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Date Posted: 01:36:41 02/21/02 Thu
Author: Tristan
Subject: You don't look so great
In reply to: Corum & Yorik 's message, "Reflections" on 20:43:21 02/20/02 Wed

Tristan paced the area in front of the west tower, his boots echoing loudly on the cobblestone roadway. Corum stood off to the side, looking unusually resigned and quiet. After a few minutes had passed, Tristan shook his head, his fists clenched worriedly at his sides. He couldn’t handle it anymore. Marz was out there somewhere, hurting, hurting more than he’d ever hurt before. He could feel it inside somehow, and it was driving him crazy, the inaction, not doing anything while his lover was alone and in pain.

“I’m going to find him,” he said, stubbornly ignoring Corum’s call to wait. But when the other youth said something about the tavern in Bizmar, Tristan paused and turned around, regarding him curiously, even a bit suspiciously.

“The tavern?” he asked cautiously, frowning when Corum nodded. His frown deepened when he heard about the recent attack on the place Marz and his best friend now called home, his heart beating up his throat when he thought of those little children who lived there, the ones Marz always bought toys and other such gifts for.

Then Corum told him about the little urchin who was murdered, a child named Rooster. How Marz had been particularly close to the boy, how he was close to all of them—and suddenly Tristan could see the look on his face when he’d first heard Erlic tell him the news. Stricken, blank, lost almost. The same way he’d looked when they learned the slave boys had been themselves murdered and resurrected as zombies. Only those children had been strangers to Marz, while these were like little brothers and sisters. Maybe…maybe even substitutes for his own children, the twins his ex-girlfriend had born him and then taken away from him.

All of this seemed like all the more reason for him to go to Marz now—but again Corum stopped him. He knew what his best friend was like when he became angered, that it had nothing to do with lightning bolts or the accidental works of other mages. And so did Tristan. More than once, he had almost lost his mind to that explosion of power, that tremendous outpouring of raw force.

So they waited, together, accutely uneasy, until Marz was finally sighted in the distance. Tristan was struck dumb with horror at the blood coating him nearly from head to foot. He felt paralyzed, his own feet attached like stone to the ground, as he watched him stumble painfully forward, dragging one foot in front of the other, an ugly gash on his left arm dripping a steady stream of blood in his wake.

As if he were waking from a spell, Tristan suddenly started, then ran forward to catch Marz as he staggered into his arms, burying his head against his shoulder, smearing blood and tears against his shirt and neck. Tristan hugged him back, holding him while he wept, all the while wondering just how severely injured he really was. The sheer worry was gnawing steadily away at him, no matter how much he convinced himself that Marz was different, that he healed faster than most people, faster than a dragon, even.

“Shh,” he whispered, stroking his lover’s bloodied black hair. “We’ll make it right. We’ll make it right again, I promise.” His vague assurances were all that he could stomach saying right now, even though he knew that were Marz in his place, he’d be assuring vengeance and bloodshed and other such violence. Tristan wasn’t an idiot; he knew they would have to declare revenge on Tegol Denair, and somehow, whether directly or indirectly, Marz was going to get it.

But saying all that wasn’t going to help right now. There was one thing he could give that no one else could offer: his unconditional love. It struck him finally that he realized it was unconditional, and maybe even irritated him that he’d allowed it to get like that. But the fact still remained that he could offer himself to Marz without question or even thought, offer his love, his support, just his presence if necessary.

“You need to see the healer,” he said after awhile, and Marz was still too dull and drained to so much as mouth a protest. He lead him back to the tower entrance, where the anxious Corum waited, his eyes traveling over the many injuries his friend had sustained. Both he and Tristan stared up at the winding staircase before sharing a nod and a glance.

“I’ll bring him if you get Valhorek,” he suggested. Corum agreed, darting up the stairs before him while Tristan told Marz to relax and gathered him in his arms. Slowly, he carried to the second floor, stopping at the first room holding a bed and laying his weary burden gently down. He would have liked to fetch some warm water and do his best to clean away the wounds, but he was loath to leave Marz by himself.

Instead, he tied a kerchief he pulled from his pocket around the severely injured left hand, stanching the flow of blood momentarily. With the cuff of his sleeve, he wiped away the blood from Marz’s face, pushing another cloth against the cut on his cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, reaching to hold his hand with his other one. He couldn’t really think of anything else to say, except to just wait and be here with him. I guess that means I’m still cold, he thought sadly. But it’s all I really know how to do.

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