He met her during one of his "vacations". He had been working on the schematics for a new type of rifle, trying to optimize the specs. The actual physics of it were beyond him, but he intuitively grasped the principles at work, and applied them. Just bare sketches accompanied his notes. He'd have to have the rifle made before it could be tested, but Benedict was sure that it'd work. Of course, if one lengthened the barrel by a few--

The shutter click snapped him out of his reverie. He looked up swiftly, isolating the location of the sound even in the bustle of the coffee house. the culprit--a plain looking young lady--wiggled her fingers at him a few tables away. Rolling his eyes inwardly, he bent to his work again, ignoring the fact that this woman was taking pictures of him. No big deal, he thought to himself amidst his scribblings of bore weights and costs.

When she seated herself at his table, she immediately commanded his attention again. Oh, he knew she was on her way over as soon as she got up, but he didn't stop her. Might as well get whatever inquiries over with so he could work in peace. He didn't lift his head, choosing to let her wonder how to broach whatever subject. No, Ben continued with his work while he studied her covertly.

She was of average height for this Shadow, that being just under 2 meters. She was in roughly good shape, despite the fact that she smoked. Her hair was a rather dull brown, but caught the light in interesting ways, shining copper one moment, then blonde the next. It was cut close, with only tendrils brushing her neck as they curled. Tanned skin...so she was used to the outdoors, her clothing confirming it. Strong and practical looking, her current outfit consisted of jeans, combat boots, a black tshirt, and a BDU blouse used by the military. She was rather plain looking, certainly not unattractive, but her face was too broad, her eyes set too far apart to be considered a beauty. He sized her up in a brief moment, and he already knew where this was going.

"Say," she said in a drawl, "Aren't you the fella that owns Usher Munitions?" Yup. He was right, and chose to stay silent.

"If so," she continued, "there are tons of magazines that would pay me a fair bit for these..." Still no response. He was a rock--an annoyed one if that were possible. She shuffled in the uncomfortable silence, her confidence slipping away as the moment drew long, and then finally past both of them by.

"I'd like to ask--"

"No."

"But I need to--"

"No."

She tried once more, and he cut her off in mid-question again. After that, it turned into a contest of wills--which was the more persistant or stubborn.

He had wanted a quiet Shadow, with a good technology level, and strict rules of war. One that he was comfortable in to try his hand at designing weapons--to see if he had some other spark of creativity in him, other than killing. Designing a weapon was not the same as using one, and his conscience was eased, if only slightly. Having been successful in the years past, he suspected he could be a competent mechanical engineer, but Ben lacked the courage to take the next step away from his love. What if he failed, after all? He didn't feel confident enough...right now.

The Shadow itself was "fast" compared to Amber. He wanted it thus to give himself time to reinvent himself before his next visit home. It was peaceful, with the powerhouses of the world being locked up into blocs. Their wars were carefully orchestrated things, being either Singular or Team contests. They were held in Arenas (the Singular Contests could be watched on Pay-Per-View by the general public, if they so wished). The reason why it was done thusly is that none of the bloc-nations had the resources to spare in all out war. Iron, so plentiful on other Shadows, was as rare as gold here. Thus, most--if not all--of the structures were made with either renewable or recyclable resources, mostly wood and plastics. Smelting and refining techniques were actually advanced for this Shadow, due to the preciousness of the "firm" metals. Gold and silver, while plentiful, were too soft for anything of solidarity.

That, in turn, made other things precious that were commonplace elsewhere. Anything that even required a trace amount of the "firm" elements was priceless. Thus, war was a tax on the bloc-nation's resources, as iron based weapons were the most easily mass produced, as well as the most effective. So, the Arenas, and there all disputes were settled, with the loser giving one concession to the winner. Fates of nations depended upon only a handful of people--the main reason why their soldiers burned out so fast. Anything went in the Arenas, anything the military could think of barring chemical, biological, and mass-destruction weapons. Skilled weapon makers--such as himself--were practically celebrities and their services highly valued, as a blacksmith's would be in a medieval town.

One bonus to the strict regulations he had inadvertantly set up when seeking the Shadow of his desire was that everything was strict. The photographer who sat at his table had to have his written permission to publish those pictures. That was something he had refused many times to ensure his privacy...and so that any wandering siblings wouldn't pass by and perchance see his fact gracing the cover of some magazine.

The afternoon waned, and he moved from project to project with her sitting there sullenly. Occasionally, she would break the silence between them by attempting to ask her questions again. He would cut her off with an increasingly harsh "No". Yet still, into the evening, she didn't give up, something he admired long after he had left.

That was how he met Jess. For the next few weeks, whenever he'd drop by that favorite coffee house of his, she'd be there, or would show up shortly after he did. She just sat at his table, and worked on projects of her own, or read a book, or looked out the window. Ever dense about the fairer sex,he had no clue as to why. After awhile, it didn't matter as he grew to enjoy those companiable silences, to look forward to seeing her, though at that point he didn't know her name.

Abruptly, she stopped showing up. It was almost a year before he saw her again.

"Where have you been?" he demanded on that wintery day when she returned. As soon as those words left his lips, he realized that somehow she had turned things around in her favor. The smirk she wore as she plucked off her gloves confirmed it.

"Why Alex--" she used his 'first name' in this Shadow "I didn't know you cared." Sarcasm tinged, her words struck deep.

Conscious of his surroundings and reluctant to make a scene, he held his tongue while she settled herself, ordeirng a mocha. When the waitress left, he leaned forward, putting a calloused hand on the table, and hissed at her, "It's Mr. Benedict to you." He was about to add more when the photographer laughed aloud and waved him to silence. Ben was at a loss of how to handle this situation, and the emotions that surfaced suddenly. It was too much. He gathered his things.

The woman--after the waitress dropped off the mocha--seemd to consider something for a moment before offering out a hand. "Mr. Benedict. I'm Jess Brighton, and I'm sorry if I offended you."

Why those words affected him the way it did, he didn't know, but he chalked it up to those princely manners in which he was drilled in his youth. He seated himself again, taking her hand in his and shaking it without much ceremony.

"Combat photographer," he said after a moment, and it was her turn to be caught offguard. When she started to ask how he knew, he waved off her question, duplicating her earlier gesture. "Obvious," he muttered, "to anyone who knows how to look."

She flushed slightly and dug for her smokes. He leaned back and waited, a small smile cracking his cool demeanor. As she lit up, she told him about her last 'assignment' and the dispute that had caused her sudden departure. He nodded, listening to details, and he chose not to add his own observations from the news. She had seen it all first hand, of course. Combat photographers were a strange breed, and well in demand. During Team Contests, the Arena was staked out over several square miles, blocking it off to the general public. Since only Singular Contests were broadcast, the Team Contests were covered by phtographers dumped in the wilderness with the teams. A couple decades back, the European team had dressed one of their members as a phtographer, got access to the enemy, and slaughtered them all with ease. Since then, during Contests, photographers were shot on sight on general principle. So, combat photographers went into there to earn their living at a high risk. He hadn't decided if they were extraordinarily courageous or extraordinarily stupid.

He listened to her talk, his gaze wandering to the window. At some point she stopped when she realized he wasn't listening to her anymore, and watched the smoke rise in the air. Finally, he stirred slightly.

"Look, Ms. Brighton. I've come to this place for peace and quiet--to get away from things. I don't want any more complications in my life." The words 'please leave' hung unspoken in the air.

She stood up to leave, angry at this pompous ass. Gathering her gloves and jacket, Jess turned to give him a scathing reply. He was still looking out the window, with a far away look to his eyes. They weren't glazed over, like one reads about in all that popular drivel, but sharp and clear, as if reliving something. Suddenly she thought, He blames himself for something. She didn't know where the thought came from, but she sensed it to be true. Jess, who had seen too many things herself, pitied him and understood him all at once. Murmuring soft words, she left quickly, not wanting to be wrapped up in his affairs.

It was those words that played over and over in his mind. I feel your loss, she had said. He wrestled with those words day and night, his thoughts in turmoil. He couldn't concentrate on his work, and at night he slept fitfully. He remembered those words, inflected with compassion and pity, with crystal clarity. His neat eveyday routine was interrupted.

Benedict didn't like it. he lived for order. He wished to make sense of everything. he couldn't abide without pattern--some pattern--to everything. His Art that he loved had it's own tempo, it's own heartbeat that he had discovered early on. Always the same but always different. Always a new discovery. Just a matter of finding his opponent's patterns, and how they interlocked, and then predicting his next move. There was a term for this he had heard once long ago: Obsessive-compulsive behavior.

He was obsessing over Jess now. Why did she say that? he railed inwardly day and night. Why should she care? Is everything that obvious? Am I that readable? During the days to come, he would find himself pondering these questions over and over again. While his mind was preoccupied, his business suffered, as did his health (though minutely, thanks to the blood that ran through his veins). The only reason his dog Thor got fed was that the housekeeper noticed the empty dish.

I can't go on like this, he suddenly thought a month later.

Damn editors! Jess fumed to herself as she strode down the snow covered sidewalk. None of them are fit for publication, eh? I risked my life for those! The snow drifted down around her, and people gave her a wide berth after one look at her face. She was pissed and there was nothing to console her. She stomped through the slush, the cold eventually cooling her temper. Well, maybe Iraq Today will buy--

Her thoughts were rudely interruped by what seemed to be a brick wall. The collision snapped her back to the present, and her hazel eyes flicked up to the schmuck into whom she had run.

"Hey!" she snapped, "Watch where you're--"

"I'm sorry."

Those two words stopped her short because of who spoke them and how. It was Alex Benedict and he seemed...off. The words themselves were spoken with a single breath, soft as the snow around them.

He looked terrible...circles under his eyes, scruff on his jaw...a haunted look clung to him. The snow fell and held to his dark jacket, and his brown hair, cut short when she saw him last, was growing out raggedly...it was unkempt. "N-No.." she stammered, aghast to see sunken hollows in his cheeks--Has he been eating??--and the pale skin. Her voice firmed, "No. It was my fault."

The collision didn't seem to be what he was talking about. "I..." he licked his dry lips, "...would like to talk." His eyes, dark and clouded, seemed to beg her. She was confused, and hesistated in her reply.

"Umm..." she started, casting a look around, "...I don't know what to say.." People passed them by, uncaring. "I mean, a practical stranger saying he wants to talk. I can just imagine about what.." She wasn't afraid..course not! This was just unusual.

"You can publish those pictures." Her heart leapt as he said that in his strangely accented voice. She could live for a year on those! And if she got an interview--

He seemed to read her mind, "Whatever is said stays between us." Then--as if he knew what she decided before she did--he offered an arm to her in an archaic gesture. She took it and he guided her to a waiting carriage. They were used so often that she never thought twice about it. Wordlessly, they sat as the horse pulled them to what she presumed was his house. Don't! her mind suddenly screamed, survival instincts bubbling to the top. He's a psycho! A serial killer! Don't go! Although murderers were extremely rare, the strict laws concerning murder didn't help the victims. She started to tell the driver to stop when she felt his hand on hers.

"You're safe with me," was all he said. She believed him.

They talked into the small hours of the morning, or rather he talked. He told her about his sister's--Mirelle's--death, and how deeply it affected him. He spoke briefly on his father and the two brothers he never knew. He talked about his dead mother, and the stepmothers who had come after her, how he was treated diffidently by them. She knew he was keeping things back, and some of the things flat out didn't make sense, but she also saw underneath all his words. His gestures and inflections told her of loneliness and rejection, siblings he didn't know nor allowed them to know him, responsibility and duty and how greatly they weighed on him. And lastly, guilt and regret.

In the end, for reasons she didn't know, he blamed himself for Mirelle's death, for not being there. For not dying in her stead.

For the first time, he poured his heart out to someone, and she comforted him the best she could.

Jess was his best friend. She moved in shortly after that first snowy night, when they sat by the fire and talked. After that, the grip of the guilt over Mirelle's death eased, and he felt he could live again. Eventually, he decided to make this a real vacation. He sold Usher Munitions to spend time with her.

She tried to be strong, but she was so fragile! He yearned to take her through Shadow, but Ben didn't want to shatter the precious shell she called reality. He had to be careful about his strength too, as well as watch what he said. No sense in having her ask questions that he wouldn't answer. Time passed quickly for him otherwise. He loved her laugh, the way she carried herself, the way her hair curled around his fingers.

He'd never felt like this with any other woman. She made him smile with her dumb jokes and easy demeanor. She carried her camera with her everywhere and constantly took pictures--of him, their surroundings, the bum on the street... everything. Jess' single-minded obsession with the camera comforted him. Ben understood and never complained. When they made love, it was slow and tender and sweet.

It wasn't all roses, though, not all the time. They argued and screamed at each other. Or...rather she'd scream at him for something he'd did or said and he'd nod, bearing the brunt of her wrath stoically. Once, when he was involved with a one-sided chess game, she got so angry at him for ignoring her she snatched up her glass and hurled it at him. He'd caught it without a second thought. He set it down on his desk and when he looked up later on, she was gone. He didn't blame Jess--in her shoes that would have scared the hell out of him too. Ben resolved next time she threw something at him, he'd let it hit her mark, but she never tried again.

As the time drew near for his visit to Amber, Benedict started to withdraw from her, started to isolate himself again. Jess noticed, of course, and he knew it. Let her think what she wants, he thought one night while she lay next to him. Let her think it's another woman. It's better for both of us that way. She'll get over it. Oh, he'd thought about how to leave her in the past, to spare himself the pain of watching her grow old and die. He was long-lived, exactly how long-lived he didn't know, but in the many Shadow years of fighting his wars, he hadn't changed much, if at all. He could already see the laugh-lines develop and the thought of watching her wither made his heart ache.

Love was a word he never used, not even applied to family. Love was a sacred thing, and though he didnt' admit it aloud, he didnt' feel worthy of love. Except...of course...with his Art, but that sort of love was self-absorbing and self-defeating. He loved it anyway, but a person? He couldnt' give that sort of devotion to anyone. They were too unpredictable, and would end up leaving him anyway. Better to leave them first. Leave her first.

It would be bitter though. Through the few years Shadow time he spent with her, they had forged some powerful memories. He had taken her--just once and very carefully--through Shadow for her birthday. He'd picked out her clothes--an emerald dress, done 40's style, moderately low-cut--and helped with her hair...make-up...everything, even slipping her shoes on her feet. For a surprise, he replied when she asked what it was all for. He himself was dressed like a mobster with a big-shouldered suit, fedora and all, even cutting his hair short to keep with the style of that time--he was nothing if not thorough. Blindfolding her, he led her through Shadow that April to a party in her honor, literally in the 40's era that she loved so much. They'd danced and dined and simply had fun. He remembered performing some simple hat tricks with his fedora, and how she had clapped her hands together, laughing with delight.

Or what about the time she had surprised him on his birthday with another Rottweiler? A bitch, she said, Fine for breeding... here's her papers. I call her Sif so they'd be a matched set. She had laughed then with that sweet voice of hers while the dogs got to know one another. He didn't get the joke--still didn't for that matter--but he laughed along with her anyway. Her laughter was positively infectious.

And what about when she had attempted cooking dinner for him? She forgot about it in the oven, and he had smelled the smoke when he came home. He was the one who did all the cooking--she could burn water as the saying went. She always wondered at the unusual taste that invariably tainted all his cooking, but he'd just smile and say it was an old family recipe. Not like Ben could tell her he got all his spices from a Shadow called Sinix, where cat people dwelt. He hated that particular place, being a "dog person", but their food was absolutely phenomenal.

So many memories...this was going to be a hard and bitter thing to do.

The discovery of his Trumps was what spurred him to do it. Ben had come to his rustic home with a bag of groceries. It was nearing their third anniversary together, and he wanted to do something special, especially since it was their last year together. A mere month Amber time until his next vist.

He rummaged around in the kitchen, putting things away and taking things out in preparation. Usually, she would have come by the kitchen by now, greeting him with a hug and the insistance that she help this time. Frowning to himself, he brushed his hands against his jeans and called out, "Jess?"

No answer.

He waited a moment before taking a few steps to the arch separating dining room and kitchen. "Jess? You home?" She was home--he knew that. Nothing should have happened, but worry began bubbling to the top of his psyche. He crossed the dining room, starting to search the house in earnest.

The door to his den that he always kept locked was cracked open. Fearing the worst for some irrational reason, he laid a hand upon the knob and pushed the door open. This was where he kept his private things...his longsword, hung neatly up on the wall with several others that had caught his eye...a few journals, scattered thoughts of his that he had written over the last few years...and his Trumps, kept in the desk.

She stood there, gaze transfixed 'pon the card she was holding. She was facing him, and so he could only spy the Unicorn back of the Trump. She didn't see him, but rather looked too deeply into the card, caught in a contact.

Terrified by the prospects of her talking to one of his siblings--Who? Eric? Flora? Oh, not Dad...!--he closed the difference between them and plucked the Trump out of her hand, feeling the slick card grow warm again as he did. She blinked once readjusting to her surroundings while he flipped the card over. Gates of Amber, thank the Unicorn. He heaved a sigh of relief even as she was asking, "Alex...what was that?"

"Nothing," he muttered, gathering the Trumps scattered on his desk and shuffling the one she had into the deck. Already, he could see where this was heading...and he was scared. So, he did the only thing he felt he could do: he left, without hardly an explanation. Rather rude, some people might say, and rather practical others would agree. He was frightened of her finding out he lied to her so long...of shattering her mind if she couldn't handle the truth he had for her...of committing himself to her. Ben wasn't ready for that. So, he left, with hardly a word, though somehow, he managed to leave the Trump of himself behind, in hopes that she might use it someday...after he had some time to think about things.

It was all his fault too. None of his other dalliances had this feel to it; none of the others had scared him--Yes, yes, that's the truth--like Jess did. It wasn't that he was afraid of introducing her to Amber...not really. He wasn't afraid of his family--particularly Father and Dworkin--condemning his choice. Quite the contrary, they'd likely slap him on the back and congratulate him. The reason was simple--he was afraid of getting hurt.

And why not? he argued with himself on the long trek back home through the pouring rain (the rain itself a reflection of his mood throughout the Shadows he moved through). Indeed, why not? The man had been through enough, Royal Family or not. First his mother was gone, before he had a chance to know her except in faint memories. Eric's mother--that bitch Faiella--had taken care of that neatly. She, and Oberon's other wives, had treated him distantly and diffidently because with his elder brothers gone, he stood first to inherit Oberon's kingdom.

As for his brothers, he didn't even have memories of them. No...all he had were his mother's impressions, given to him via her diary, and a legacy of whispers behind his back, the unwanted label of being a murderer's brother.

His father wasn't distant to him by choice, but by deed. Oberon's passion changed throughout the years, leading to a succession of wives, and a plethora of children. His attentions were divided between family and state. Ben didn't blame his father, but he couldn't stop the stab of jealousy of his siblings either. They had their moms and Dad, not to mention their full siblings. That was why he felt Random's loss of his sister Mirelle so keenly, and catered to Flora's whims. They didn't have full siblings either--Random losing his, and Flora never having them--like Ben. He understood.

Then, there were comrades of his lost in battle after battle. Much as he tried to stay unemotional about his "work", he wasn't made of stone. He made friends readily among the troops he commanded, especially since they tended to admire him for his skill at war. Those friendships made it hard on him to deal with casualties. He'd seen men mutilated in every way imaginable (and some that weren't), and the only way he could console himself was that without his aid, there would have been more deaths. With or without him, those battles would have been fought anyway.

And his dalliances? Most were during "wartime". Some were dead, and some were alive, but each held a place in him. There was tiger-striped Kresha, who had been one of his lieutenants back in Sinix. She died, beheaded by a long curving blade they called a S'sira. And wild Salma? She'd practically raked the skin off his back, and once she got what she wanted, she'd just left. He never saw her again. Delicate Ilyena had cried, and begged him not to leave, but she had been engaged...not that he knew it at the time they were together. A princess of her people, she wanted her general to stay, but it was over the moment she asked him to be her concubine. After Ilyena was Morgan, a wily witch woman whom he fought against. They'd ended up as allies when another military force entered the fray. They parted ways as on good terms, but he never got around to looking her up again. And then...

No. Suffice it to say there had been enough, and that he never felt regret before now. Before Jess. There was one common thread...

His wanderings, both mental and physical, were interrupted by a "minor" war. The Shadow was called Meridia, and it was fairly near Amber. The inhabitants of the Shadow were set apart by a peculiar trait, their thumbs and pinkies were reversed, resulting in an odd grip. Still, they were mostly friendly to him here...and he soon got involved in their politics again. There was this uprising and...

"You are summoned," the Eye said to him, "to mark Mirelle's passing in Amber with your family."

Benedict nodded, telling the man (?) to inform the King that he would be there in a few days' time, after he made ready his affairs. The Eye departed, much to Ben's relief. He made ready to leave, giving his last instructions to his people here, telling them how to put down the uprising quickly and with little bloodshed. That would have to do. Donning himself in his Amber garb, he pulled out his Trumps, Trumping to the castle's front gate.

Bad news greeted him inside. Gregory, the Captain of the Guard and a friend of his, had been killed. That he got from the guards. From his father, the King of Amber, he was told that Eric, his brother, had slain his friend. The news washed over the Prince and left him numb. Oberon showed Benedict the body, a mutated visage... Gregory had started turning into a fish thanks to Eric's spell. He had suffocated, of all things.

Anger and hurt filled Ben. He secured himself in his rooms in the castle, not trusting himself to go after Eric. No, the exile had escaped once already...and in a last bit of loyalty to his brother, Ben knew that Eric did not want Ben to catch up to him. So, he waited, taking his meals in his room and effectively isolating himself from the rest of the castle.

He spent his time in thought. He thought about his family...Eric and the murder...Jess.... This couldn't have come at a better time for hitting him at an emotional weak spot. He didn't want to believe that Eric had did this horrible thing, not after the time they had spent together, during his exile from Amber. Eric had always been hot-tempered, but he had finally been getting his act together. He was raising a daughter...was a devoted husband... It wasn't like Eric to do something like this, but it also wasn't something he'd put past Eric either.

Jess...he missed her, now that he had time to himself to think about her. What set her apart from all the others was that he met her during a "vacation". He'd spent every moment he could with her, whereas before something else had always stolen his attention away. Was it all the time they spent together that made a difference? That made him care so much? That made him...love?

Yes, that was the right word. It both thrilled and depressed him. Love. Such a powerful little word. She must hate him now, for leaving without any explanation, for abandoning her. He was still afraid of losing her...even if she took him back, which he doubted. He was afraid she would wither and die all too quickly...but wasn't it about time that he faced up to that fear? He wouldn't lose everyone...perhaps he was judging them too harshly. Perhaps he just has been blind to others' feelings as well, most particularly his father's. Perhaps he should silently forgive people, try to understand them. Perhaps...

That was enough. He would give Eric the benefit of the doubt, listen to him and try to understand Eric's motive in this...maybe it was an accident...? Then, after the Mourning, he would go back to jess, ask her forgiveness...tell her everything. Hopefully, she'd forgive him for being an ass. Then, maybe, they could start over. If she wanted to come to Amber, that's where they'd go. Or anyplace else she wanted....

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