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The questioning session ended like all the others had. The hwarhath guards dragged him out to a room that did not look very different from the one where they questioned him. (Euphemism, a small, dry voice in the back of his head noted. Because at this point, even the smallest, most trivial of lies might prove useful.) Walls of gray, a single table that was too low, no windows. Even the light was the same. He saw the afterimages of the lamps behind his eyelids still. It was better than the other afterimages that came to him, or the dreams.

But none of the walls here was a mirror, and instead of leaving him there under guard, they urged him onward, into corridors he had not seen before, and eventually another room. This one had no mirrors either. Even better, while it contained one of the ubiquitous low tables, there was a bowl of the bland, grim-tasting broth that they fed him sometimes. So there was to be a period of rest after all. They had not starved him during his captivity. Nicholas presumed they didn't want to risk losing the information they thought they could extract from him. Despite what they had done, and the loyalties he was supposed to have, he was not suicidal. He always ate what they gave him, and this time was no different. He waited to see if they were going to interrupt him, but one of the hwarhath gestured abruptly at the table. Nicholas sat and stooped to eat, not too quickly, not too slowly.

When he had finished, after the empty bowl was taken away, a new hwar came in. He was shorter than the others, with iron-gray fur and eyes of deep blue. Cold sweat trickled down Nicholas's spine as he considered what that might mean. Maybe a new interrogator was going to take over. Maybe the hwarhath intended to try something new, something different, something even worse than what they had already done.

"Sanders Nicholas," said the short hwar. "Would you speak knee to knee with me? Or eye to eye, as your people say."

Nicholas considered this. He hadn't needed the translation of the hwarhath idiom, but that wasn't what bothered him. This new hwar was using polite pronouns, polite verb forms--much more polite than Nicholas was used to hearing. The only way to learn what was going on was to listen, and it seemed that this hwar wanted some form of acknowledgment, as if Nicholas had a choice. Very well; he would play along. "All right," he said softly. "I'm listening." He did not meet the hwar's eyes. It was one of the first things he had learned about them, when he began with Military Intelligence.

"I am Advancing-Toward-the-Enemy-One-in-Front Ettin Gwarha," said the short hwar, still with that unnerving formality. "You were questioned longer than was necessary. It was ill-considered, and the people responsible--hah. You will see no more of your interrogators, and there will be no more of what they did." His words slowed, as if he wanted to be sure Nicholas understood. Surely they knew by now how fluent he was, the advantage that had turned curse when the ship was captured? "You have my apologies, on behalf of the People."

Is he mocking me? Nicholas wondered. He had the trick of looking at people's faces out of the corner of his eye, but nothing in Gwarha's expression suggested insincerity.

Gwarha said, with a hint of what might have been worry, "Are you still hungry?"

"No, Advancer," Nicholas said. It wasn't true. Gwarha's solicitude disoriented him.

One of the other hwarhath muttered something in a language Nicholas didn't recognize. Pitch accent, maybe? That or it was tonal, but with different tones than the main language. Gwarha stared the other hwar down. Interesting byplay.

"You are under my protection now, Sanders Nicholas," Gwarha said. "I will escort you to better accommodations." Was that a hint of irony?

"Fine," Nicholas said. He stood when Gwarha did. "Whatever you like."

They walked together through the halls. Nicholas stopped once, blindstruck by a vision of mirrors caging him in every direction. Although he expected to be prodded to move forward, all of the hwarhath stopped with him. After several tense moments, Nicholas began walking again.

"This is your room," Gwarha said when they arrived. "You will be safe here."

"Of course," Nicholas said automatically. Curiosity died slowly: his eyes were drawn to the statue on the low table, and the long couch along one wall, with a smaller one perpendicular to it. The opposite wall displayed a hologram: a violet mountain in the distance, tall feathery plants waving in an undulant breeze. He almost expected to hear the whispering of the wind through the leaves.

"You may go now," Gwarha said to the other hwarhath. They went, not happily. Nicholas knew that much about their body language.

"If you are not hungry, you will take your meal with me in two ikun," Gwarha said. "But if you are hungry before then, you may tell me."

"Of course."

Gwarha huffed. "You do not need to lie to me about hunger."

"Of course," Nicholas said again.

Eight days later, Nicholas wondered if he could, in fact, ask for food when he wanted it.

He did not test this hypothesis immediately.

Instead, he explored. His guards accompanied him everywhere, but the fact that they allowed him to venture out of his room at all eased something in him. Mostly he found the same gray walls. Occasionally a tapestry with the Hearth in a Ring of Swords. He liked to look at the tapestries because of the vivid colors of the Hearth, almost as if he could warm himself by them. The guards shifted uneasily the first time. Not surprising; the prominence of the symbol suggested its importance to them. And he knew better than to attempt to touch the fabric.

The second time he paused by such a tapestry, one of the guards said, unexpectedly, "That is not for you."

Ncholas lowered his eyes immediately. "I didn't imagine so." But he lingered there, testing, testing, and they let him.

At other times he came to doors. He explored systematically, following the right wall, even though he imagined his guards would escort him back to his room if he got well and truly lost. Some of the doors they let him go through. Places where hwarhath ate, or exercised; more of the holograms, some of which depicted alarming alien creatures hunting other alarming alien creatures. He had learned something of the hwarhath attitude toward food, and always removed himself promptly from dining spaces when someone was eating.

However, they did not seem to mind when he stood quietly to the side and watched the exercises. Most of them looked like a human could do them as well, although pain and the memory of pain prevented him from trying. Instead, he admired the ubiquitous grace of hwarhath in motion.

Some doors remained mysteries. The guards would simply say, "This is a restricted area," and refuse to answer any questions. Nicholas was disinclined to try their patience. One of the restricted areas was Gwarha's inner quarters. Nicholas caught glimpses of it sometimes, when Gwarha passed through, intent on errands of his own. The flickering, colored light suggested that Gwarha had holograms of his own. At night, falling asleep, Nicholas wondered what Gwarha liked to look at. The hwarhath equivalent of family photos? Aggressive alien wildlife, which seemed to be of great interest everywhere else? Soap operas? What would a hwarhath soap opera look like?

Ettin Gwarha came and went, usually according to a strict schedule. Nicholas memorized it without trying to. He slept on the couch in the outer room, amusing himself in the evenings by watching the wall with the hologram display. Gwarha showed him how to change the display. "So you don't get bored," he said.

None of the scenes available showed a night sky. For that matter, none of the scenes in the other rooms had taken place at night, either. A nice thought, although Nicholas was no navigator and the immensity of space meant that he was unlikely to recognize any of the worlds depicted. Assuming they were real to begin with.

Most mornings he woke sweating. Sometimes his throat was raw. He did not know what he said when nightmare gripped him. He did not want to ask.

On the twelfth morning, when he swam up out of dreams of the room with the mirror on one side, he untangled himself from the blanket to see Gwarha watching him.

"I do not like to see you in distress," Gwarha said.

Nicholas said nothing. Instead, he kept his gaze averted.

"Look at me," Gwarha said. "There is something I want to tell you."

His hands clenched involuntarily.

"You had to learn to look aside no matter who you talked to," Gwarha said calmly, reasonably. "This means either of two things. One, that you were very high-ranking among your people. Or two, that the direct stare does not mean the same thing to humans. We both know that you were a captain"--he said the word in English, with credible pronunciation; he had clearly worked hard to learn it--"and not, say, a Defender. Which suggests the other explanation. We have been studying your people, just as you studied us. I want to tell you something, and I want you to believe me. To speak knee to knee, or look eye to eye."

Nicholas raised his head then. Focus on his eyes, he told himself. It was less comfort than he had hoped for. Gwarha had beautiful eyes. Nicholas did not want to stop looking at them.

"This is a place of safety for you," Gwarha said, meeting Nicholas's gaze. "Good: you do not flinch. I do not know how to make you comfortable. Perhaps you will never be comfortable among the People. But I can do that much."

Nicholas looked down again.

Gwarha sighed, very quietly. "I will come back later."

Nichoals watched Gwarha's feet in their sandals as he retreated into his private rooms.

Nineteen days after that, Nicholas wandered not only into a restricted area but a very restricted area. He had thought that he knew every corner and every hall, but he had discovered a new section of the facility, and he didn't want to finish exploring it too soon, savoring the novelty. The hwarhath had not herded him before, letting him go where he chose. Not trust so much as a grudging tolerance. Nicholas suspected Gwarha's influence.

"You cannot be here," said The Man Who Likes to Talk. (By then Nicholas had learned this nickname for this particular hwar. The other hwarhath said it jokingly, because The Man Who Likes to Talk, while willing to interact with a human, was notably taciturn among his own kind.)

While Nicholas was tantalized by what he had heard before the door was shut at his approach--strident jangling sounds like tortured pianos, and bells, and a glimpse of two hwar in ornate armor, not the usual shorts-and-sandals--he was not interested in provoking his guards. "All right," he said, and turned away.

"You are not even curious?"

Nicholas blinked. "I am here by your sufferance," he said. "You don't owe me explanations."

"That is where the Art Corps makes certain of its preparations. You would not understand what you saw."

If I don't see it, Nicholas thought, I will never understand. What he said out loud was, "I don't need to understand."

He let them guide him back to his room. Today he had the hologram set to show a tiny island in the midst of a rough ocean. It distracted him from the question of breathing, or not-breathing, that came to him at certain times.

Gwarha would return soon from a meeting. Nicholas supposed it did no harm for him to be here, instead of walking, even if they didn't interact.

As it turned out, Gwarha brought an Advancer-One-in-Back with him. They were discussing some matter of hwarhath aesthetics. It wouldn't be anything that touched on security, not in front of him. Nicholas acknowledged the facts of the situation. As the two passed through the front room into Gwarha's office, Nicholas admired their lithe movements and the well-groomed fur.

I have been among these people too long, Nicholas thought. He knew what Military Intelligence would have said of his increasing obsession with hwarhath appearances.

But Military Intelligence wasn't here, and Nicholas didn't expect to go home again.

Late the next evening, Nicholas was stretching when Gwarha returned. Nicholas was never going to match the unthinking grace of the hwarhath, but he had recovered enough that he could work toward such basics as touching his toes again.

Gwarha had been drinking one of the noxious beverages that passed for an intoxicant among the hwarhath. Its reek filled the room. Nicholas unbent and sank down onto the couch. The hwarhath had a distinctive scent of their own, not unpleasant, but peppery and sharp. Nicholas wondered, not for the first time, if his own smell bothered the hwarhath. Gwarha had never given any such indication; the interrogators had been another matter, but they weren't reliable for other reasons.

"I see you watching me," Gwarha said. His voice was jarringly loud.

Nicholas realized that he'd been caught staring at that expanse of rumpled fur and immediately looked down.

"You are a very strange creature," Gwarha said. "I don't know what the Goddess intended when she made something like you."

This was not a conversation Nicholas wanted to be having.

"I cannot help looking at your skin," Gwarha said. "What does it feel like to be open to every cut of the air?"

This was definitely not a conversation Nicholas wanted to be having. Gwarha had said he was safe here. But Gwarha was not human. He might be perfectly sincere, except "sincere" could mean something entirely different to an alien.

Nicholas had learned what to say to awkward questions. "I don't want to answer that," he said. Seriously: it was an answerable question. Surely hwarhath fur was not so sensitive that it couldn't be shaved? A shaved hwar would look ridiculous. Nicholas choked down a laugh.

Gwarha's senses were blunted by the intoxicant; either he didn't notice, or he misinterpreted it. "Of course you don't," he said, almost sadly. "You don't want to answer anything."

Nicholas shrugged.

Gwarha sat down, still graceful but with a precarious control that suggested that he was having to concentrate. "You've wondered, haven't you? What it would feel like to touch skin to fur?"

"I am not--" Nicholas said, then stopped. Not what? Homosexual? A xenophilic pervert? Embarrassingly susceptible to blue eyes with horizontal pupils?

Extremely lonely?

They were questions he did not ask himself because he did not want to face the answers.

But he could not stop Gwarha from asking the same questions.

Gwarha was still talking. "When I read the reports, I knew you for rahaka," he said. "Are all humans rahaka? But we know the answer to that."

Nicholas did indeed. Of the Free Market Explorer's survivors, there had been those who, to say it in the hwarhath manner, took the option.

Finally Nicholas said, "Why are you here?"

Gwarha said, "Hah. It has been a while since I courted someone. I should have taken into account that you would not be experienced."

Nicholas grinned in spite of himself. "Why, because humans are all perverts who don't mingle in the proper fashion?"

"Just so."

"Well, for starters," Nicholas said, "getting drunk to raise your courage is a human tradition, too. In case you were wondering."

Gwarha blinked at him. "I do not know whether to believe you."

"Does it matter?"

Gwarha considered him. "I suppose not." Then, almost in a purr: "I have wondered how your fingers would feel in my fur."

Nicholas hesitated, caught between the sea-surge of desire and--not shame, but the knowledge of an act that could not be forgotten once known.

"It was not my intent to trouble you," Gwarha said. "And it is not the first time I have been turned down. I will tell you sometime of certain of my ancestors who were less gracious in this regard, but--"

"Shut up," Nicholas said roughly, in English, and got up to cross the room. He almost banged his shin into the low table in his haste. "Shut up. By the way, that's human for”--he sat down next to Gwarha on the couch. There was just about enough space for both of them. "--that's human for Don't interrupt what I am going to do." And he rested one hand, very lightly, on Gwarha's long-fingered hand. The silk of the fur there was fine and incredibly soft.

"Shut up," Gwarha said back to him, rather mangling the pronunciation, and turned his hand palm-up so he could trace the outlines of Nicholas's fingers.

Nicholas could not return to his people. When the torture began, all those days ago, he had accepted that. But here he could find, if not a new home, some small accord between here and there, beyond the mirror's two sides.