Touching hadn't upset him before, but now his arm muscles were taut under her fingers, and she could tell it cost him effort to remain motionless and silent. She didn't remove her hand, letting it lie as before over his forearm, but when she spoke her intonation was concerned instead of intimate. "Ruhar, let me help you." ". . . What? Help? I . . . don't need any help. It's just . . . I'm not judging you, but you can't ask me to . . ." Tarlac's voice trailed off. He couldn't look up and meet her eyes, could only stare at the gray, gracefully-clawed hand on his arm. At the altar he had felt he belonged to these people, and it had made him happy. Now he was a confused alien again, belonging nowhere and to no one. The sudden violent changes of emotion he'd begun experiencing lately weren't usual for him at all, and he didn't know how to handle them. It was like some of the Academy entrance examinations, when he'd been tested for his reactions to mood-altering drugs--and, at the same time, for his ability to function under wildly varying conditions. He'd been trying to adapt to too many things at once, he thought desperately. Maybe he did need to slow the pace, maybe he should . . . but he didn't have time . . . He couldn't . . . couldn't do what he thought she wanted. He hesitated, tried to explain. "Speaker, I can't make love to you," he said desperately, forcing himself to speak quietly though his words came out in short, harsh phrases. "It just isn't done. Even if you weren't a priestess. We aren't married. I gave up wanting a family . . . I just can't!" When he became silent, Daria said softly, "You joined Ch'kara." "I had to. To take the Ordeal." Tarlac was still staring at her hand, and sat frozen where he was as she moved to a place beside him. Ah, the Ordeal, she thought compassionately. Perhaps if he knew this was part of the Ordeal, showing he was able to share in the creation of a new life? Then she decided against telling him. It would be better if he did not know just yet, if he did this freely rather than from a sense of obligation. "Ruhar, please. Let me help. I can ease the ill that has been done you, perhaps cure it. You need not suffer as you do." "Ill?" After a few moments, the Ranger was able to look up into sympathetic amber eyes. "I'm not suffering, I like what I do. You just, well, surprised me. I didn't mean to offend you. If I did, I'm sorry." She'd shocked the hell out of him, would be more accurate, but he had regained some control and did regret any distress he might have caused her. More, he was angry at himself for losing control in the first place. It was about time he started thinking with something more than his cultural prejudices. Dammit, he was supposed to be able to adapt to just about any circumstances. So why shouldn't he accept this? Unless she was right, and something in Terran culture had warped him.