Jim and Blair belong to PetFly and I'm not making money with them.

Previously published in "Jim and Blair Do the Movies" by Blackfly Press.
Thanks to Graculus for assistance with British logistical facts, Sheltie for rain forest research, Hildegard for the caimans, Kalia for well-timed ferret-bites, Jedimom for a lightning-fast beta, and NightOwl for patience above and beyond the call of editors. :)

The letter was heavy, the envelope and sheet within hand-printed on thick creamy parchment. Jim could tell that much from its heft in his hand. There was something else inside, sliding loose, that he couldn't quite identify. Probably smaller pieces of paper. The handwriting was just neat enough to hint at an academic source, with a dash of haste in its slanting flow. The stamp was exotic, something oriental, and a faint fading aroma of spices clung to the paper along with a miasma of scents from engine exhaust and handling.

He carried it upstairs thoughtfully, eyes perusing Blair's name and title. Mr. Blair J. Sandburg, MA. He couldn't make up his mind whether it looked more like a gesture of respect or a taunting reminder that nobody would ever address a letter to Dr. Blair J. Sandburg, Ph.D. He was leaning toward the latter possibility, hesitating in the hall, when the door opened and Blair plucked the mail from his hand.

"Took you long enough," he groused, paging through casually. The intriguing letter was flipped to the bottom, then gradually rose to the top of the stack again as Blair classified the remainder of the mail. "Junk... junk... credit card application... internet bill..." he filed them as appropriate, tossing the first few in the trash and laying the latter out on the bar for later disposition, then tapped the parchment envelope against his palm thoughtfully, studying the stamp and the return address.

"Jones." A faint line formed between his brows. "I don't remember ever meeting a Dr. Jones." His fingertip slid behind the back flap of the envelope and ripped across decisively; the sheet inside fell out into his palm and he unfolded it, reading quietly.

Jim delayed in the kitchen, puttering over the beginnings of dinner, his internal radar fixed firmly on Blair, curious about the letter and growing concerned as Sandburg re-read it twice, then again, not moving from his position next to the dinner table.

At last Sandburg folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, creased the whole mass once, and stuffed it into his hip pocket. His face was suspiciously bland, his eyes too cool. He moved into the kitchen with studied grace and started helping with dinner, pulling dishes and glasses out of the cabinet and setting the table.

Jim couldn't let it go at that.

"What does Dr. Jones want?" There had been too many ugly letters and phone calls in the aftermath of the dissertation disaster; he wasn't about to leave Blair to handle another one on his own.

"He says he wants me for a professional consultation." Blair dipped into the envelope again and produced a small airline flyer. "Us, actually." He opened the flyer, displaying the two round-trip tickets to London that were tucked inside. "All expenses paid."

Jim blinked and took the tickets, which appeared quite authentic. "What does he want to consult over?"

"He neglected to mention that little piece of information." There was a hint of an edge in Blair's voice, a sharpness to the selection of words that warned Jim to back off. As usual, Jim didn't.

"So you're not interested?"

Sandburg set a plate down on the table with an unnecessary thump, then rummaged noisily for silverware, unspeaking.

"You think he wants to grill you for Sentinel information." Jim hazarded a guess, pushing his luck, and winced when Blair slammed down the knives and forks he held with enough force to scratch the finish on the tabletop.

"Why else would he want both of us, Jim?" He finally looked up, eyes haunted-- just as they'd been in the aftermath of the press conference. "I'd really rather not fly all the way around the world to spend an afternoon deflecting some dried-out Ph.D.'s prying questions about my dissertation, if it's all the same to you."

"Maybe it's about something else, another paper you wrote or..." Jim trailed off, ashamed, as Blair's eyes simultaneously grew angry and pleaded for mercy. It was, after all, his fault that Sandburg's credentials and credibility were shot to hell. His fault that no reputable academic would ever want to consult with Blair Sandburg again. "It could be," the defensive words felt gruff and hollow in his throat. "You were a damn fine scholar, and there's bound to be some people out there who still know that--"

"Jim--" Blair's pain-thinned words were cut short as the telephone rang, the unexpected shrill bleat causing him to flinch a little.

It broke the tension of the moment, though, and Jim was glad of that until he saw Blair's shoulder's tighten further. Sandburg flashed him a cautioning glance and he turned away, mirroring Blair's own movement as he rounded his back on Jim's presence. Resolutely he resumed his dinner preparations, giving Blair the privacy he obviously wanted.

Only the final words penetrated, Sandburg's tone of weary resignation more than he could bear to ignore.

"All right. We'll see you then." There was a quiet click as he replaced the handset. "That was Dr. Jones. It looks like we're going to London." Jim turned to find Blair staring out the window at the night, his expression still closed, but thoughtful. "It's not like we have anything better to do. You've still got a couple months of medical leave coming from that gunshot wound and I..." his voice trailed off vaguely and he wandered toward his bedroom, quietly closing the door. After a minute, the interior light clicked off.

Jim stood abandoned in the kitchen, half a head of lettuce in his hand and a heavy, dull ache in his heart. No, Blair didn't have anything better to do. Not until the next session started at the Academy, which wasn't going to happen for another six months.

He put most of the lettuce away, knowing Blair wasn't going to share the meal he was making. He chopped carrots and radishes and cucumbers for his own salad quietly, staring at his moving fingers without feeling much of anything except the empty, cold silence behind Blair's closed door.

It had been more than a month now since Blair had returned to his own room, gone back to sleeping in his own bed. Jim had wanted him gone at first, after the media sank their claws into Sid's press releases. He'd lain in his wide bed and hatefully rejoiced in splaying his limbs over his empty mattress and thought hard thoughts about Sandburg's mercenary motives. He'd planned cutting remarks and nursed his anger jealously, as though it would protect him. But he was wrong; even then he'd half known it. Now he missed what they'd had, wanted it back... and had no idea how to repair the relationship, no more than he'd known how to fix things between himself and Carolyn when they'd finally unraveled.

And he'd tried; he'd dropped hints that amounted to quiet penitent invitations, carried Sandburg's pillows and clothes upstairs and returned later to find they'd been retrieved, even gone into Sandburg's room and fallen asleep there on his bed one night, hoping he'd wake with Blair in his arms. But he'd awakened alone the next morning, emerging sheepishly to find Blair curled up shivering and obstinate under an afghan on the couch, either fast asleep or faking it.

After that, Blair had started locking his room when he went out, a fact that Jim only discovered by accident one day when he tried to return a book he'd borrowed before the dissertation fiasco. He'd been afraid to try the door in the evenings after Blair retreated inside, more than half-certain he'd find it locked against him. Or if it wasn't, then the next evening it would be, and always thereafter.

He'd fucked things up, all right. And why should he expect Blair to trust him after Jim had proved his own mistrust of Blair with such disastrous results? He looked down at the crisp, fresh tossed salad he'd made and his stomach twisted with aversion. If someone put a sizzling prime rib steak in front of him, he knew he'd feel the same. He rummaged for a tupperware lid and sealed it on, putting the salad into the fridge for tomorrow. Maybe Blair would want some of it then.

He hovered for another few minutes, trying to invent a reason to tap at Blair's door, but finally gave up and made himself watch a boring movie, then went upstairs by himself. He undressed and lay down in his bed, acknowledging how much wider and colder it seemed to get every night that Blair was absent from it.

He lay thinking for a long time before sleep found him.

The trip to England was fairly uneventful, though exhaustingly lengthy. Jim didn't mind flying too much as long as Blair was with him; somehow even the presence of a sulky Sandburg always made things seem easier.

Even so, it was a relief to leave the cramped confines of the airplane that had provided the transatlantic connector and enter Heathrow airport. Jim spotted a placard with "Sandburg" written on it being held aloft and nudged Blair. Half an hour later they and their luggage were aboard a spotless vintage Mercedes barreling down the M4 into London. The driver deposited them on a sidewalk in Chelsea in front of a luxurious multistory apartment building. Blair nudged Jim to stop his gawking; a doorman stepped forward and ushered them inside with a degree of austere politeness suitable for the butler of a country manor.

Jim gazed around the lobby area, which was furnished with lavish armchairs, a blazing fire under a wide mantel, and discreet ashtrays. "Posh," Jim commented, a little facetious, feeling awkwardly foreign. "You get the feeling we've wandered into an episode of Masterpiece Theater by mistake?"

Blair just raised a brow, looking tired and a little irritable, as was to be expected after their lengthy flight. He led them toward the rear wall, where gilt-embossed elevator doors shushed open quietly. "We're here to visit Professor Jones," Sandburg told the elevator attendant, and the man pressed the button for penthouse level.

"Quite a spread for a university professor. I guess he has tenure, huh?" Jim realized he was feeling a little combative, his nerves on edge.

Sandburg gave him a dirty look, decidedly annoyed this time. "Dr. Jones is a prominent archaeologist affiliated with the British Museum," Sandburg informed Jim in clipped tones. "He's an expert at obtaining rare antiquities out of difficult locations. He specializes in pieces associated with the mystical or the occult." Blair clammed up as the elevator slowed and stopped, but Jim sensed a storehouse of undisclosed information under the surface and made a mental note to probe for it later.

Blair pushed forward and rapped the brass knocker on a heavy mahogany door; moments later it opened, revealing a slightly rumpled man in his mid to late forties, wearing a tweed suit and wire-rimmed glasses. Jim stifled a smirk as the man blinked at them owlishly; he had much the same half-bewildered look that Blair often got when he was interrupted at his reading.

"Mr. Ellison. Mr. Sandburg. Come in. I'm Dr. Henry Jones." He held the door wide, smiling a wide smile that improved his looks a hundredfold and made Jim revise his original estimate of the man. Not just an aging academic at all; he'd bet Jones had it in him to be a real lady-killer. Not to mention his American accent; Jim had been prepared to meet some stuffy waist-coated British academic who wore wigs and robes to teach in at Oxford. Or was it only English judges who still wore robes and wigs? Jim had no idea.

"Thank you, Dr. Jones. It's an honor to meet you." Blair shed some of his exhaustion to flash the man a smile of his own, with enough wattage behind it to prompt Jim to place a possessive hand lightly on his back. "I'm Blair Sandburg," he continued, ignoring Jim's gesture. "And this is Jim Ellison."

Jim gave Jones a nod and a firm handshake. "Dr. Jones."

"None of this 'Dr. Jones' talk. Call me Henry. Or better yet, just call me Indiana." Jones shook both their hands, earnest and a little clumsy, offering to take part of their luggage. "I'm sure you two are exhausted from the flight. It's a long way to fly from New York, much less Cascade, but I'm glad you've chosen to come. I have a business matter I hope the two of you will be interested in."

Hefting a heavy suitcase with ease surprising in an academic, Jones led them through the flat, which took up the entire square of the top level of the apartment. "I'm sure you'd like to bathe and rest before we talk about business. Make yourselves at home." He checked his watch, frowning a little thoughtfully. "Take all the time you need to get over the jet lag," he suggested. "The business we have to discuss hasn't gone anywhere for the last five hundred years. It can wait till you've rested. Have you had breakfast?"

"Thanks," Jim answered him grudgingly. "They fed us on the plane, and we slept. If you can call it that." The way it looked, if he and Blair went to bed now, they'd be waking up just in time for the locals to say goodnight. "Some coffee would be good." He looked at Sandburg, who was drooping at the edges. "And a shower."

Jones nodded. "Right through here." He ushered them into another section of the flat, which looked as though it had originally been set up as an apartment in its own right with two bedrooms and a shared bath. "You should find everything that you need. If not, just give me a call." He closed the door politely.

"Did you see all the stuff?" Sandburg let his suitcases fall where they were and moved around the sitting room, picking up an objet d'art. He perked up a little, eyes gleaming with avarice. "This place is full of artifacts. Maybe he'll show us around his apartment or take us to tour the British Museum."

"I just hope he feeds us first." Jim yawned a little and poked into one of the doors, discovering that a bedroom lay beyond it. "You seem to know an awful lot about Dr. Jones (just call me Indiana)." He hadn't meant for his tone to sound so surly, but it was too late to catch the hasty words or change the unpleasant tone.

Blair stared at him, then dropped his suitcase and flopped down into an armchair. "Sure, Jim. I accepted his offer sight unseen, not caring that he might know about my Sentinel research, and flew us both to London without ever checking the man's bona-fides."

"That's not what I meant." This time, there was not enough apology in his tone to make up for the earlier grouchiness.

Fortunately, it seemed to be enough for Sandburg. Blair just shook his head wearily and began to recite. "Dr. Jones is the third generation of a family of scholars and archaeologists. His grandfather was a professor of medieval literature, specializing in lore regarding the Holy Grail. His father was an archaeological vigilante for hire. He did a lot of claim-jumping against the Nazis; the Third Reich took a special interest in mystical artifacts, and a variety of concerns hired him to see that they didn't get what they wanted. Rumor has it..." Blair shook his head. "Well, it's said that he recovered some pretty impressive stuff, but I'm not sure how much faith I place in hearsay. The official records don't always corroborate it and several of the pieces in question aren't on display in any museums. There are... a number of interesting discrepancies in the records."

Blair hesitated as though deciding how to proceed, then continued. "This Dr. Jones leads a quieter life, but not by much. In between stints spent teaching at various universities, he does some of the same sorts of things his father did. A lot of the glamour has gone out of archaeology since the turn of the century; major finds are a lot less frequent now than they once were, but there's still a need for what you might call 'mercenary archaeology.' Dr. Jones has been in and out of at least twenty hot spots in the Middle East in as many years, salvaging artifacts that might otherwise have been destroyed or stolen in wars and political coups. The British Museum has most of those pieces on display."

Jim frowned a little, opening a second door and finding the bathroom, pleased by the large claw-footed tub standing inside. "In light of that information, his possible interest in Sentinels is..." he searched for a word that wouldn't reflect obliquely on Blair as an insult; after all, Sandburg had chosen to consult with Jones.

"A little disturbing?" Blair filled in wryly. "It has the potential to be, yes. But the Jones family has a reputation for being straight dealers. They're scientists first and foremost, Jim. As far as I could discover, they've never sold relics to the highest bidder or turned coat on an employer. I'm not saying they're above thievery-- they've been known to take a commission to steal the plum piece out of a private collection, for example-- but they won't work for any concern they find morally questionable. My sources say they believe archaeological treasures belong to everyone, and they're willing to do what it takes to see that they get to buyers who will care for them responsibly and share them with the people as part of public exhibits." He paused for breath. "I don't think he's likely to blackmail us or try to sell our secrets, Jim."

"Sounds noble." Again that dry tone was back in Jim's voice; he bit his tongue as Sandburg's eyes narrowed.

"You've got a chip on your shoulder a mile wide," Blair observed with flat calm. "I'm going to get a shower and a nap." He pushed past Jim into the second bedroom.

"Sorry, Chief." Jim exhaled explosively, some of the tension draining out of his neck and back. "I'll feel better when we know what he wants with us, that's all." And when you get the chip off your own shoulder and forgive me.

"Yeah. Me too. Get some rest, Jim." Sandburg closed the door in his face gently, leaving Jim to seek his rest in yet another solitary bed.

The scent of bacon and eggs teased Jim's nose flirtatiously, summoning him from pleasant dreams of Blair. The aroma promised pleasures that were, if not quite as voluptuous as dreams of Blair's generous mouth, at least the next best thing.

He got up and dressed quickly, glad that his short hair didn't require much maintenance to look presentable. He skipped brushing his teeth, promising himself that he'd do it later, and let himself into Dr. Jones' apartment. Blair was still snoring behind the wooden door of his own room.

"Good morning!" The professor's scarred chin gave his lopsided grin a rakish air. "One egg or two?" He lifted the frying pan he held to illustrate his question.

"Two," Jim dared, reassured by the memory of Blair's sleep-thick breathing. Jones loaded his plate and Jim took it, sitting down at a spindly table to eat. He peppered his eggs and raised a forkful to his lips: delicious, fluffy and scrambled with milk. His eyes sank shut as he savored the subtle flavors and the sharp bite of the black pepper, all offset by the underlying salty tang of the bacon, that had fried in the same pan.

"Your expression is quite a compliment," Jones commented, seating himself. "Still, I expected as much." Jim's eyes snapped open and blue met blue across the width of the table. Jones smiled again, disarming. "Most American visitors to Britain find their native-culture hotel breakfasts disappointing. Have you ever tried kippered herring?" He shuddered theatrically. "There's always continental breakfast, but they never make the toast right, and cereal is just like being at home."

Jim watched him warily, not fooled a bit by the casual remarks. He lived with the king of the artful dissemblers, after all.

"English tea is the best in the world, though, and their beer isn't bad either." Jones forked up his own breakfast between comments, eating quickly but neatly. "Their breakfasts, though... Still, after some of the state banquets I've sat through, I'm not going to complain. Not even about the kippered herring."

Jim started chewing again, deciding that even if the man knew about his Sentinel abilities, he probably wasn't going to open negotiations for whatever he wanted by poisoning his guests with eggs and bacon. Sandburg, of course, would disagree, calling it a long-term attack on his arteries.

That thought spurred him, and he applied himself with a will, slowing down when only orange juice remained. Sure enough, Blair slipped in not long after, still looking a little sleepy though he'd combed his hair and washed his face.

Jones was ready for him with milk and granola, and Jim observed coolly as he served Sandburg; he obviously knew a bit about each of them, including their habits and quirks.

"So, Dr. Jones. Forgive my rudeness for asking over the table, but you're an American, and you know we don't always observe British proprieties," Jim commented, giving Jones a disarming smile of his own. "Why have you shipped us all the way over here from the US of A?"

"Call me Indy." Jones rose and carried plates into the kitchen, stacking them neatly inside a small dishwasher. He clattered about the kitchen, gathering the coffee pot, a china creamer, and three cups and saucers, balancing them clumsily and with many ominous shifts and near-disasters.

Blair ignored Jim's attempt to catch his eye, and Jim felt his annoyance flare. "You have a lot of names for a scholar," he commented cordially when Jones returned, feeling the subtle flare of his own aggression. He did not miss the flicker of Blair's eyes that meant he'd noticed it too.

"It's a family tradition." Jones didn't smile, re-seating himself and looking at them alternately through the steam as he poured them each a cup of coffee. "I won't mince words with you, Jim. It's clear you're a man of action, so I'll tell you what I know and then you and Blair can make up your minds what to do about it." He hesitated nonetheless, selecting his opening gambit.

"I know you've visited the Peruvian Temple of the Guardians. Sentinels," he corrected himself with a polite nod at Blair. "The artifacts there were frequently used by primitive tribes to gain enlightenment, to instruct... even, on occasion, to punish."

Both of his audience sat quietly, thinking of Alex Barnes. Jones continued after a moment. "That Temple is still mostly unknown; it's located in virgin rain forest well away from the encroaching viracochas and their bulldozers and guns and fences. More temples like that one throughout the world have been eradicated, some were even studied first. No scholar has ever succeeded in translating the writings found inside." His eyes flickered up at Jim for a moment, then returned to his coffee cup. "The Temple you visited has valuable relics inside. The writings, the vision-quest chamber that gives access to the Eye of God."

Jim shifted, mouth opening and Blair laid a hand on his wrist, cautioning him. "Gives access?"

Jones nodded. "It's not a hallucination produced by drugged plants and isolation in the tanks. Those are just designed to give Sentinels access to it. The actual Eye is an artifact; anyone can use it."

"Anyone?" Jim questioned sharply. Pain stabbed him as he remembered Alex's confusion and the pain in her eyes as her reason burned away.

"Anyone, within certain limits." Jones smiled, and this time it was a watery expression. "Nobody's ever succeeded in getting the Eye out of the jungle into civilization. Explorers and archaeologists who tried turned up dead, or mad. There's a tribe that guards it, the Tuyaguenga; nobody knows how, but they seem to be immune to its effects."

Jim nodded, his mind wandering to Alex again, then rose and wandered away from the table thoughtfully. He let his eyes be captured by and pulled into the rich, crackled luster of the lacquer on a blue vase, listening and not listening as Blair and Jones cautiously dickered back and forth. The conversation ebbed and flowed in a predictable rhythm, each man defining the limits of the other's knowledge, giving ground only reluctantly, grudgingly earning and bestowing respect.

When they fell silent at last, Jim spoke up, already knowing both the question and the conclusion. "You said no scholar had ever translated the writings in the Temples of the Sentinels, but you know what they say. Who translated them for you?"

Jones eyed him, his suddenly sharp, calculating gaze passing between Jim and Blair shrewdly. Then he relaxed and fell back into the casual, haphazard manner he'd worn most of the time since they'd met him. "A Sentinel." He tucked his hands into his pockets, shrugging slightly, his eyes now on the vase, which Jim held cradled in his hands. "He liked that vase too. It's atypical Ming Dynasty, though it was never classified until he insisted."

Jim set it down carefully, making sure it was tucked precisely into the neat round ring its base made in an almost imperceptible layer of dust. "Where is the Eye of God and why do you think Blair and I should help you get it?"

"I'm getting old," Jones shrugged, the gravity of his eyes belying his still-sturdy frame. "The Sentinel I knew died a long time before I learned the location of the Eye. I suspect one would be able to use the Eye safely, and to retrieve it without falling victim to the madness, or whatever other ill-effects it's caused the others who've tried. Especially a Sentinel who's successfully survived a vision from the Eye already, as you have." Jones looked at Jim gravely.

"Jim isn't a Sentinel. My dissertation was fraudulent." It was Blair's turn to be too aggressive, just a little rude. Jones didn't glance at him, still looking at Jim quietly.

"Why is it so crucial to find the Eye now?" Jim questioned, keenly interested. He passed over Alex's failure to use the Eye for a second time, not wanting to share more than he must with this man who was still essentially a stranger.

"The South American rain forests are dying, gentlemen, an acre at a time. They were perhaps the last great fertile wilderness of the world: the final refuge for that which hasn't been classified, labeled, and shelved behind glass." A strange light glowed behind Jones' eyes, an almost wistful look of wonder. "Archaeology has always been my religion. It's hard to believe that soon will come a day when all the secrets have been uncovered and fully probed." He shook himself out of the moment of reverie. "The borders of the forest have neared the keepers of the Eye of God; there's no real place for the tribe to retreat to any longer. So, it's either go in and retrieve the Eye or risk letting some third-world dictator have it and the power it commands."

"I don't believe a dictator would benefit from the power of the Eye." Jim spoke softly, the memory of Alex's pain making his heart fill with choking sorrow; he hadn't let himself think of her for a long time, but sometimes she still had the capacity to make him ache with pity in spite of what she had done to Blair. Maybe it was instinctive; as a Sentinel, she had been his kin in a deep way that no one else had ever achieved.

"Perhaps not, but he might enslave the tribe. Force them to use it for him. Maybe he'll find a Sentinel to enslave, one that can use the Eye for prophecy and insight."

Jim's shoulders tightened; Blair saw it and intervened. "Like I said, man. You've brought us here on a wild goose chase. We're not what you want; we--"

"Well, if not, then you are the next best thing," Jones interrupted in a steely tone, determined. "After I learned of your press conference, I did a little research on you both, Blair. Jim's an ex-Army Ranger. That much of his background is open to anyone who wants to look for it. He knows Quechua and survived in the rain forest for two years on his own. If anybody can penetrate the jungle and come back out with the Eye, he can. You're an anthropologist, an expert on Sentinel lore-- the foremost one in existence today, no matter what happened to your dissertation. You're ideal to help him."

"Jim's not a mercenary," Blair objected angrily.

"Jim's a man who does what has to be done, and does the right thing," Jones countered. "Am I wrong?"

"I know your secret," Blair hissed abruptly, his voice as tight and ugly as Jim had ever heard it.

"And I know yours," Jones returned with equal sharpness, fixing Blair with a cold, measuring stare. "Now wouldn't it make sense for us to share our knowledge and use it to help each other instead of turning on one another with what we know?"

"We'll go after the Eye," Jim decreed without thinking, and Blair turned, measuring him with a flat, calculating gaze before lifting his shoulders in a small shrug and returning to the part of the flat they'd been given. The first door closed behind him with exaggerated quiet, and the second closed harder. Jim winced, pulling back from the sound.

"I've got your plane tickets ready," Jones commented, approaching him with sympathy in his eyes.

"Two of them," Jim noted. "The kind of search you're proposing... I did a little research of my own, Doctor. I didn't think you were that old. You've done this sort of thing nearly all your life; I expected you to come along."

"I'm older than I look," Jones' mouth quirked in a wry smile. "As I'm sure your friend will tell you. In detail."

"I'm not," Jim confessed. "I don't think he's too pleased with me right now."

Again Jones' eyes sharpened, bright with intelligence. "I'm used to having someone with an obnoxious, loud mouth along on my expeditions," he admitted. "Usually it's a woman." Abruptly his mouth split in a wide, amused grin, and Jim had to smile in response. "It's better when it's a man, though," he commented conspiratorially. "They don't get as upset about snakes and bugs, and they're a damn sight quieter in bed."

Jim laughed unexpectedly, light and long. It felt good in spite of his troubles. "You don't know Blair very well." He shook his head.

Indiana just grinned at him.

Blair was still ominously quiet when they landed in Brazil, treating Jim with chilly reserve even though he performed efficiently as they outfitted themselves to head up the Amazon and chartered a plane to carry them as far upriver as possible. Jim worried; Blair's hostility seemed to be growing rather than diminishing as time passed, but there was nothing he could do to abate it.

Blair had refused to interact with Jones before they left London. It had troubled him deeply to watch Blair shun the man's company; once Jones would have been just the sort of man to tickle Sandburg's fancy. He'd have loved to exchange tales of gifts, artifacts, and adventures with someone like this. Jim couldn't be sure if Sandburg's resentment stemmed from his dismay at being forcibly excluded from the academic community or if it lay in the fact that he wanted to protect Jim. Maybe it lay in his bitterness that Jim had disregarded his attempts at protection and committed them both to this expedition without discussing it first. He shouldn't have done that; it was just another in the extended series of blunders, taking-for-granted's, and other slights he had laid on Blair's undeserving shoulders.

Sandburg was probably mad about all of the above, Jim decided gloomily as Blair rounded his back once again when Jim looked over automatically to catch his eye. He felt himself deflate. Blair squared his shoulders and began working to move their gear, determinedly hefting a weighty crate across his sturdy shoulders and stalking across the tarmac toward their small chartered plane. The pilot sagged as he accepted it from him, cursing at its weight and scraping it across the bare metal floor into the back of the aircraft.

"You're going to hurt your back that way," Jim cautioned as Blair came back for another one. "Let me help." Sandburg's mouth pinched, but he let Jim help and they had the plane loaded in short order, then crowded into it. The close quarters kept Blair from escaping Jim, who tucked himself in at Sandburg's side between the cargo and the pilot's chair.

The floor was cold, and grew colder as they took to the air. Jim could imagine the undulating waves of green ridges and the brown coils of river unfolding below them as they flew, fringed in places with a rising gray haze-- the smoke of clear-cutting. Blair's arm and flank felt warm against Jim, and he felt a surge of intense longing. This was the most he'd touched Blair in a long time, since almost before the disaster with the dissertation. It wasn't just the sex he missed-- it was Blair. A thousand innocent touches, smiles, significant glances. Nuances of friendship and ease.

He'd destroyed them; he would have to rebuild them.

Blair shifted and winced; Jim felt the flare of heat and then the sudden chill of pain as blood drained from Blair's face. "Your back?" he guessed, his hand already slipping behind Blair's neck and down his spine. Blair leaned forward, pain overriding his reserve, and Jim massaged the seizing muscles, working out the knots with firm fingers that made Blair grunt with pain more than once. Sandburg leaned back for a just moment, sensual enjoyment of the massage starting to take precedence, his curls sweeping over Jim's hands like raw silk fibers... then he was gone.

"Thanks," he said curtly, and dug into his pack for a paperback in Spanish that he'd picked up at the airport terminal, burying his nose in it even though Jim knew his Spanish was indifferent at best.

Jim sighed, missing Blair's warmth already. The roar of the props was too loud to permit attempts at further conversation, so he fell silent. Finally the plane began to lose altitude and Jim swallowed repeatedly to make his ears pop. They bumped to a very unpleasant landing in a rutted field and climbed out, dragging their gear along with them. Brown children and snaggle-toothed adults gathered around to greet them, wearing faded cotton garments-- jeans and buttoned-down or t-shirts in what had once been bright colors. Their ancestors had been tribesmen and -women, but they had adapted their ways and interbred with the encroaching cultures.

Blair was swept up by the mass of humanity and floated away on the tide. As they went, Jim heard Blair beginning queries about the local terrain and experts who knew the hazards up-river, so he let Blair go, contented that he would hire them a native guide.

With some haggling in broken Spanish and Quechua, Jim acquired them a motor boat, and a raft to tow behind it bearing their reserves of gasoline, food, and medical supplies. As he'd expected, Blair procured guidance in the form of a swarthy, smiling villager named Kochar, who promised that he could help them find the Tuyaguenga. Together they loaded their supplies and made ready to leave.

Jim was relieved when they were finished loading and began chugging upriver. The bustle of the village was too jovial for his taste, with both child and adult hands constantly touching him and exploring the texture of his skin and clothes in the friendly fashion of people who have never been raised to share personal space taboos. He still felt distressed by Blair's continuing rejection and wanted Sandburg to touch him, but no one else.

Blair sat in the prow of the boat, watching its point part the muddy brown of the river, wrapped in his silent thoughts. The banks and scenery drifted by, losing much of their initial interest during the long, hot day. Jim thought the brief midday rainstorm had a great deal to do with that; somehow it was harder to play the pristine tourist when you were sitting in soggy clothes, steaming yourself dry slowly over the course of a lengthy and humid equatorial afternoon.

"We'd better hunt a campsite for the night." Their guide finally decided, raising his voice so that Blair could hear. "We could sleep in the boats, but there are caimanes in the river. It isn't safe."

"Is it safe on land?" Jim drawled, remembering the spiders and snakes of Peru.

"Not entirely," Kochar steered the tiller toward a promising outcrop. But it's safer than the water. Especially if you walk in your sleep-- the piranhas and electric eels would love that."

"That's reassuring." Jim heard the dry humor in his own voice. Blair failed to respond, working on the straps of his pack, preparing it to be carried. Jim fidgeted; he'd brought a two-man tent for them and a single tent for the guide. He suspected there was going to be hell to pay for not bringing three singles.

"We're still pretty close to the village civilization," Kochar commented, steering them toward a sandy outcrop. "There shouldn't be any trouble with the forest tribes here. But we'll have to watch out for them later." Jim and Blair both nodded; they knew it was an understatement. Particularly if the Tuyaguenga learned they had come for the Eye.

They made camp in a flat space next to a fallen tree trunk; the canopy was broken there and they could see the sky as they made camp. Orchids and lianas trailed from the vegetation and brilliantly colored birds and butterflies swooped through the open area seeking their night-time perches, but the jungle's beauty was lost on Jim, who kept the main part of his attention on his sullen partner. Blair's mouth tightened again at the sight of the single tent he was to share with Jim, but he slipped inside and unrolled his bedroll readily enough, bundling himself up inside.

After a moment outside, Jim mustered the courage to join him, unsurprised to find Blair's nose facing the wall of the tent. He tugged up the zipper and laid out his own bedding.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, conscious of the third man's presence outside and the thinness of the nylon walls. "I shouldn't have made the decision for us to come without discussing it with you first. But it felt important... the right thing to do."

Blair sighed, the sound somehow mingling exasperation and patience. Jim dared to reach out and smooth his hand over the sleeping-bag muffled mound of Blair's shoulder, down along the plain of his ribs to the valley of his waist. Blair sighed again, but didn't shrug him off, and Jim left his hand there, glad of the contact.

"I'm not disputing that, Jim," Blair finally spoke just as Ellison began drifting toward sleep. "What worries me is how easily you forget to consult me, and how hard it's been to get you to listen to what I have to say."

Jim's throat closed and he reached out, drawing Blair up against his body in a fierce, remorseful hug. "I'm sorry."

Sandburg turned in his arms and pushed away slightly, meeting his eyes with a sober gaze. "This has been a problem all along. It's been worse since Alex. The whole thing with her, then the dissertation..." he shook his head, frustrated. "I don't have anything left to give up for you. Sometimes I wonder if that means that the next time you fly off the handle and stop listening to me...." He stopped, his lids closing, hiding the pain in his eyes. "How would I get you back?"

Jim's chest constricted and he drew a deep breath that failed to ease the sharp ache there. Blair continued speaking, the patient weariness in his voice filling the tent quietly. "If I remake my whole life around you and you push me out... when that day comes I won't have anything left for me. And I need it, Jim. I need a part of me to still be there when you're gone." He backed out of Jim's arms resolutely and turned back over, tucking himself up tight in his sleeping bag and pretending to fall asleep.

Jim rolled onto his back and lay there with his throat aching, watching the diffuse glow of the setting sun fade out of the blue nylon fabric, to be replaced by the dim illumination of faraway stars. The nylon whispered under tiny footfalls and the light grew dim and dappled as jungle tarantulas swarmed up and over the fabric to absorb the trapped heat of the bodies that lay inside and to drink the moisture that condensed on the artificial fibers. Jim lay still and watched the shifting shadows, his mind spinning around the dull ache that Blair's quiet, defeated voice had left in him.

Sandburg had given up, pulled back, withdrawn the core of himself, and never planned to trust him with it again.

The worst thing was, Jim couldn't promise him that disaster would never happen again. He knew himself, and he knew that the road to hell was invariably paved with all his best intentions. Especially after Alex, when his own attempts to protect Sandburg had led to his actual physical death. The thought of it made his stomach lurch.

In spite of his best efforts to relax, sleep avoided him that night.

Blair seemed even more subdued the next day, and Jim was left with a surreal sense of unease. He felt grainy-eyed and strung out, and the vivid colors of the jungle seemed illusory, as though they had been projected two-dimensionally on a flimsy screen. Their guide pointed out basking caimans and a couple of parrots before sensing their mood and giving up; Jim kept an eye on him as he sat fidgeting in the stern. It seemed just another component of the rapidly worsening prospects for the future, both of the expedition and of his chances with his Guide.

At the break for the midday meal, Blair and Jim broke out their map and sat down with their native guide to determine their current location and projected course. They anchored in an eddy behind a fallen tree, partly shaded from the glare of the noonday sun on the river.

Between the constant white noise of the water, his distraction with Blair's state of mind, his concerns with finding the Tuyaguenga, and his worries that ants had already made their way into the food supplies, Jim didn't see or hear the archers until Blair's sharp inhalation brought him out of himself and back to his surroundings. His jaw clenched with self-disgust, and he stared into their traitorous guide's nervous, triumphant expression. He felt his jaw twitch, and hoped that otherwise he wore a look of resigned calm. Now was not the time to raise a protest.

Blair spoke suddenly, in accented Quechua. "We'll go quietly." Jim blinked; he hadn't realized Blair knew the language. He must have made the effort to learn during the months since Incacha's death. He shut his own mouth, which had opened in surprise. He didn't have any better response to offer anyway.

"Thank you, Shaman." The lead archer inclined his head politely to Blair and Jim blinked; he'd used the same honorific the Chopec used for Incacha. This time Blair blinked too, then tilted his own head to accept the courtesy.

Several loincloth-clad warriors stepped forward, one steadying the boat while the others prodded its occupants to climb out onto the log and herded them to the shore. Awkwardly they obeyed, and as Jim joined Blair, he muttered, "How'd they learn that?"

Blair shrugged, his eyes darting between their native captors. "You got me."

The pungent scent of curare tingled ominously in Jim's nostrils; a warrior raised his bow to half-mast, commanding silence. It was given, both Americans quietly permitting themselves to be led into the jungle.

So much for worrying that we won't find the Tuyaguenga, Jim though wryly. They plowed into a near-solid wall of lianas, the small natives slipping through far more easily than he and Blair. Jim spared a useless wish for his machete as he emerged from the veil of creepers, already scratched, dirty, and exhausted. The jungle beyond was only slightly less dense.

Blair's hair was tangled, sweaty, and full of leaves, but he wore an expression of grim determination. Jim felt a momentary pang of regret-- once there would have been eagerness there, a bounce in his step, maybe even a smile for Jim. Now Blair was as stoic and grim as... well, as he was.

Jim swallowed hard, guilt-stricken. Pain had created him, making him the man he was; he had created pain for Blair and remade his Guide in his own image.

The implications of that thought occupied him for the remainder of the trek through the rain forest. He was only peripherally aware of the dark bodies flashing around them, half-zoned on his misery. There was little productive action to be taken at the moment anyway. Best to wait to be taken before the tribal chieftain, shaman, elders, or whatever served as the governing body of the Tuyaguenga.

He shot a look at Blair, who was supposed to be the expert on these sorts of situations, and found his partner still studying the warriors that surrounded them. Blair began matching his movements to theirs subtly. His frame was smaller than Jim's, if not as small as theirs, and he was soon able to slip through the jungle almost as well as the natives did. Jim couldn't manage it, bulling his way through the tangle with brute strength, his height and breadth making much of what they did impractical for him to try. Somehow it seemed that thorns and branches snagged on his clothes and left Blair alone.

It was a sharp and somewhat disconcerting contrast from their first visit to the jungle, when Jim had been at home and Blair had been wide-eyed and rumpled, delighted and half-startled by both native flora and fauna.

He hoped Blair had some idea how to proceed when they reached the village; Jim himself wasn't sure what the protocol would be in this situation. If Dr. Jones' information was correct, the Tuyaguenga had been bothered by foreign treasure seekers quite often. Therefore it seemed likely the tribe would be extremely hostile to outsiders.

Blair had to be counting on all his anthropology training plus his newly-acquired Quechua and his talent for obfuscation to get through this... and possibly on Jim's own automatic claim to status given his Sentinel abilities. If somebody caused trouble, Jim would just have to tell whoever was in charge what kind of fish he'd eaten for breakfast-- three days ago. That ought to earn some respect.

However, Blair's being addressed as a shaman... unexpected, and potentially volatile. Often shamen formed rivalries, and a Tuyaguenga shaman might not be best pleased for Blair to intrude on him. Still, a shaman commanded considerable respect, perhaps even more than a sentinel. Barring rivalry, Blair's status could be their ticket into the tribe. Jim wondered how Blair had let that piece of information drop, and concluded that it had to have been at the village, and furthermore, that it had probably been deliberate. He just wished Sandburg had confided in him.

Jim scented the village before it came in sight, woodsmoke and less pleasant human smells indicating only a small gathering of people. When he finally drew close enough to see through the intervening jungle, his vision confirmed the evidence of his nose and ears. The Tuyaguenga seemed a sober people, many of them crouched in front of woven mat huts, already alerted to the party's arrival by sentry signals.

Naked, dark-eyed children stared out from behind their mothers' legs with fingers in their mouths; their shy gazes were far friendlier than their parents' neutral ones. The entire village gave the overwhelming impression of transience, as though it could be picked up and vanish without leaving a trace in less than an hour's time. It was probably true.

Jim watched Blair's thoughtful eyes taking in the same tableau and wondered what his trained anthropologist's mind made of the same details Jim saw. Probably something entirely different; maybe he was pondering the social hierarchy of house placement or their diet or actuarial patterns or external cultural pollution quotients from this very visit or some other arcane anthropological theory Jim knew very little about.

The largest hut in the village lay near the far edge, and an above-average number of women and children worked and played outside, glancing at Jim and Blair with hostile curiosity. The loose flap that covered the door was pulled back and a heavily decorated tribesman emerged from the darkness within. He eyed Jim and Blair thoroughly, face impassive. Finally his stare settled on Sandburg, a frown pinching between his brows.

"Shaman." The chief's word was curt, and he gestured for Sandburg to follow him into his hut. Jim tried to follow, but two guards stepped forward and crossed their blowguns in his path, staring at him with ill-concealed anger.

Jim backed off, trying to look non-threatening even while bristling over being separated from his Guide. Even as he was led away, Jim realized the chief's wives were converging around the hut, picking up a variety of pebble-filled gourds and rattles that made admirable white noise generators, effectively blocking him from eavesdropping on the conversation. He kept an eye on the hut as well as he could from his position under guard, feeling unreasonably hurt and annoyed by his exclusion.

It was a feeling with which he was destined to grow intimately familiar over the next few days.

Accompanied constantly by guards and with movements restricted, he didn't get to see much of Blair, and what he did see disturbed him and reassured him simultaneously. Blair seemed to have abandoned his western identity, adopting tribal dress and behavior with astonishing rapidity, and Jim knew he must have a purpose. It would have been nice to be informed, but apparently that was too much to ask.

Jim was no fool or slouch at observation, and he could tell that something was afoot in the village. There were strangers about, judging from the shyness of children when they passed and judging from the variety of markings worn by men and women. He found that he could pick out the Tuyaguenga with relative ease after he identified the common tribal symbol their warriors inscribed on their weapons, and the placement of the Tuyaguenga symbol led him to speculate that there were individuals present from at least six other tribes.

The most interesting thing, though, was the behavior of the chieftain's wives, who seemed to resume and desist their percussive interference at unpredictable times, until Jim noted that it always occurred when one or more of the strangers approached the hut.

It led to a single unavoidable conclusion: the strangers were sentinels.

That conclusion drawn, he eyed them and realized they were eyeing him in return, and not particularly kindly, either. It didn't surprise him, much, after Alex. It did set his nerves on edge, knowing Blair had free run of the village and Jim could do precious little to get near him, much less protect him from the other Sentinels, whom he didn't trust. Not as far as he could throw them, and that wasn't very far given that he couldn't take a leak without his guards.

The village seemed particularly festive on the morning of the third day, an air of bustle and excitement in the way the villagers moved. The Sentinels began to gather, and when his guards prodded him to move, Jim was unsurprised, joining the small knot of men and women.

Tribeswomen came to the sentinels and began to work, apparently preparing them for some sort of ritual. Two stripped him, offering him the brief homespun cushma garment of the Tuyaguenga, though without tribal or familial symbols inscribed or painted upon them, and he accepted politely, aware of their eyes and hands lingering on his body. They painted him with dark pigments, disguising the shine of his pale flesh; he used his own fingers to dip into shallow pots of charcoal mixed with water and trace his Chopec markings onto his face and arms.

He did not mind the lack of clothing as much as the loss of his shoes. The tribespeople and warriors had callus-hardened feet, accustomed to rough jungle trekking. His were soft by comparison. "Sandals?" he asked a woman hopefully, and she regarded him impassively, not seeming to understand. Jim pointed to his feet and she nodded, then vanished. Minutes later she returned with rough sandals-- not much, but far better than bare feet.

Looking up from tying the rough-vine footwear, he noticed Blair standing with the chieftain and several others. Sandburg looked calm and competent, almost totally alien, and sudden fear rushed in on Jim, the same fear he'd been repressing for many nights and days. Why wasn't Blair making any effort to let him know what was going on?

The chief pounded his blowgun against a tree trunk, the sharp raps signaling for silence.

"Tasurinchi, god of good, has heard our pleas for a shaman!" His tribe exploded in triumphant shouts as Jim's stomach sank.

Shit. Jim's eyes shot toward Blair, decked out in tribal finery, only distinguishable from the other natives via his scent and the curl of his hair and his blue eyes.

"Sentinels have gathered from throughout the woods to compete for the honor of his guidance." A second cheer, and this time the sentinels joined in, howling like wolves. Jim winced. Great. Just fucking great.

"The winner will join our new shaman as Guardian of the Eye!"

That seemed to be about all the people needed to go into a full-fledged frenzy, shouting and stamping their feet. Women added ululating soprano wails to the chaos, making Jim's temples throb.

"In the forest there are hidden tokens. Each Sentinel who returns with at least one token will be examined by the Shaman for fitness. If he is found fitting, he will become the Guardian of the Eye."

Better and better. Jim sought Blair's eye, annoyed by Sandburg's calm. The chief resumed, speaking directly to the gathered sentinels this time. "The tokens have been chosen and placed by the shaman."

Anticipating the contest already, Jim opened up his sense of smell, seeking Blair's scent. It would be an advantage that Blair was so well-known to him, but the terms of the contest were troublesome given that Sandburg refused to meet his eye. What if he returned with a token, but was not found fitting?

The thought seemed ridiculous, but it struck a bone-deep chord in Jim. Blair's distance, his discontent, his hostility... it seemed Sandburg had found a ready-made niche waiting for his presence. What if Sandburg decided he would rather remain with the Tuyaguenga, studying them and protecting them from the outside world, than return to civilization and attend the Academy?

Maybe the Tuyaguenga could even provide Blair with a way to reclaim his academic prestige. Few scholars could boast of a truly prolonged stay with a single tribe. After ten or fifteen years, if Blair could find a publisher... he'd probably be fabulously wealthy, even if he didn't regain academic acceptance.

That is, if he even chose to leave the Tuyaguenga. Maybe he wouldn't, if he was happy. He might marry a native woman, have children, bond with a new Sentinel and embrace his role of protecting a whole tribe and the Eye... it was just like Blair. Jim could just picture him, sitting crosslegged by a fire, eating cassava and masato.

After all, he'd gone native with Jim, hadn't he.

Jim shuddered as a chiririnka buzzed past his ear; the dark blue fly had been feared by the Chopec as a harbinger of death.

The chief lifted his blowgun high and shook it, its shock of colorful parrot feathers dancing in the air. "Let the seekers begin!" He dropped his arm and the small group exploded into motion, Jim among them.

As Jim set forth, he could feel Blair's eyes on his back, but he did not turn, seeking outward for sensory cues of Blair's presence.

He found a trail quickly, and set out at a ground-eating lope, sinking into his memories of the jungle. His long legs gave him an advantage now in this part of the jungle, where the tallest trees were so thick that the understory had remained sparse.

Jim heard men running behind him, and suddenly felt a sting of pain in his arm; cursing he tumbled and rolled behind the scant cover of a nearly-rotted log. All right, so he'd been incautious. The chief hadn't said they had to play fair, after all.

Jim picked a dart out of his forearm and sucked at the wound, spitting out blood that, thank heavens, failed to taste of curare. It hadn't been poisoned, then. He crawled a few meters on his elbows, trying to move to a new spot without being seen, then burst upward as a man vaulted the log, hunting him. He caught the fellow from behind and dragged his opponent to the ground, pinching off the flow of blood to his brain with an expertly-applied choke.

In moments his struggles ceased and Jim scrabbled in the loam, jerking up a limber root. He bound the man's arms and legs tightly, then launched out of concealment, running hard for the trunk of the next tree, his ears straining for sound besides the panting of his own breath and the scratching of his feet.

The woods were too quiet; he'd taught the others caution, then, by dispatching his first opponent so quickly. His nostrils flared, seeking something elusive, and Jim smiled suddenly. Blair-scent, and more of it than just.... he dug in the loose muddy dirt around the roots of his sheltering tree, and found a small stone with scratches: a crudely drawn detective's badge.

Too easy.

Air currents stirred and Jim glanced up into the tree, a second too late. Sandal-covered heels were already descending, catching him a glancing blow to the head. He'd been flanked as he tied the first man; this was a woman with ragged black hair and a stone knife, her face intent with effort. She released the vine and kicked him, a jarring blow to his kidney.

Stunned, Jim pushed to his knees and tried to clear his head, but it was too late. Her blade flashed, severing his belt, and the pouch where he'd tucked the stone rested in her palm. She darted away and Jim swore out loud, rising to his feet and swaying. Perhaps his time in civilization had left him too refined; he'd expected the other sentinels to use their senses, not to resort immediately to brute force.

It was a mistake he'd made twice so far, and could not afford to make again.

He felt a moment of panic, worrying that the other Sentinels might have found tokens; his attacker was probably going to be first back to camp but perhaps Blair might reject her in favor of another. Or perhaps his chances would improve if he brought back more than one token.

Jim scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pains in his head and his lower back, and set out trying to think like Blair through his spinning headache. He could hear the gurgle of a stream, and detoured toward its banks, keeping ears and eyes trained on his surroundings carefully. Nothing stirred, not even jungle animals.

He went to his knees beside the freshet to drink. The face that stared back at him was marred by a trickle of blood; he realized he was a fool to play this game. The other sentinels knew the woods far better than he; they were more naturally violent and familiar with this sort of ritual.

He had to think outside the box, use his superior sophistication and his history with Blair to come up with... something.

Jim looked down at the stream again, and then beneath the surface of the water to the flat, polished stones that lay there. He reached into the glistening liquid, hearing thunder grumble as the daily rains neared. His senses spiked suddenly, emphasizing the cool of the water, the flow of the humid breeze, and the faraway voices of the village. Blair's quiet voice conversing with the chieftain in accented Quechua. The shouts of the sentinels.

They were fighting amongst themselves, some of them, just as they'd turned against him. More tokens found and squabbled over, as they turned on one another in their desire to earn a guide and honor.

The answer to his questions suddenly unraveled before him.

Jim stood at the edge of the village, concealed in a forked tree, feet braced in the crotch of the limb. He watched as sentinels returned to the village in and formed a ragged line, staring at Sandburg with varied degrees of triumph and hope.

After the last but himself returned, he climbed down leisurely. A cry went up at his appearance, and Blair's impassive eyes shifted to him. Sandburg stood quiet and proud, waiting for Jim to display his token.

Jim opened his hand , revealing the flat river rock he'd taken from the streambed where he drank. He laid it on the ground at Blair's feet, offering his bare neck in ritual submission. A guard reached to lift the token on the blade of his stone spear, bringing it where Blair could reach it without stooping. Jim stood still, heart pounding as Sandburg surveyed the small stone and the significance of the mark Jim had drawn on it himself in rough, asymmetrical strokes, using a cold ember.

A heart. A silent offering of trust and self. Trust that Blair would choose him, knowledge that if he did not mean to do so, no token could persuade him otherwise. Jim knew that after waiting until all the other sentinels returned, his very presence could be read as a gift: he had stayed to offer himself to Blair's will and to accept Blair's choice.

Sandburg reached out slowly and accepted the stone, then held it aloft.

"Will you belong to the Shaman?" The chief stepped to Jim's side, face impassive. "Bound to him and to his will, to be guided by him in all things?"

"Yes." Jim lifted his eyes to Blair's calmly. He tried to put every ounce of himself into his eyes, apology and love and devotion mingling in his look.

"Shaman, will you claim this sentinel?"

Blair stood still for a long moment, his eyes searching Jim's. "I will claim him."

Jim nearly collapsed with relief; ridiculous to feel so when this ceremony was not binding by the laws of their culture, when they had not yet settled if Blair would go or if he would remain.

Hands caught Jim, stripping him of his cushma, he blinked as he was bound by the wrists to a peeled pole hung between two stakes, perhaps seven feet off the ground. He blinked, feeling a little fear; Blair's eyes glittered at him and once again he was struck by his partner's strangeness and by how easily he had assimilated the local culture.

Designs like writhing vines wreathed Sandburg's sturdy legs and arms; someone had painted a very realistic wolf on his left shoulder. A painted flower covered his right nipple, exotic and sensual red. His cheeks bore arcane symbols, making his shock of curling hair seem wild and alive, writhing around his face like snakes. Jim blinked, and realized he smelled an odd scent: ayahuasca. He realized then that the source of the potent hallucinogen was Blair's breath. Just enough of it touched his own nostrils to tantalize his perceptions with a tinge of the surreal.

"Blair..." Jim breathed, desire flushing through him, bringing beads of sweat out on his skin. The sun was setting and fires had been lit in small pits, fed with old wood. The flames licked at the air, adding heat and motion to the periphery of Jim's senses.

Blair raised his arms and warriors stripped him reverently; he was fiercely erect and Jim swallowed, understanding that the claiming would indeed be sexual. His own cock responded, twitching with interest, and then slowly filled just from looking at Sandburg, who seemed so wild and potent in his paint and with brilliant quetzal feathers woven into a braid at the side of his hair.

A woman moaned, but the press of interested eyes and appreciative sound ceased to matter as Blair stepped forward. His eyes were bright and intense, studying Jim with care. His fingertips touched Jim's chest, tracing around a nipple, leaving a red-dyed circle there. Jim breathed harder, feeling his nipple rise under the light touch. Chill air on the wet dye made the puckered flesh draw tight.

Blair stepped behind Jim, trailing painted fingers around his ribs. Jim felt dye and sweat begin to trickle downward immediately. He was so hard now it hurt, and never mind that everyone in the village from the oldest grandmother down to month-old babies were watching intently.

He was Blair's, and for the first time he ceased to resist that knowledge, yielding himself utterly.

Blair's hot hands wandered over his body, trailing pleasure across his skin. It felt incredible, almost... holy. Transcendent, as though he were soaring beyond his body, his flight controlled by the delicate skim of fingertips across his flesh, mapping him with slow and sensual care. And then Blair's mouth touched him, wet tongue lapping up the nape of his neck to his hair, then following the patterns his fingertips had drawn, disregarding the traces of dye. Jim moaned, melting into the kisses, aware that he was being savored slowly.

Vision, touch, taste... then the tip of Blair's nose drew along the vein in his neck, drawing cooling flows of air over Jim's flushed skin. Blair explored him through scent as well, adding to the symbolic bonding process, the slow, thorough process arousing Jim beyond belief. He could smell Blair too, arousal and butter-rich masculine musk thickly gathered about his body.

"Mine..." Blair breathed, and Jim moaned in response, pleasure already surging in lightning flashes up and down his body, building toward the inevitable end. He heard a slick, wet sound, and swallowed, dizzy. Eagerly he listened, anticipating the touch of Blair's flesh to his own, moving his feet apart to spread his legs, hungering for union.

He felt Blair's cock brush his ass, tip tracing the cleft and nudging lower. Jim whimpered, and Blair's slick wet hand came up to brace on his jaw, pushing his head back and bending his much bigger body over his shoulder even as Blair's solid, thick cock plunged into Jim's body.

Jim panted with pleasure, hearing the keening gasp that emerged from him on every breath. He soared higher, buoyed by Blair's strength, fully surrendered to his lover's control. Yes. Perfection. The firm sweetness of Blair's length sizzled inside his body, branding and claiming him; he wondered hazily how much ayahuasca had passed into his bloodstream via osmosis from the constant touches of Blair's skin and his tongue.

And then it was too late for thought; the Tuyaguenga chanting drummed on his ears as pleasure thundered inside his veins. Blair pulled him back still further and Jim went willingly, letting his head be rolled to the side so that Blair could reach his mouth. Blair thrust harder, and Jim felt the raggedness of his breathing as they kissed awkwardly, barely able to reach. His eyes opened, vision focusing on the sparkling of stars beyond the canopy; an amazing length of time had passed while Blair readied him, exploring and owning his body.

Blair's semen pulsed forth deep inside him, and it was like a benediction and permission all at once. Jim came with a shuddering groan, eyes dazzled by weaving patterns of greenery and sparkling light. He heard the night sounds of the forests, the coughing purr of a big cat and the possessive growl of the wolf, and his vision dissolved in light.

"Look into the Eye," Blair's voice commanded him, and the light gathered, burning red through his closed lids, then receded. He could feel hard palms covering his, and the smooth cool planes of stone in his hands; he dared not look down. Alex had looked into the eye twice, and it had driven her mad. He trembled, words deserting him.

"Look into the Eye," Blair commanded again, a note of sorrow in his voice, and Jim opened his own eyes to look into Sandburg's face... no longer streaked by paint, his curls clean and fresh. Pure liquid radiance pulsed around them, reminding Jim of his long-ago trip on Golden, filling the planes and angles of Blair's face with eerie beauty of highlight and shadow. The whole world seemed to stand still to listen, wondering if he would obey.

Jim looked solemnly into Blair's face, and then let his eyes drop without questioning the command.

The eye was clear, and inside were visions... he fell through a radiant sapphire iris, so reminiscent of his previous visions, and this time there was Blair... Blair leaving him in a hundred ways. Slipping away after taking perp's gunshot, accepting Sid's offer of fame and fortune, marrying and raising a family of curly-haired children with laughing faces. And each time, Jim pushing him away, hiding in fear and resignation.

He turned from the vision with a cry of pain, wounded by the knowledge that he would always push Blair from him, and found himself facing his shaman and guide. "Self-fulfilling prophecy begins in fear," Blair instructed. Jim blinked; Incacha was there, standing solemn behind Blair, nodding sober agreement. "Look into the Eye," Blair spoke again, and Jim lost himself again in irised blue. This time there was jungle, and the slim wiry body beside him, cheek tattooed with his mark, and when he looked, he discovered the same mark on his chest-- four parallel curving lines in red, covering ritual scars. "Blood of my blood, heart of my heart," Jim spoke, and Blair touched the skin above his heart, smiling with love.

"Your arrow will fly true," Blair whispered, and Jim blinked, focusing, then lifted his bow and loosed an arrow at the tiny jungle deer, hearing the pulse of the forest rustle around him, the rhythm of life and kin and his lover's gentle heartbeat. And then they were around the fires with their tribe. There was meat and plenty in the village. Blair smiled, then drew him into their hut with love and pleasure in his eyes, and then knelt, taking Jim's hardened flesh between his lips...

Jim blinked, sunlight dazzling his lashes. He could feel every stray air current rustling over his flesh, stirring the tiny hairs. Blair's warm trim body nestled in the curve of his, keeping him warm. The cookfires had dimmed to smoldering embers; the tribe slept, parents breathing one another's masato-scented breath in contentment on the mats next to their children. The entire forest rippled within the periphery of his senses, imprinted on his consciousness with quiet vitality.

Blair stirred in his arms. Jim realized Sandburg's eyes were open and clear, watching Jim's face. "Is this what you want?" Jim asked, whisper soft. Blair nodded and lay still, waiting. Jim buried his face in Blair's neck, nuzzling there, tasting salt and his own saliva on Blair's skin. A hard choice, his newly rediscovered family tugging at him, life and career and dreams and friends... but above it all was Blair, more important to him than breath. Blair, who had given up both death and life for him. How could he do any less, now that his own choice had come?

He let his hand curl around Blair's ribs, sliding it down to his thigh, enjoying the tickle of springy hair under his palm. He thought of what the eye had shown him: the purity of Sentinel and Guide, Warrior and Shaman, paired in protection, removed from that which had power to separate them.

Bound in love, by mutual surrender. Learning to trust again, for the first time. They would add yet another page to Dr. Jones' tales of the search for the Eye of God and one more obstacle to greedy men who might come to seek it.

Perhaps one day they would even be strong enough to return to the world that had come so close to separating them. Jim smiled against Blair's throat. "Yes," he whispered in answer to the silent question he had seen in Sandburg's eyes. "I'll stay with you." Blair simply nodded and rolled him to his back on the soft loam, resting his ear on Jim's chest to listen to the beat of his heart as the village awakened around them.

End Jim and Blair and the Eye of God by Cara Chapel: cara_chapel@hotmail.com

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