Again the twin suns ascend into the sky, banishing the darkness of slumber. I stand and watch as they rise, alone, save each other. I then glance at the hilt of the canén-re in its sheath, as it rests across my knees, and notice two suns, inset into the crosspiece. I now know why my hammer placed them there; I would be alone, save the order, for the others would no longer understand me. I am alone, though surrounded by former companions.

It is a lonely road I've chosen, but it is the choice that is right. The power flowing around me is more than compensation for the responsibilities I've taken. I can nearly see the magic. Smell its power, taste its wild nature. I can feel the order that I could impose upon the world around me, if I so choose.

But not yet.

It is not yet time to make changes, the world is as it should be. I stand, watching the ascension into heaven, and catalog the changes in my perceptions of the world, exploring the village I've lived in for thirty years, after my assignment to the area the humans are allowed to visit. I can find every insect and leaf. I sense the awakening avians as they prepare to search for nourishment for their newly hatched offspring. I can feel the fear of the wild zuntyn, as the predatory pack closes in for the kill.

Then I sense a void, approaching from the direction of the human settlement.

Summerhill is coming, with a hover sled in tow, loaded down with equipment of one sort or another. He has one device, a voice recorder, I believe, held out in front of him, as if to challenge me to duel.

The conceit is entertaining; the fastest human, trained by the best fencers, would stand little chance of injuring an adolescent Chu'et-ne, much less a fully grown warrior. The small, rather weak scientist would not live through a minute of a duel. I suppose he does not know of the custom of dueling between members of my species, we have succeeded in keeping that much from their prying, at least.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions about what happened last week?" he asks, getting to the point of his visit with no greetings. Cannot be bothered to waste the time, I imagine. Humans are like that, they are either completely to the point, or waste air on meaningless trivialities and glaringly obvious observations. Such an odd species. They live such short lives, and for the most part, accomplish so little, if Summerhill's tales about his homeland are to be believed. But there are the few who manage to accomplish much, despite the interference of those around them. For example, they'd managed to move between the stars, though they had no ability with magic.

"Have I been recovering for that long?" the passage of time surprises me, I'm amazed that I'd been able to sleep for so long. He answered my next question before I'd had a chance to open my mouth again.

"Yes, I've been back every day since you entered that coma," a note of annoyance in his voice, as if my long rest was something I'd done solely to impede his research. "Between that and the three days you spent making that thing, I'm far behind in my work," he adds, glaring at me now.

"Indeed, we cannot have your work slowed, now can we? Please, ask your questions, I will answer them to the limits of my ability." He looks surprised, and rather deflated at my lack of resistance to his questions. I imagine he'd come expecting to argue me into submission.

Unfortunately, he adapted quickly, and got on with his interview. "First of all, did you use a meteorite to make that thing? I've never seen anyone able to shape one using anything but a laser, you certainly shouldn't have been able to make it into a blade using nothing but a hammer!"

I answered him freely, if somewhat obscurely, at times. His questions continued over the next hour as he tried to subtly draw out the answers he wanted, though I refused to answer some, as they'd been forbidden to any of the humans. He did not grow frustrated, surprisingly, instead attempting to continue nipping away, trying to panic me into running to the waiting arms of the hunting pack. At least, he did not grow frustrated until his questions turned to the canén-re itself, "It's nothing but an oddly shaped sword, why will you not let me take a sample from it? I assure you, it will require nothing more than a few molecules, and I can replicate them. The tests will not mark it at all!"

As if I was concerned with the appearance! A scratch marring the surface would not be especially important, as it would eventually be used for tasks that might injure it beyond the endurance of simple metal. "I will not remove it from its sheath until a situation calls for its use."

"Why not? It's just a sheath!"

"The protection and preservation the sheath provides would be broken if it is returned, after being drawn, without tasting blood, and there is no reason for any here to feel it in their flesh," I answer simply, not evading his question.

This does not satisfy him, however, and his face starts turning a light shade of pink, as he starts to shout, "How can you let such a silly superstition stand in the way of important research? Its not like there is really anything special about that sheath! I know, I tested it before it was given to you, there is nothing about it which is at all unique!"

"What superstition do you refer to?" I ask, genuinely puzzled at his slightly hysterical response. I motion for the K'tun-darem assigned to watch over this small annoyance to stay where he is. He returns to his position, though he keeps a watchful eye on Summerhill, to make sure he does not do anything overtly offensive.

The scientist looks at me with an expression of great disgust on his face, "This belief n magic! It's….it's…'s just plain silly! There is no such thing!"

I manage to restrain myself from laughing in his face, though I cannot hide all the outer signs of my amusement, and my skin takes on a slightly yellowish color. "Very well, if that is the case, then how was the metal heated, several days ago? I assume you had your instruments trained on it at the time, so you must have the records somewhere."

"Actually," he answers, calming somewhat, "I wanted to ask you if you'd mind submitting to a brain scan, to allow me to see what kind of mutation allows you to manipulate it like that."

"You know, as well as I, that we have no interest in your medical science, so it would be pointless for you to take such a scan."

"Very well, I have been ordered to not perform medical tests unless given permission, but I want to know why, exactly, all of your people refuse to let us scan you. We probably could have prevented that outbreak of the scale rot in a village 30 klicks east of here, if you'd only let us help!"

"We do not need your help," I tell him, with great finality.

By this time, we've reached my workshop, towards which I've been moving over the past several minutes, with the intent of beginning to pack the few personal things I will be taking with me when I begin my journeys. I lay the sword, as Summerhill calls it, aside in order to ready the satchel I will use.

I need little for myself; I can live off the land, or trade my services for food. I express amusement, as I glance at the human encampment, down the river several miles, and think of all the space they waste with things such as clothing.

Despite the fact that I've turned my back to him and begun to work, clearing the shop out so that my former apprentices can move in and begin work, Summerhill still follows me in, asking me more questions, though I do not answer most of them.

Then, he decides to take matters into his own hands, reaching for the sword and attempting to draw it from its sheath, though he does move in a manner that is more stealthy than normal. However, the trained senses of a warrior notice his movement, though I decide to allow him his attempt.

He cannot move it from its resting place. The alloy used in its constructions is extremely dense and the final product is heavy, especially for one of the small humans. Failing thus, he decides to draw it from its sheath as it lies on my pallet, and try to scratch the surface with one of his samplers.

I am angry at this action, but I do not interfere, yet. I allow him to continue trying, as I finish my packing, then turn to confront him.

"You cannot draw it," I tell him, though he will not believe me, I'm sure. "No one, save myself, can take it from its sheath."

He jumps at my words, glancing guiltily at the tool he'd dropped on the floor in his surprise. "But I-"

"Get out," I order him, with a calm, dead voice, that belies my inner anger at this betrayal.

He glances at the claws that extended, involuntarily; the only outward sign of my anger. He turns and departs, rather quickly, to my satisfaction.

I can only hope that he is satisfied with his failed attempt.

A/N: Well here it is, finally, I'll be posting more as soon as I get back out on break, though it might take me a short while to get back into the swing of things.

Just so you all know, my beta has entirely too many papers due in the near future, so I won't bother her. So, I need the help! My proofreading skills are rather lax, most of the time, so please, if I screw up something, let me know!