And they had taken the bit from his mouth. He licked his lips and tasted his own blood, mixed with the saltiness of his tears. So distant were those happier times. They were gone. And now he waited. He was tired and ready to meet his own end.

The masters came and went, their heavy boots pounding the ground. Occasionally, Marshall heard the rattle of a chain and the shuffle of bare feet. Other men and women were being moved about. The stomp of solid-soled shoes alerted Marshall to the entrance of two masters into the room where he was caged. They spoke to each other, discussing him – his health, his behavior – as if he were little more than a draft animal. Fresh tears welled in Marshall’s eyes. That’s what he was now. Not a man, but a beast of burden. Tears dripped and soaked into the thin pillow upon which he rested his head.

The cage door crashed open.

“Boy,” spoke one of the masters. Marshall recognized the voice of Master Taugh, who held high rank among the masters, overseeing the others that worked directly with the captives. “Wake up, boy,” said Taugh, shaking Marshall’s shoulder to rouse him. Marshall did not respond except to flinch and sigh.

Taugh straightened up, disappointed. “Has he eaten anything?”

“No, Master Taugh,” replied the other master. This was Master Keyrt, to whom Marshall reported directly. “I put some food in his mouth earlier, thinking it might inspire him to eat. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was still there.”

Hands fell on Marshall’s face and his mouth was forced open. Something swept through his mouth, scooping away the food that he had tucked into his cheek. Keyrt had been correct. Marshall had no desire to eat.

“Yup,” commented Taugh. “We need him to eat. It would be a shame to lose this one.”

Marshall’s heart sank. They meant to keep him alive.

A coarse hand stroked Marshall’s cheek and forehead, lifting his hair off his swollen and bloodied features. “Hungry, boy?” said Master Taugh into Marshall’s ear. “Gotta eat.” Marshall remained motionless.

Taugh shook Marshall hard in an effort to wake him. Marshall cried out in pain and wept a few sobs before falling still and silent once again. He never opened his eyes. Taugh scratched his head, frustrated.

“We need to motivate this boy,” commented Keyrt.

“Of course. But how?”

Marshall’s arm was wrenched backward, forcing him to roll onto his back. He yelped in pain. A finger tapped him high on the chest, at a brand he’d been given the day he was captured.

“I was thinking that too,” said Taugh. Marshall’s arm was released, but he remained twisted in the cage. A sob escaped his mouth. He licked his lips and fell silent again.

Marshall listened as one of the masters left the room. The other stayed behind shuffling through papers beside Marshall’s cage. The master cleared his throat and Marshall knew it was Taugh that remained. Taugh once again shook Marshall’s shoulder. “Boy! Wake up! Eat!” Marshall’s only response was a wince. Taugh sighed.

A couple of clicks and the cage door slammed down again. With a clunk, Marshall was locked in. Taugh strode away. Bitter pain and loneliness filled Marshall’s consciousness again. The world was still dark. His life was over. He drifted into a miserable sleep.

The returning voices of Taugh and Keyrt jarred him from his dreamless rest. He opened his eyes wearily and saw the masters approach his cage. A third master now joined them, with a captive woman in tow.

Marshall shut his eyes. The woman was naked, as he was. She was a slave now, too, once a free member of human society. He’d witnessed so many men killed in horrible ways, and so many women brutalized and raped, that he didn’t care to see another human again. He felt pity for the woman, not knowing what was in store for her, but assuming the worst. He lay still, not daring to stir.

The masters spoke among themselves for a moment. Then one approached Marshall’s cage with heavy footsteps. Marshall heard the jingle of a lead chain and the soft slapping of bare feet. The woman was being dragged along. A strong hand gripped Marshall’s shoulder and shook him violently. “Wake up, boy!” Marshall groaned. He did not recognize the voice of this master. Marshall turned his head away. The hand gripped Marshall’s chin and twisted his face back toward the master.

“Wake up,” the master said again, slapping Marshall’s tender cheek. Marshall winced and tried to roll his eyes open. He squinted at the ceiling, hoping this would satisfy the master.

The master cleared his throat. “Tell me boy. Do you still want her?”

The question startled Marshall. First, it was asked in English, a language he hadn’t heard in what seemed to be months. Second, He’s been asked this question before.

He slowly moved his eyes and settled them upon the woman being held firmly by the master. He knew her. It was Katrine.

Marshall knew her from before the capture. They had worked together for a while, and he had grown quite fond of her. Alas, it was not to be, since she was married and he had a long-standing relationship with his own girlfriend. Nevertheless, he had been drawn to her. He once even admitted it to Katrine. She had smiled. With a nudge, she replied, “That feeling might be mutual.” In the end, they both agreed that romantic involvement could never happen and they had backed off – way off. They tried to be friends, but it was awkward.

They had been at a promotional event together when the capture happened, each thousands of miles from their ‘significant other.’ They ran as the masters approached and were caught together. Marshall fought viciously to protect her from the masters. He was punished by being restrained and forced to watch her repeatedly raped my their new captors. He cried and begged for them to stop, until they finally silenced him with a bit shoved between his teeth. When the masters were satisfied that neither she nor Marshall would be fighting them any more, she was dragged before Marshall. She hung there, gripped by the arms between two hulking masters, bleeding and crying. A third master gripped his hair and demanded, “Do you still want her?”

“Yes, yes,” he cried. “Please.”

They were both branded on the upper chest with a mark indicating that they were a pair. Then they were separated and the training began.

Marshall had seen her only once since then, a brief meeting that ended with him being beaten and her being raped again.

He didn’t want to see her raped yet again.

“Do you still want her?” the master asked again, impatiently, shaking her lead chain. Marshall gazed upon her. Katrine was gaunt and dirty. She bore a few bruises. But she was still lovely to him. A tear rolled down her cheek.

Marshall shut his eyes and turned his head away. He didn’t want to see her hurt again. He wished he could touch her, hold her, even properly make love to her, but that life was over. To see her again was agony. It would be best for her if he were gone.

“Disappointing,” muttered the master.

“Mar—,” started Katrine, cut of by a violent tug on her lead chain.

“Quiet girl,” growled the master, slapping her hard on the side of the head.

Marshall jumped and a sob slipped from his lips. The master paused and looked thoughtfully at him for a moment.

“I guess,” said the master, gripping Katrine’s lead chain tightly and speaking loud and slowly, “we’ll just have to find her another mate. Perhaps one more aggressive.” The master spoke the last words menacingly, with the clear implication that another mate would hurt Katrine.

Another sob escaped from Marshall. He didn’t want her to be hurt.

“Humph,” grumbled the master. “Come on then, girl. Let’s find you a proper mate.” He rattled the lead chain, beginning to walk from the room.

Marshall rolled his head back toward the masters and Katrine. “No. Please, no,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

“What boy?” grumbled Taugh.

Marshall reached his arm weakly through the cage bars toward Katrine. His whole body ached. His arm dropped. “No, please,” he breathed.

“Do you still want this woman?” boomed the master that still held Katrine.

Marshall nodded faintly. “Yes. Yes I do. Master. Please.” He struggled to speak.

“Then eat your food!” shouted Taugh.

Marshall turned his eyes to the dish of food that sat on the padding before him. It was the gray, tasteless food he was always fed. He wasn’t hungry. He frowned and stared at it. Taugh reached through the bars and forced Marshall to look at him.

“Eat your food. All of it. Then you can have her,” growled Taugh. “And not a moment before. Do you hear me?”

Marshall tried to nod, causing Taugh to grip him tighter. “Do you hear me, boy?” snarled Taugh.

“Yes Master,” whispered Marshall.

Taugh released him. “Show me. Eat,” he commanded.

Marshall dipped his fingers into the gray mush and scooped some into his mouth. Taugh motioned to the master holding Katrine, and she was placed against the wall across from Marshall’s cage. Her lead chain was locked to a ring on the wall. She sat there miserably with her knees drawn to her chest. Marshall looked at her sadly, an expression she hesitantly returned.

“EAT!” boomed Taugh.

Marshall jumped, then began the arduous task of eating a meal he didn’t want and wasn’t sure he could stomach. He mechanically placed bite after bite into his mouth, chewing then swallowing each, trying not to think too much about it. The masters walked from the room, leaving Marshall to eat his tasteless meal as Katrine watched.

He wondered what he must look like to her now. It must not be good, judging by the expression on Katrine’s face. From his perspective, she looked like a sunrise after a stormy night. Though thin and bruised, she looked beautiful to him. The darkness in his heart lifted a bit each time he glanced up at her and their eyes met.

Finally, the meal was eaten, and though it sat uneasily in his belly, he felt better for it. He lay on his side watching Katrine through the bars. She had shut her eyes and was dozing uncomfortably against the wall. He smiled to himself.

Katrine’s eyes snapped open as two masters returned to the room. Marshall cowered weakly as Taugh approached his cage.

“Good. You’ve eaten,” remarked Taugh after examining Marshall’s empty bowl. Taugh turned to the master who had brought Katrine. “Go on, then, Magkt. Bring her here.”

Magkt gripped Katrine by the collar and released the lead chain from it. He pulled her to her feet. Taugh opened the cage door and Marshall cowered back further.

“Oh no, boy,” said Taugh. Marshall froze. Taugh turned to Katrine. “In you go, girl. Behind him. I need to keep an eye on him.”

Katrine crawled into the low cage and over the top of Marshall. The cage was no wider than a twin bed and afforded hardly enough room for a person to sit up. It would be tight, but Marshall looked forward to the company.

Taugh tossed a rumpled blanket in on top of the two of them. “Rules,” he growled. “No speaking. No mating. You do as you’re told and nothing more.” Taugh slammed the cage door closed again and locked it. He and Magkt left, with Marshall and Katrine looking after them in silence.

Marshall realized he’d been holding his breath and exhaled sharply. Katrine began to straighten out the blanket. Marshall rolled slowly to face her. She stopped fussing with the blanket and looked back at him.

She touched his cheek and he winced. She tried to brush the hair out of his eyes and he flinched. Tears welled in her eyes and her lip began to shake. Marshall reached up and touched her cheek, trying to show strength with a smile. It didn’t last. They lay together, embracing each other tightly, weeping for the lives they had lost and terrified for what the future might hold.