"GET IN HERE!" he screamed as he stopped by his desk, toppling the heavy, wooden piece with one heave. Gatti jumped into the room from where'd he'd been standing in the opening, turning and shutting the door, his mouth a grim line. That bastard Fanel! the second silently snarled. Damn him! And that girl, the one who could see them through the cloaks; Miguel had been right about her after all... Gatti suppressed a sharp stab of pain. Miguel was gone, dead at the hands of that accursed doppelganger. Dilandau- sama had extracted appropriate revenge, but then that bastard and his bitch had shown up! And had again defeated their attempts to capture the Dragon. Gatti snapped to attention, crushing the sorrow and frustration that tried to rise within him, watching as his lord continued to destroy the sitting room; stepping aside only to avoid the odd bottle or piece of furniture that careened in his direction as he waited for him to calm down.

That look on Dallet's face when they had returned, when he had had to tell him that Miguel was gone... Gatti couldn't think of that now, nor of the wounds Chesta and he had received in the battle: he had his lord to attend to. He focused upon him, just in time to see him wrench off his jacket; his gloves and swordbelt already gone, lost in the chaos of the room. Dilandau hurled the armored jacket at his second-in-command; Gatti ducked then came forward, removing his own gloves and unbuckling his swordbelt. He dropped the gloves on top of the low table before the fireplace, then kneeled and lay his sheathed katana underneath.

"My lord?" he asked quietly, straightening; the great red eyes focused on him and he shuddered at the insane rage that burned within. Dilandau marched up and backhanded him off his feet; Gatti grunted as he crashed to the ground, pain flaring in his jaw. The warlord was upon him in an instant, his hands locked around his throat.

"WHY?" Dilandau shrieked, his grip almost crushing his windpipe. "WHY?!?"

"I don't know!" Gatti choked out. And, truly, he didn't. It seemed that Fanel had this incredible power; this incredible good fortune. How else to explain their continued failure to capture him?

Dilandau bared his teeth, then suddenly snorted and let go of him, the pale features contemptuous.

"Right," he snarled and lightly got off of him. Gatti gasped for breath, hearing his lord slam open the inner, bedroom door and stomp inside. He got to his feet, quickly undoing his own jacket fastenings and slipping out of the armor, laying it upon the table before following him.

It was quiet in this room. Dark as well: it took Gatti a moment to find him in the dim light of the crescent moons. Dilandau had thrown open one of the large windows and was leaning out of it, ignoring the freezing wind that was being driven into the room by the Vione's flight. The second shivered, then slowly approached and gently hugged him from behind, his arms about the lean body and his check resting against the nape of his neck. Dilandau snarled, stiffening, but didn't move. He was so cold! Gatti thought sadly. So cold.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, pressing closer. Dilandau suddenly jerked away from him, throwing him against the stone wall as he twisted away from the window. The warlord stomped to his four-poster bed and threw himself on it face down, snarling and beating his fist against the headboard again and again, crying out in anger, pain. Gatti grimaced and reached through the open window, catching the clasps and pulling the panes shut.

"Keep that damn window open!" Dilandau shouted. Gatti ignored the order, walking over to the bed and sitting along the edge. His lord had stopped pounding the ornate wood and was now still, resting his forehead on his crossed arms, tension radiating from the taut body. Gatti softly put one hand upon his back; Dilandau growled low in his throat. Gatti hesitated, then lightly put his other hand upon him, gently massaging the rock-hard shoulder muscles, his hands trembling just a little although the warlord did not further react to him.

It took a long, long time for the muscles to unknot and relax; Gatti's own shoulders were aching by the time he felt he could stop. Dilandau had not said a word or even moved during his ministrations; perhaps he should leave? Gatti scowled, angry at himself: what the hell was he thinking? He would never leave his lord alone! The second got up and unbuckled the red-armored boots, sliding them off the long legs and setting them on the floor, then he slipped out of his own blue boots walked around to the other side of the bed. He climbed onto the mattress and lay down beside his lord, turning onto his side, ever-ready to leap away at the slightest command or else endure a slap for his presumptuous. But Dilandau didn't move or make a sound; Gatti wasn't sure if he was even awake. He bent close to him, then started back a little in surprise. The red eyes were wide open, staring blindly into the pillow beneath his arms.

"My lord?" Gatti asked softly. Dilandau turned his head and stared at him; Gatti's heart tore at the look on the beautiful face. He looked confused, lost. Alone.

"My lord," Gatti whispered, moving closer and putting his arms about him; Dilandau pushed up against him, folding in his arms and resting his head on his shoulder, pressing his face against his neck.

"Gatti-san," he said softly, a strange, half-choked sadness in his voice.

"Shhhhh," Gatti said, gently holding him, resting his cheek against his head, the silver hair brushing his nose. He closed his eyes, feeling his lord softly sigh against his neck, the warming of his body welcoming, the skin soft under his arms. I'm sorry, he thought. I would give anything to make this right. He brought one hand up and gently stroked his hair, sliding off the metal diadem; Dilandau only sighed again, deeper this time. He was relaxing against him, his breathing slowing and Gatti smiled slightly, warmth flowing through him at this trust his lord had in him; the security that his second could give him, allowing him to fall asleep even after this terrible day. He slipped his fingers once again through the soft, silver hair, his own troubled heart easing a little, and let sleep claim him as well.

THE END