Much as Yahjain and Paven had predicted, the humans quickly decided that an apology was far less expensive than going without wool next winter. Therefore, Spike was returning to the Agraka scarcely two weeks after the incident that had caused all this unpleasantness. He was joined by nearly half the guild.

Perhaps a third of those going were mounted on ifnan; the rest took to the air. Spike figured that dalhari weavers would outnumber humans two to one in the Agraka. They were doing it as a show of support, and Spike couldn’t help but be grateful.

However, he was much more grateful that it wasn’t necessary. As he had found out when he drew his sword on the tailor’s assistant, his chip was not functional. Spike had thought about it quite a bit, and figured that either the same thing that took his vampirism messed up his chip, or the humans in this world were…less human than the ones on his world. He didn’t really care, though. He could defend himself—that was all that mattered. Of course, he hated the fact that he needed to defend himself against his own species.

When they reached the Agraka they found a sea of dalhari stretching from its borders all the way across the green. “What the…”

Paven landed next to Spike’s ifnan. “Saydhe and Mirh,” she whispered. To Spike it looked like half the house had shown up in his support. The addition of the more numerous Mirh clan had nearly tripled the numbers he was expecting.

“Why?” he said shakily.

“Because you are Saydhe, and a weaver.” Spike turned to see Gaha smiling up at him. Sliding off the ifnan, he went to greet her.

“Did you do this?” He asked accusingly.

Gaha laughed. “I did not! No one had to prod them to come. We support our own."

Yahjain signaled for Spike to join him. Spike was unsure of how this apology would go—he had a fairly good grasp of dalhari customs, but knew nothing of human ones.

The tailor was standing in the midst of his tribe. The Va had formed a semicircle around him, keeping the masses of dalhari away from their errant brother. The Ranj stood off to one side, obviously keeping a vigil over the proceedings. They had suffered along with the Va when Davd had acted unseemly, and they were the driving force behind this apology.

Davd wasted no time in starting the proceedings. “Weaver Spike, of the Saydhe of the Disiaron, I have acted unkindly toward you without cause. My behavior has brought great shame upon my tribe, and the tribes of others. I would offer up to you in supplication this token of my regret and repentance.” One of the tailor’s assistants brought forward a beautiful ifnan. The assistant led the animal over to Paven, who accepted the lead rope.

Spike looked over at Yahjain, but the master weaver was silent. Taking a chance, Spike replied, “And what of the guild? You smeared its honor, accusing us of dishonesty.”

The tailor blanched. “I also regret denying that my tribe broke its contract with the guild. I will pay the remainder of what is owed you.”

Spike looked hard at the tailor, who quaked under the intense stare. He could tell Davd wasn’t sincere, but it didn’t really matter. He had said, in public, that he had wronged the guild, Spike, the Saydhe, and the Disiaron. There was nothing left for the tailor to do.

Spike nodded curtly to the human, then accepted the lead rope from Paven and walked away. Spike ignored the gasps from the human crowd. Behind him, he heard Yahjain tell the tailor that business between the Agraka and the guild would resume immediately.

Bypassing the guild, Spike went straight back to the house. The apology had been nerve-wracking for him, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to sleep for the rest of the day. When he got to the stables, his new mount was the subject of many admiring eyes.

“Where did you get him?” The stable master asked. Several stable hands cleared out and prepared a stall for the new ifnan.

“He was a gift,” Spike replied, watching the dalhari scurry about.

“The apology?” The stable master asked knowingly. Did everyone know about that? Spike just nodded.

“What’s his name?” Spike looked down at the child who’d asked the question. Spike crouched down to the child’s eye-level.

“Angel.” The child looked confused for a moment, and then smiled. He gingerly patted the ifnan’s leg, while animal huffed and switched his tail.

Spike chuckled quietly at the name he’d chosen for his ifnan. It fit, in more ways than one, and Spike couldn’t help but like the idea of riding his Sire around all the time.

•••

“You want me to *what?*” Spike shouted. Were they mad?

Fain and Vaishi grinned at Spike’s reaction. “Come on, Spike. It’s your duty as a Saydhe and a Disiaron.”

Spike shook his head. He really couldn’t believe these two. “But…”

Vaishi saw an opening and jumped in. “If you don’t stand for us, you have to challenge us. All adult Saydhe have to.”

“Wouldn’t you rather I challenge you? I’m weak—a human. I won’t be able to defend you against one dalhari, much less hundreds,” Spike said, looking for a way out.

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Spike. You’re strong and fast, and a lot of dalhari will underestimate you,” Vaishi added. “I should know. We’ve sparred, remember?”

Oh, he remembered. He still had the bruises from his and the warrior’s last training session. As much as he’d like to not do this, he’d rather not be on the other side. “I would be honored to defend your bond, Vaishi and Fain of the Saydhe of the Disiaron.”

Two weeks later, Spike was beginning to doubt his decision. He had insisted that Vaishi help him prepare for the bonding, to which the dalhari had laughed and reassured Spike that he was more than ready. Unconvinced, Spike pushed himself ruthlessly, polishing the fighting techniques he’d spent more than a century using in his world.

A few days ago, Gaha and Paven had shown up at his quarters bearing gifts. The elder explained that since Spike was a weaver by trade and a warrior by nature, it was time he looked like it. To that end, the elder and the dyemaster presented him with proper attire. His new clothes were far finer than anything he’d ever owned.

The black, multilayered trousers were of the finest wool, silky smooth and durable. His new boots and vest were likewise black and sported the same knotwork design—one he recognized as being traditional of the Saydhe clan. What really surprised him, though were the shirts. Somehow Paven had managed to use his signature red dye without his knowledge. The jewel-toned shirts stood out boldly from the otherwise monotone look.

The last thing they presented him with before leaving was a small pot of pigment. He would need it for the bonding, they said. All dalhari would wear their marks at the event. Spike tried to refuse it.

“I don’t have a mark.”

The two dalhari looked at each other. “Yours is still slightly visible, Spike.”

Spike shook his head. “That’s Del’s mark, not mine.” Indeed, it was Del’s mark, but she had no claim on him, did she?

Paven and Gaha consulted quietly. Finally, Gaha responded. “Normally, Spike, once a mark is given, it is not changed, because the mark is a reflection of a dalhari’s identity. However, you are…special. While it would be improper to simply annihilate the mark you have, it would be admissible to…adjust it somewhat.”

Spike thought about that for a few minutes. “Does someone else have to do that, or can I?”

“The mark is intensely personal, so you should make it yourself,” Paven replied.

Spike spent all his free time for the next two days researching and drawing. Dalhari marks were a combination of their abstract knotwork and their written language. Luckily for Spike, a good number of texts had been written on marks and their significance. His search was also speeded by the fact that he wasn’t building a mark from scratch, but rather altering the one he’d been given.

Once he’d defined all the parts to Del’s mark, he could begin to make it his own. The areas that indicated clan and house remained the same, since he was Saydhe and Disiaron. A small knot near the ear showed that Del could bear children, so Spike removed it. That just wouldn’t do, now would it? Of course, since Spike didn’t work the forges, but instead the loom and dyeshop, he chose to incorporate those into his mark.

One other area of Del’s mark intrigued him. If his research was correct, it indicated that Del followed a hermitic religious path. Further reading showed that the vast majority of marks indicated a religious path of some sort, so Spike decided to apply one for himself. After many hours of reading, he found the right one. Actually, it slapped him in the face. He was a seeker. It fit well, considering his travels in this world—physical, mental, and emotional.

He waited until the day of the bonding to apply the new mark. Opening the pot of pigment, he burst out laughing. Paven had found a way to make his red color into a useable pigment. He would never be allowed to forget the day he earned his apprenticeship. Perhaps he had surprised her after all.

•••

Spike paused briefly in the hallway outside the great hall. He had only glanced inside the room before; it was rarely used except for occasions like bondings. He had been warned that it might be cold inside; it was the deepest part of winter right now, but no fires were lit and all the windows were open. Once he entered the chamber, he would be unable to speak, since words were also forbidden at bondings.

The bonding ritual itself had shocked Spike with its brutality. So much of dalhari culture was peaceful that the presence of violence in any ceremony, much less one that equated to marriage, disturbed his view of his adopted people. The bonding ritual could be traced to the most ancient times, and had remained virtually unchanged for as long as dalhari had recorded history.

The ritual was elegantly simple. Vaishi and Fain would take up their position in the center of the room. The couple would kneel together on the floor, naked, their limbs knotted around each other. They would then initiate the bond—which was done by simultaneously embedding their fangs into the base of each others’ necks, right over their marks.

As soon as that occurred, the real violence began. About fifty dalhari, including Spike, would surround the bonding pair. Every other adult member of the clan in the area, several hundred dalhari in all, would then try to stop the bonding from being completed. Bondings took about half an hour to finish, so the group defending the couple had to keep all the other dalhari at bay until then.

At first Spike had thought it would be a mock fight. Vaishi and Fain quickly disabused him of this notion. The fighting would be real and intense. Bondings were spaced out very far apart so that everyone had a chance to recover because injuries were quite common. The only thing that prevented more fatalities was that no weapons were permitted. Only the body could be used to attack or defend.

Bondings were a deep, enduring bond between dalhari. They were not entered into lightly, and were almost never dissolved. Since dalhari were pretty much immortal, the relationship had the potential to be extremely long relationships. In many ways, bonded couples were two unified beings in a world set to tear them apart. Time, distance and fate worked to separate them. To that end, bonding rituals were designed to test the mettle of the couple being bonded. Although the clan would almost always protect and defend its own, during the bonding ceremony it was the clan that had to test the couple. With very few wartime exceptions, bondings were the only time that clan members fought each other.

Taking a deep breath, Spike entered the chamber. He immediately took a place with the others who would be defending Vaishi and Fain. He wished that Gaha or Paven could have attended, but they were Mirh and the bonding was occurring between Saydhe.

The crowd of future attackers parted as Vaishi entered from one side of the room, even as Fain emerged from the other side. Spike watched as the naked skin of the gold and blue dalhari seemed to melt together as the couple wound themselves together. Legs intertwined as they sank to the floor, even as arms wrapped around each other to steady their bodies. Their tails came up to bind their shoulders together, and they wrapped their wings around their bodies, concealing them most effectively. At the same time, they reared back their heads, teeth glimmering, and struck.

Then the crowd attacked. Spike backed up with the other defenders, forming a circle around the pair. Dalhari swarmed around him, clawing and lashing out. He dropped to the floor and kicked up, knocking his first attacker back into a nearby pillar. Spike felt a surge of the old bloodlust as the dalhari’s body made a sick crunch upon impact. He realized that in all likelihood he had just broken the dalhari’s wings. The thought fled as another dalhari engaged him and he set about trying to stay alive while defending his friends.

Spike groaned as yet another body slammed into him. He jumped and whirled around, catching his attackers’ face with his foot. The dalhari spun back, but righted herself quickly. Something flashed in his face, and then his vision slowly started to turn red. Wiping his eyes, he realized he was bleeding. The dalhari had cut his forehead with her tail. Ducking his head down, he rammed into her, reaching back to grab onto her wings. He’d found that if he could get them in just the right place, he could send them to the floor writhing in pain. It seemed to work, because the dalhari fell down like a stone, panting heavily.

Five minutes later, it was over. A long, low howl split the air, followed shortly there after by another. Vaishi and Fain had completed the bonding. All the dalhari that still could joined in the song. After a moment, Spike joined them. He’d never heard the likes of it—a haunting, wordless melody that seemed to stretch on forever.

It must have ended, however, because all too soon Spike realized he was standing in a pool of blood. It wasn’t his, so he was not overly concerned. Looking down, he realized, though, that he was covered in the stuff, and that some of it was his.

He spent the next several hours helping those who could move situate and care for those who could not. For a group that had just spent half an hour trying to kill each other, the dalhari were amazingly happy. They laughed and joked, even as their ribs were bound or bones set.

By the time he made it back to his quarters, he was dead tired. Spike idly noted that his beautiful new clothes would need to be cleaned thoroughly before he wore them again. As soon as he’d cleaned up and made it to bed, however, he stopped thinking at all.

•••

The next day, Spike retrieved Angel from the stables and set off for the outskirts of La’iv. Although normally, he would search for any excuse possible to remain inside during winter, a need for privacy overrode his loathing of the frigid temperatures. Soon the soaring, glittering beauty of La’iv was behind him as he entered the rolling pastureland to the east of the freehold.

Spike guided the ifnan along a rutted path, his goal being a field of prhang. The adorable animals were one of Spike’s favorites to watch. Winter or summer, they placidly grazed and wandered, ignoring everyone around them. It was no wonder, really, that they were so susceptible to animal attacks. The creatures probably just stood there while they were being killed. Spike didn’t see how they could have survived as long as they had—they didn’t seem to have any instincts at all. Angel bumped into one prhang that had wandered onto the path. The startled animal let out an indignant bleat as it ambled off.

Once Spike was sure that the animals were well-tended, he changed course, heading for one of the shearing barns. There were several scattered over the pastures, but none were in use this season. At the barn, he tied off Angel and unlatched an entrance door. The building was frigid inside, due to the open, unglazed window openings in each wall. The barn didn’t even provide good shelter from the wind. Still, it was a place to sit and think.

Spike perched on a nearby bench, curling his cloak around himself for warmth. The bonding ritual had brought back more memories of Del. He couldn’t help but look for her at the ritual. After all, she was Vaishi’s cousin, and apparently rather close to him. But Spike had seen no flash of purple hair or aqua skin to warn him of her presence. Perhaps she had gone so far away she didn’t know about the bonding. He just couldn’t picture the dalhari shirking clan responsibilities.

He spent a long time ruminating on bondings, Del, weaving, and his own humanity before drifting off to sleep. The indignant whickering of Angel woke him, and he quickly mounted the ifnan and guided him home. Spike hadn’t meant to stay out so long, and since night was falling it had gotten even colder, if possible.

•••

“I see you decided on a mark,” Paven said, looking over his face. He’d just returned to the guild after having spent two days resting from the bonding. It would have been the first time anyone outside the Saydhe had seen it.

Spike touched the side of his face. “Yeah. Thanks for the pigment, by the way. How did you get it just that color?”

“It’s what I do.” The dalhari offered Spike some po’infal. “Did you enjoy the bonding?”

He snorted. “Enjoy? It was bloody amazing! Haven’t had that much fun since Angel and I worked our way through Brussels.” Paven grinned at the statement. Spike had eventually told his mentor about his life in the other world. The dalhari had taken what he’d said in stride, saying nothing about it at all.

“You did well with your mark. It is you.”

Spike smiled softly. “Yeah, it is. I was afraid…”

Paven finished for him. “That you’d lose Del if you changed it? But that you would never grow if you left it alone?”

Spike nodded. Paven was very perceptive—something Spike had learned early on and never forgot. The dyemaker left soon thereafter, and Spike had the remainder of the day to himself.

His thoughts returned to the mark as he stirred a vat by the fire. When he’d first asked about changing the mark, he’d intended to completely obliterate it. Del had left him, and it hurt. Looking back, he was glad that Gaha and Paven had stopped him.

What he realized in building his own mark was that Del couldn’t be erased so easily. She had, in less than a year together, changed who he was as surely as becoming a vampire had more than a century ago. She had given him the chance to survive, gain a home, and find out who and what he was. He liked the person he was becoming, and Del was to be credited for much of that.

So now, when he looked in mirrors, he would see not just a shadow of his lover, but a symbol of himself—not Spike the vampire, or Spike the straggling refugee; but the weaver Spike, of the Saydhe, of the Disiaron.