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Date Posted: 01:34:38 02/25/02 Mon
Author: Laurel and Tristan
Subject: Dealing with the news
In reply to: Corum & Erlic 's message, "Communique" on 12:06:00 02/24/02 Sun

Laurel remained standing, switching her attention from Erlic to Marz, who began explaining the reasoning behind the forlorn looks of some of her friends. At first, she couldn’t recall this Medieval Tavern place, but then she remembered their brief stay there, several weeks ago, before the trip to Neromba had taken place. Suddenly, she hissed, sucking in a gasp of air through her teeth as she realized something else.

“Rowan!” she whispered, stepping forward to lay her hand on his shoulder.

He looked briefly away from Marz and placed his hand over hers, shaking his head. “Don’t worry,” he replied, just loud enough for her to hear. “He’s fine.”

She relaxed immediately; although none of them could explain it, she, Rowan, and their cousin Daniel shared a bond, strengthened by blood and magic, as her little brother liked to say. Rowan felt it strongest, and he claimed to always have some basic notion of where she and Daniel were at all times.

Daniel, younger than them by four years, half human, and a mage scholar as well, was still presumably in Bizmar where they’d left him, perhaps still in that very same tavern. However, if Rowan assured her that he was truly all right, then she would simply have to believe him, no matter how unexplainable and mysterious his methods of knowing seemed to be.

When Erlic left the room without saying another word, she returned the cold look he shot her and Jade with a rather sad little frown. A week ago, even a day ago, perhaps, she would have gone after him, touched by his pain and grief, and willing to do much to assuage whatever hard feelings he must be experiencing.

But she had put an end to their developing relationship. Despite the fact that somewhere deep inside, she still longed for him in some small, insubstantial way, she was still able to let him walk off alone, and to remain alone. He was the kind of man who did not ask for company, nor did he ever seek it, nor apparently desire it. That fact, more than anything else, saddened her beyond feeling.

Sighing to herself, she pulled her cloak close to her body as she edged around both those who were standing and those who were seated, making her way to the back of the kitchen. As she poured and made herself a cup of java, she smiled quietly down at Argus, who seemed to be watching her every move for some odd reason.

Rather impulsively, she moved toward him and leaned down kissing him softly on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, her usual slightly arrogant tone gone for now. “Though I do wonder at what sort of man tells a dirty-faced woman wearing only a plain shirt and dull brown pants that she is lovely.”

She grinned and winked at him, in an almost unconscious imitation of her brother for a split second, before moving back again. Setting her java mug aside for a moment, she leaned back against the counter, pushing her palms against the top, and hoisted herself up, so that she sat perched on top. There appeared to be no chairs left around the tiny kitchen table, but she thought the added height from this spot suited her. It allowed her to survey the occupants of the room as if she were on a sort of balcony or dais. Yes…she thought with a whimsical little smile, she liked this very much.


~*~*~*~*~


Once Marz finished speaking, followed by Erlic’s swift and silent exit, Tristan fell into rather deep thought. He stared idly into his java mug, touching the surface of the steaming liquid with the tip of one finger every now and then to watch the tiny rippling effects the action created. That’s how this all started, he decided. One seemingly insignificant occurrence was slowly bringing his new world tumbling about him: first the news of Dalo’s initial torture, then Eremis’ capture, followed by Marz’s explanation of what would probably happen to him.

Finally, it reached even closer to home. The attack on the tavern in far away Bizmar made it clear that they could expect a similar attack here in Neromba. Among the chosen targets of the enemy was of course Marz—then yet another realization hit him, as if it had suddenly flared up in his head, but had been steadily burning deep inside, all along: his name might be now known, as well.

Eremis knew him, and if his captors had made him talk like everyone seemed to believe they had, then his name would have been mentioned. Think about it, he reasoned with himself, Ravin ordered his Rovers moved because he knew that Tegol would go after the ones he truly loved. If someone asked Eremis who or what Marz loved more than anything right now, what would he answer?

He had shared his personal feelings with the healer on at least one solid occasion, and it didn’t take an empath to be able to see that those feelings were returned. When questioned, Eremis would at some point drop his name in reference to Marz. This, in his mind, only served to now make him a danger to his friend turned lover. If any of their enemies got a hold of him, he knew Marz would stop at nothing to free him. He had become the ultimate bargaining tool.

At first, he was a little turned off by the supposed realization. He had to be overdramatizing this a bit. Tristan the outcast dragon of Elendor could never in a million years play so important a part in something like this. He’d told himself he was so worthless in the grand scheme of things so many times that he’d really started to come to believe it. His father’s love for him had been rarely demonstrated, frequently merely acknowledged as something that was simply understood if scarcely mentioned, and Odarin’s had been simply hidden, if it had ever been there at all. So really the only person who had managed so far to make him begin to belief otherwise was Marz.

Not that he was in any way afraid—unless you counted the fear he now felt for Marz. But that, like his fear for Eremis, could be easily transformed into anger. He was suddenly enraged that someone would try to take one of the only people in this world whom Marz truly loved. And that they would use that to lure him into their trap…it set his teeth to grinding, it really did.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Erlic reentered the room, a somewhat determined, this-is-how-things-stand look on his face. Naturally, the list of injuries and casualties meant nothing to Tristan. Death of the innocent troubled him somewhat, especially as he became more and more acquainted with humans and other mortals, but it didn’t exactly set his blood to boiling. In effect, he lacked compassion not from any sense of being evil but merely through his own innocence.

He did frown, though, when Erlic described the appropriate reactions to come as personal to only four people in the room—presumably those who had been intimate friends with some of the tavern patrons. But Tristan wanted to speak, to point out and say, Excuse me, but anything that is personal to Marz is in return personal to me. But the chances of such a statement making him look like a sentimental sap and a fool stopped him from even coming close to opening his mouth.

Unfortunately, his aggitated feelings only managed to increase. “I suggest you think and chose carefully,” Erlic concluded, holding each of their eyes in turn with his own as he spoke, “This is really not your battle.”

“But it is my battle!” Tristan heard himself saying staunchly, though not really very loudly. He bit his tongue angrily, slightly embarrassed by his outburst, and hunched his shoulders forward somewhat. He stared worriedly down at his java mug before glancing at Marz.

“I want to tell you something,” he said, “Now. In private.”

Marz shrugged and nodded, and together they stood up and slipped just outside the room. Tristan paced a couple times before moving to lean his back against the wall, closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he ordered, though he thought it sounded like he were pleading instead. “I just really wanted to…had to, I guess…” This wasn’t going well. Here I am, he thought, biting his lip, pledging that I’ll stand by him, and I can’t find the guts to even say so aloud.

“I wanted to tell you that it’s not just your fight,” he finally said, his lower jaw sticking out stubbornly, his left hand clamped over his sword. “It’ll never be just your fight anymore. Anyone who tries to hurt you hurts me in turn.” Anxiously, he reached out with his other hand and fingered a clumpy strand of hair that had fallen over Marz’s eyes. “I just wanted to let you know that, that’s all. I had to say it out loud like this so you’d understand it.”

After a few seconds, he sighed and dropped his hand. He did feel foolish for speaking up, but at the same time he was glad he had. It was true in a sense that revenge was simply personal by nature, but there was still a subtle taste to it, in a way. They shared nearly everything now, their love, their possessions, their friends—and their battles.

Impulsively, he touched Marz’s hair again, surprising himself with a very slight smile. “You look like hell, yet again,” he muttered, shaking his head at the blood caked into the dark strands. “These crazy fanatics have to have some kind of water source around here. A cistern or well or something. We really oughta try looking for one, cause I don’t think I’ve ever seen you need a bath as much as you do now!”

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