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Date Posted: 00:04:04 01/29/02 Tue
Author: Tristan
Subject: Unexpected complications
In reply to: Erlic Eastlore 's message, "The expected attack" on 20:49:16 01/28/02 Mon

Tristan sighed with relief when Erlic nodded, indicating that he was through with him. He hurried away as quickly as possible, just in case the man should change his mind and call him back for more questioning. It had hurt his pride, anyway, to admit to that he realized the chakras were necessary, and didn’t want to give Erlic the chance to discuss the matter in detail. He was kind of afraid he’d get so worried about Marz, remembering what had happened the first time, that he’d freak out and tell him no all over again.

He was halfway on his way back to the campfire, however, when a sudden shout from Ravin stopped him short. He whirled around, facing the direction from which the other man’s voice had come, his hand hovering over the sword at his side. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated, until a strange memory echoed dimly inside his head.

Never draw your sword unless you are prepared to use it.

He shook his head. Stupid thing to remember. His teacher hadn’t meant it like that, anyway. When he’d asked why, the older dragon had simply answered, You’ll know when the time comes. He’d just assumed it to be a question of morality. Which was odd, because dragons weren’t supposed to have any sense of morality in the first place.

He glanced around nervously, but couldn’t see any signs of the attackers. Sounds of skirmishes could be heard from farther away, closer to the pond, but it was all still mostly out of sight. Deciding that his place was beside Marz, just in case the mage decided to strike a second time, he hurried onward instead of changing course.

Then it happened. He felt it—felt the power ripple like a wave of molten energy through the air as it coursed past him, almost pulsing with a life-force of its own. Seconds later, it was burning his nose, a crisp, acrid scent, so sharp he was surprised the mortals couldn’t smell it themselves. He felt its eerie call, too, its promise of ultimate power and control, singing like a Siren, whispering into his ear. He squinted and pushed his hands against his ears, as if he could block out its deadly pull merely by no longer listening.

The ground suddenly bucked beneath his feet, literally knocking him out of his hypnotic stupor. He stumbled, but didn’t fall, doing his best to balance cat-like on the unstable ground, the state of which was only worsened by the continuous perilously close lightning strikes. Gale-force winds sprung up in short bursts, physically pushing him in one direction or another. He was able to keep his feet on the ground, but making any vaguely forward progress was practically impossible.

Finally, it died down long enough for him to sprint the rest of the way, coming to a sliding halt as a nearby tree was struck violently by lightning. “NO!” he shouted, uselessly throwing his hands out as if to stop it, as the great hoary old desert oak was ripped violently from its roots and came plunging toward the earth, making as if to land right on top of Marz.

What happened next nearly gave him a heart attack, especially standing here as he was, thinking he was about to witness his lover’s death. A wild, flaming something suddenly roared into life, erupting from above the measly burning campfire and rearing up, catching the giant tree and tossing it roughly aside, where it landed harmlessly with an bone-thrumming crunch.

Tristan had no idea where the thing had come from, but he was beyond grateful to it for saving Marz (and, consequently, the nearby Saras and Jeremy, as well). He broke into a run again, falling to his knees when he reached Marz’s side. Already, he could feel the power in the air lessening, although it still gave brief, violent bursts, as if it were imitating the aftershocks of an immense earthquake.

Unfortunately, this still did not bode well for Marz. Tristan couldn’t tell if he were collapsed or still awake, for though his eyes were closed, his body still convulsed ever so slightly, and low, painful moans kept eeking their way out of his throat. Blood was trickling out of his nose once again, and the pain alone in his head was probably enough to knock him unconscious soon enough, if it hadn’t done so already.

Hesitantly, his heart in his throat, Tristan reached toward him. Just as his fingers were about to brush against his face, however, something seemed to fly out of nowhere, knocking him back several feet.

“You don’t want to touch him, Tristan.” He looked up into the face of the person who had barreled him into the ground, confusion coming to his face when he realized it was Corum. “He’s got to cool off first,” the other youth persisted. “Trust me on this.”

Corum held his eyes until Tristan nodded. Once he had the dragon’s cooperation, he leapt to his feet and raced off to fetch the healer. Tristan watched him go, a feeling of uncertainty creeping into his head. What did he mean, he had to cool off? He glanced over at Marz and crawled back to his side, the wind still occasionally whipping wildly about.

He just didn’t understand Corum’s warning. Marz had lost control of his power several times before, and Tristan had always been there, right beside him, wiping his forehead to help reduce the fever. Sure, he got extremely hot to the touch, but it was never so bad that it was necessary to keep your hands off of him. Still, Corum wouldn’t have reacted like that if he didn’t think it were serious. But…the sight of Marz lying on the ground helpless like that was too much for him. Impulsively, he reached out with both hands to touch his cheek, and maybe lift his head and shoulders up off the ground a bit.

White-hot fire seared into his skin, burning the palm of his left hand and the fingertips of his right. He cried out, tried to pull them back, but couldn’t—it was as if something were trying to pull him into it! Instantly, his dragonic instincts responded, sucking greedily at the intense magical energy, drawing it into himself through the direct, physical link he had inadvertently created. His own magic, long dormant, flared briefly into being, rising up within him like the pregnant fires of an ancient volcano.

Fortunately, the iron-strong shields his father had placed on his as a child leapt suddenly forward, closing in on him and burying his magic deep within him where it belonged. He yanked his hands away from Marz’s face with a yelp, sending a blinding white flash into the air. The sky cracked ominously with thunder overhead, but the storm was gradually fading away, drawing back in itself as the wild magic was once again laid to rest.

Tristan winced and cradled his burning hands against his chest, blinking away tears of pain as he did so. His whole body felt strange, though, as if it were all abuzz with magic, almost high even, as the stuff crackled and sizzled within him. He knew it was from Marz, though, since his own was once again pushed into submission, not to be accessed until he took the time to learn how.

Marz suddenly stirred slightly beside him, although his eyes remained closed. “Marz?” Tristan asked, although he dared not touch him now. A wave of deep relief washed over him as he realized Marz wasn’t dead, his chest now rising and falling normally as it should. Maybe it had been a good thing he’d reached out and accidentally stolen some of his power; otherwise, he might have died from what the mage (whoever he was) was doing to him.

Tristan didn’t really know, nor did he care. All he cared about was to see his lover safe again, and pronounced healthy by the healer. He waited anxiously, still cradling his injured hands, his eyes fastened steadfastly on the slack face of Marz.

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