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Frank gets a petgirl home. What will his old whore do now?
All the meals they shared together. And her beautiful smile.
He slept restlessly that night, tossing and turning in the dried leaves until he was certain he was never going to get a single minute of sleep that night. Every noise of the forest woke him. His very breathing woke him several times during the night.
He woke in the morning to the sun warming his body and blinding his eyes. For a long minute, he simply stared up at the foliage above him. Pain such as he had never known sliced through him freshly. Would this pain never lessen? Somewhere in his mind, he realized it had only been two days and he was mourning. In his heart, he knew, certain as the sun shone, that it would never lessen. He would live the rest of his days with the pain of loosing the one he held so dear.
He lay on the cold ground unwilling to move. It was comforting in a way. The cold dew against his skin was refreshing, real. He didn't want to move. And he closed his eyes and prayed for death. Mayhap the Lord was in a merciful mood that day and would accommodate him.
"Cien." Opening his eyes he heartily swore. St. George's bones. Now he was hearing her voice in his head? He sighed and pushed himself up on his elbows. Blinking against the light, he looked around the clearing. There was nothing out of the normal, nothing that hadn't been that way the night before.
"Cien." He heard his name again and this time it wasn't in his head, it was behind him. Turning his head lazily he rolled to his feet quickly, his breathing quick.
Regan stood half behind a tree, holding on to it lightly. She was smiling and looked healthy if a bit pale. He took an involuntary step forward, and she shook her head. He tried to speak, but found it more difficult than he had anticipated.
Finally he managed. "Are you real?"
She smiled again and watched him carefully. "Yes, Cien." Her voice was a whisper. She stepped part way out from behind the tree and then stopped. She wore a beautiful dress. It was a pale blue nearly white, billowing around her softly as if from a breeze. But there was no breeze.
"Follow the path. When you come to the fork, go left." And with that she turned and ran down the path that had mysteriously appeared. It wasn't there the night before.
"Wait!" He called, chasing after her. "Regan, wait!" he darted through the trees and bushes, following the small blue cloud he could see of her dress.
"Cien," she whispered into his head.
"Wait for me, Regan!" He shouted as he bolted down the path.
She stood at the edge of the path, her gown still billowing softly around her. Behind her there was a small clearing with a large cottage. "Here, Cien."
"Regan?" She shook her head, as he stepped forward to touch her.
"I love you, Cien Fraser." And with that she closed her eyes and was gone.
Cien blinked and glanced around. She was here. He knew she was. He stepped into the clearing, thinking she was somewhere in there, and knew he had missed something.
The cottage had strange markings on it, and wasn't any type of cottage he'd ever seen before. There were glass windows in all the window holes. They must be nobility, Cien thought and he continued to look for Regan.
"Regan?" He shouted as he examined all the trees and bushes around him.
"You there, what are you doing?!" Cien turned and slid his sword out of its sheath in one movement. The older man stopped in his tracks and watched him carefully.
"Your not from the reenactment up the way, are you lad?"
"What are you doing on my land, old man?" Cien shouted at him in Gaelic.
The man seemed taken aback.
"Aye. This is Fraser land." He took a menacing step forward, and growled. "And I'll have yer feet for the insult old man."
The man's eyes widened and he made a hasty sign of the cross. "Forgive me, Milord." He swallowed. "I dinna know it was ye."
Cien paused and really looked at the old man. He wore strange britches, even though his voice sounded Scots. Even for English garb, it looked strange to him.
"Why do you garb yourself in English clothes?"
The old m