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Rise of the Dawn
Faith
The last two weeks had passed in a blur of exhaustion, moral dilemmas, and moments Shumba knew he would cherish for the remainder of his life. It was all due to the fact that Halvaella was an island; no one entered and no one left. Its isolation was complete. Shut off and locked away, the outside world simply ceased to exist. Which, Shumba had learned, was as equal a blessing as it was a curse.
The first obstacle, of course, had occurred not an hour after their arrival, the trouble arising from the fact that, according to Haedkel, there was but one vacancy in the healers’ quarters. While it had been possible that they could free up more rooms elsewhere, she didn’t want Shumba endangered during his sleep. Thus, Haedkel had resolved that Ryunne and himself would have to share, and share close to her own sleeping chamber they would, as this was an area which the radius of her ‘feared tribal presence’ encompassed, thereby keeping them safe.
This should have been a perfectly fine arrangement seeing that the two of them had spent the last few days traveling in the sole company of each other, but Shumba was still suffering from his slight infatuation-with-Ryunne problem and it absolutely refused to go away. The Methrian was irresistible, and being forced to share a rather cramped room with his favorite under aged person was not helping matters at all. And yes, sometimes he stayed awake on purpose, waiting until Ryunne had fallen asleep and then he stared at him a little bit, but just for a minute or two and not in a creepy manner. The only saving grace about the whole situation was that he had hardly actually seen the slim Methrian as of late.
Indeed, it was mostly in glimpses or in passing that they saw each other at all, two instances of which remained clearly framed within Shumba’s mind and were ranked quite high amongst the aforementioned unforgettable moments.
The first had occurred five days ago, where finally prying himself from the sickly because it was either find food or faint, Shumba had wandered into the communal kitchens, which at late-afternoon were rather empty, and nearly died of heart failure. Ryunne, who had been working all manner of odd favors and duties for Haedkel, proved to be in the kitchen that fateful hour, and was fussing with a very peculiar food specimen, his hands, arms, and even the front of his apron-draped chest, smattered with blood.
At least what, as far as Shumba was concerned, appeared to be blood. Upon his alarmed and admittedly shrill demands of “what was he doing fussing with food when he was injured and bleeding and, and, and-” was met with utter silence and a bewildered blink. Luckily, the handful of other Methrians milling about couldn’t comprehend a word of Standard, and so after treating him to reproachful glares for disturbing the peace, moved on. Ryunne, however, had recovered after a moment and laughed outright at him, then with a playful smile, speculated that “hadn’t he ever seen a pomegranate before?”
Shumba had never seen a pomegranate before.
Apparently it was a strange fruit made up entirely of juice-filled seeds which, before freed from their peel, had a peculiar likeliness to glimmering rubies, but when plucked and accidentally squeezed, left a thick liquid that looked uncannily like spilled blood. It was also very delicious, particularly so when fed to you by a blushing Methrian with pink-stained fingers and similarly tinged lips. Hence the treasuring of this incident, though it really hadn’t done anything for his smitten-with-Ryunne problem, even if Shumba had now decided pomegranates were amongst his favorite fruit. If not the all-time favorite.
The second instance had passed the very night before and was thankfully not of the heart stopping variety. While searching for his Methrian with the strict objective in mind to send him to sleep as it was long past dusk, Shumba had discovered that Ryunne held a secret and most endearing affection for children. Children of the tiny and adorable type, in any case.
Haedkel had last enlisted Ryunne to help the beleaguered women in the makeshift nursery, and so following her directions, Shumba had stumbled across him purely by luck. He was tucked in a corner, curled into an aged, wooden chair, its broad arms covered in faded cushions and rather uncomfortable looking, but there he was, as deeply asleep as the baby cradled against his chest. It had been unspeakably adorable, and Shumba had stood, frozen in place, staring down at him for the Gods knew how long until one of the remaining nursery attendants swept into the room, snuck a hidden smile at Shumba, and without waking either of them, relieved Ryunne of the baby.
The privilege of carrying a sleeping and perfect Ryunne had then fallen to Shumba, who, not to miss such an opportunity, had whisked him away and after much moral conflict, simply put him to bed and not dared to wake him. He was fully aware that Ryunne would likely be mortified upon realizing that he had not only been carried, but literally ‘tucked in.’
It had still certainly been worth the chastising lecture Ryunne gave him the next morning about proper manners and not wasting his energy and, well, the rest of it was something of a blur. Ryunne had been mussed and sleepy and half his sputtering came out in Methrian he was so disoriented. Shumba had only grinned in answer and barely suppressed the urge to molest his unsuspecting companion.
Shumba was mostly convinced Ryunne had reamed him out in an effort to disguise and possibly ignore his furious blushing- in fact it had taken his cheeks a good twenty minutes to return to their normal bronze coloring. Something of which Shumba was rather pleased with, because Ryunne and flushed cheeks fit together like pomegranates and pink lips.
The rest of the week had been spent relatively uneventfully, if stemming a plague could be considered such, and Shumba wasn’t fond of braggarts, but they’d made incredible progress ever since his arrival. Though the gates still hadn’t opened, there hadn’t been a single death in the week since he’d come, and the number of those falling ill had slackened dramatically. It appeared Halvaella was on the mend, and it was finally starting to show. The town was cleaner, there were more people— healthy, cheerful people, bustling about, and the despairing stench which had clung to the air had all but dissipated.
Besides himself and Haedkel, there were three other healers, two nervous Methrian men and a young, easily flustered girl, all of which had never received proper training and had passed the majority of their lives hiding that they even possessed the Gift. However, bumbling as they were, the three were still better than nothing, of which Shumba constantly had to reassure Ryunne, who had asked him, at least a dozen times, if there were enough healers. In that regard he was so much like his brother it was almost unnerving, as just like Shanza, he was constantly fretting over situations he hadn’t the least control over.
Speaking of Ryunne, Shumba was once again seeking him out. He was also in search of food, which was convenient because he had an intuitive hunch his Methrian had once again been enslaved in the kitchens. Tugging the webbed rings from his fingers, Shumba slid them into a pocket obscured amongst the crisp layers of his rather flattering indigo Methrian-style shirt and patted it as an afterthought as he stepped out from the shade of Halvaella’s central temple-turned healing station, and into the excruciating afternoon heat.
Striding down the dusty street spread before him, a single, light sword swinging at his side and only one dagger hidden about his person, Shumba grinned a welcome as Elzera, the sole other female healer, passed him with a wave, headed for the very building he had left. He wasn’t wearing as much armor as he probably should have been, but it was blistering hot and healing made his entire body ache with weariness. The last thing he needed after a full day of treating the ailing was seventy pounds of metal weighing his torso, so he had abandoned it and hoped the Methrians would appreciate his endeavors enough to not backstab him.
Finally entering the spacious eating area, rows of worn tables and their accompanying benches stretching across the vast room, wide, gaping windows allowing a weak breeze to flutter though and offer some relief, the roof equally segmented to let streams of light flood in, Shumba headed past the scattered handful of occupants and into the actual kitchen. As he had anticipated, Ryunne was indeed there.
So was Haedkel. Neither noticed him at first, as both were leaning against a broad cooking table, Ryunne cutting yet another peculiar vegetable of some kind while Haedkel inspected an even stranger fruit, the two of them speaking in rolling, incomprehensible Methrian.
Clearing his throat, Shumba instantly regretted the action because Ryunne’s hand slipped and he almost sliced his own thumb off he was so startled. Haedkel, however, simply arched an eyebrow at Shumba and plucked Ryunne’s knife away.
“What can we do for you, Shumba?” Haedkel drawled, pushing freshly cut vegetables into piles with her stolen knife. “You must be hungry.”
However Shumba was distracted from answering, because he’d just noticed that Ryunne was blushing, not that it was an unusual occurrence, but now he couldn’t help but wonder what they’d been discussing. Usually it was him which evoked the flushing, and so that left very little question as to who must have been the topic of their gossip. Shumba eyed them dubiously.
“Why don’t you have a seat? Your head is drifting,” Haedkel suggest, nudging a stool towards him. Distracted from his suspicions, as Shumba wasn’t entirely certain what that meant, he eventually concluded it was probably one of Haedkel’s many desert sayings that didn’t translate quite clearly. She was probably teasing him for his preoccupation once again. Though at least she’d left Ryunne out of it.
Sliding onto the offered seat, Shumba cracked his sore knuckles and protested, “My head is perfectly fine, thank you very much.”
Both Haedkel and Ryunne’s eyes swiveled towards him at this, twin incredulous smirks pulling at their lips as Shumba stared nonchalantly back. Shifting on his perch and blinking, Shumba decided that Ryunne had been spending way too much time around Haedkel for anyone’s liking. Particularly his own.
Placing several slices of cooked meat and cheese, a slab of coarse bread, and half a raw squash on a plate to his right, Ryunne presented it to Shumba. Smiling when the guard accepted, Ryunne watched Shumba pick at the flaking loaf and let him eat in peace for a moment before inquiring, genuinely worried, “You’re not tired, are you?” All of the healers, save Haedkel and Shumba, were showing more and more strain as the days wore on.
“Me? Not on your life. My stamina is unmatched,” Shumba boasted, quite unabashed, black eyebrows waggling for emphasis, and Ryunne was forced to duck away in a vain attempt to hide the warm flush rising in his cheeks. Beside them, Haedkel snorted her disagreement and flicked a hard chunk of vegetable at Shumba, which he only barely managed to avoid, his battle-honed instincts thankfully rescuing his forehead from certain pain and indignity.
“Eat your lunch, sea-seeker,” Haedkel ordered, unfazed as she peeled the dirt-encrusted skin from a bruised fruit, informing, “Vesran stopped here looking for you not five minutes ago. He just missed you. I’m surprised you didn’t catch him in the hall.”
“What?” Shumba protested around a mouthful of meat, “Well what did he want? He should have known I was in the-”
Smirking at him, Haedkel obliged before Shumba had even voiced the words, “That’s where we sent him. He was seeking your advice.”
“Why didn’t he ask you?” Shumba wondered, having finally managed to swallow his food.
“He doesn’t trust me,” Haedkel countered with another barbed smirk.
That made Shumba pause. Then very slowly, making certain he held Haedkel’s gaze, Shumba speculated, “Are you saying… that I’m preferable to you?”
“You’re the Serpent’s guard,” Ryunne interjected quietly, his eyes angled downwards, not daring to look at either of them.
“Huh,” Shumba mulled that one over, peered intently at Ryunne, then directed at the both of them, “Was it urgent?”
“I think so.”
Shumba leveled Haedkel with yet another incredulous glower. “You think so?”
“He wouldn’t say,” Haedkel drawled her reminder and gave a bemused, unconcerned shrug.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble catching up to him…” Ryunne proposed, chewing at his lip in an utterly irresistible manner, and Shumba stifled a groan. Gods, he was so entirely not interested in tracking Vesran down; he’d only just found Ryunne and, not to be petulant, but he’d been looking forward to prodding more adorable blushes out of the Methrian all morning. Though now it appeared his daydreaming had all been in vain.
“Ryunne,” Shumba started, then promptly stopped, realizing he hadn’t the slightest idea what he’d intended to say. Serpent, how could he be speechless yet again?
“Yes?” Ryunne prompted, blinking at Shumba.
Needing something to disguise his strange bought of tongue-tied awkwardness, Shumba stalled by slipping his rings from their pocket and securing them about his fingers. Recovered, Shumba then pointed a long forefinger at Ryunne, the golden web draped between his knuckles chiming faintly with the jarring movement, and commanded, “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Before Ryunne could even open his mouth to reply, Shumba was through the doorway and had disappeared, his booted feet beating a crisp fading rhythm down the adjoining hallway.
It took a moment, but after recovering from the guard’s swift departure, Ryunne nudged Shumba’s plate towards himself and tapped a single nail against it, sighing morosely, “He didn’t even finish his lunch.”
Haedkel, still smirking at Shumba’s retreating form, spared Ryunne a wry glance. “I wouldn’t worry. He’ll be back, remember?”
Relenting to a soft laugh, Ryunne shook his head, retrieved his knife, and was about to resume his former duties when he nearly sliced his own thumb off for the second time that afternoon.
“You like him, don’t you?”
Stilling, Ryunne peered at the vegetables splayed before in consternation. Haedkel had not asked him that. She just hadn’t. So either the food was talking to him or he’d imagined it entirely. But... no. That was even more ridiculous than Haedkel having just said the impossible.
Exhaling slowly, hoping to calm his splintered composure, Ryunne faced Haedkel, deciding it was best to satisfy her before she started asking worse questions of him, and deflected, “I’m sorry, I- I misheard. What did you say?”
Haedkel stared at him, unimpressed, and she didn’t have to repeat herself. Those whirling turquoise eyes of hers, now narrowed at him, declared quite clearly that she knew he’d heard and no amount of his feigning ignorance was going to fool her.
“I-” Choking on his words, Ryunne finally managed to not trip over his own tongue and tried, “What makes you think that?”
“It’s obvious.”
Ryunne set the knife down. Then running his palms down the front of his shirt, smoothing the coarse material, he offered no reply as Haedkel continued to scrutinize him.
“He doesn’t know,” Haedkel stated, then tilting her chin so she could better inspect him, added, “Why not?”
Ryunne was silent for a painfully awkward stretch of time before he relented and divulged, his voice so low Haedkel had to strain to catch it, “He’s- He’s not-” Faltering, Ryunne twisted away. Shumba wasn’t interested. Not in the way that he... Ducking his head and hiding behind the veil of dark, disheveled strands that had escaped his tie, Ryunne whispered, “He thinks I’m too young.”
“Are you certain?” Haedkel’s brow had furrowed and she was staring at him even more intensely now.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Ryunne huffed and parroted her, “It’s obvious.”
“How so?”
“Haedkel, I’m not an idiot,” Ryunne snapped, frustrated and embarrassed at baring such things to the formidable tribal healer. He wanted to keep this to himself. It was supposed to be his secret, and no one had to know. Then there was no risk of rejection and humiliation and pity.
But then there had always been something enigmatic and slightly eerie about Haedkel since the moment he’d met her. It was impossible to either avoid or lie to her. Warmth rising in his cheeks, ashamed by his temper, Ryunne turned back to the table and resumed fiddling with Shumba’s plate. “I know I’m not… I’m not-” Biting his lip, Ryunne continued hiding from Haedkel, dismissing, “It doesn’t matter.”
Her harsh scrutiny fading to a frown, Haedkel leaned closer, concerned, and protested, “Sweetling-”
“Haedkel!” She was interrupted as a harried messenger skidded in from the outside hallway, rescuing Ryunne from further humiliation and peril as he warned, “You’re needed in the South Court—it’s most urgent!”
“Come,” Haedkel instructed Ryunne, striding to the door, and he followed without question, only vaguely remembering that Shumba had instructed him to ‘stay’ quite adamantly and the guard wasn’t likely to be pleased when and if he returned to find the space empty.
“It’s worrisome,” Erakil decided at Shanza’s inquisitive glance.
Shanza nodded his agreement, troubled. Then promptly rubbing the grimace from his forehead with his thumb, as he was hoping to avoid having permanent lines of worry etched into his skin, Shanza ruefully concluded that he’d been spending altogether too large a portion of his time troubled as of late, though it seemed little could be done to prevent it.
“Even if it was raiders,” Shanza sighed, “Ikeda’s not going to be happy about this.”
The carcass of Ikeda’s defeated dragon had been, well— looted. In addition to there not being a great deal one could steal from a dragon’s body, as they were immense creatures, Shakhty had posted guards to watch over it, and yet the beast had still fallen victim to thieves. Only two things had been taken, and they were by far the most valuable. The dragon had lost each of its eyes, and where they were now, only the Gods knew for certain.
Mulling this over, Shanza speculated, “Seeing as Ikeda killed the dragon, I suppose that, technically, they belonged to him.”
“He would never have kept them near you.”
Dragon eyes, or rather the hard, ruby-like orbs within, were the only known force with the exception of water that could render a Numa’s power useless. Whoever possessed them had nothing to fear from the Gift; they would be immune. The Gifted, however, had a great deal to fear, as like water, the precious stones sapped their power.
They were rare, extremely so, and nearly impossible to obtain. Yet Ikeda had unwittingly provided two more and now they were as lost as if the desert sands had swallowed them. And now that Shanza considered it, perhaps that would have been better.
“I know,” Shanza granted, “I do. It’s just-” He paused and sighed once more. “You know how he gets about- about me.”
The fact that two little gems with the ability to incapacitate him had gone missing was more than a little unsettling, and Shanza had no doubts as to how Ikeda would react. “And right now he already has enough to-” Falling silent, Shanza peered down the cramped street, distracted as he sorted through his thoughts, his grimace resurfacing in full force.
Crossing bare, gold-marked arms across his front, Shanza huffed, exasperated at his dilemma. He had plenty to fret over, and this was quite possibly the last thing he wanted to brood about, as there were much more important issues at the forefront of his worries. The first and foremost of them being the Thanobian in question.
Erakil stared at him for a long moment, then, “I suppose you could forget to inform him.”
Shanza stared at Erakil even longer. So long, in fact, that the guard was forced to narrow dark eyes at him and shift his posture, intending to rouse the Serpent from his stupor and provoke a reply.
“I suppose… I could postpone it,” Shanza eventually consented, though he truly loathed the idea of lying or otherwise deceiving Ikeda. Besides which, it would only fuel Ikeda’s eventual outrage if and when he discovered Shanza had been dishonest—and the fact that he had done so out of concern for the Dragon’s own well-being would only quicken that anger.
They were interrupted from further scheming, however, when footsteps scuffed against the courtyard’s cracked foundation and Elmira passed through the open gate, Shanza’s evira cradled in front of her. Scrutinizing first Erakil and then Shanza, Elmira swept closer without preamble and extended the gold-plated gloves towards the Serpent, her gaze meeting his and holding it.
Following the dragon incident, Elmira had grown noticeably more civil, which meant she had become entirely more agreeable towards Shanza. Although that didn’t mean they had reconciled. Likely only the passage of time and further patience would heal the long-established and still festering wounds between them. Nevertheless, their relationship had improved beyond Shanza’s greatest hopes.
“Some of the gold was tarnished, and several of the jewels chipped. I don’t know what you’ve been up to,” Elmira paused to eye him emphatically, “But I had them polished and repaired. I apologize for the wait, though it appears no ill came from it.”
“Thank you,” Shanza accepted them from her, appreciative.
As he slipped his evira over each wrist, securing them against his forearms and admiring their gleaming shine, Elmira questioned, cutting off any further gratification Shanza could think to voice, “How fares the Dragon?”
Stilling, his arms once again adorned by the evira’s familiar, reassuring weight, Shanza peered at the manor sprawled before them, his eyelashes lidded against the sun. “His injuries are healing, but-” Ikeda was… Shanza couldn’t quite explain, save to say that Ikeda wasn’t entirely himself. He was… He was… “He’s well,” Shanza settled with a dismissive shake of his head, adding, “In a week you may even be rid off us.”
“There’s no hurry,” Elmira told him smoothly, and went on to remind, “We’ve suffered you this long. I’m sure another few weeks won’t bring anyone undue harm.” Then she smiled, almost indistinguishable, a hint of white teeth beneath curved lips, taking the sting from her words and sharing the jest with her son.
Shanza smiled back, soft and amused, before allowing Elmira to lead him towards the manor, Erakil and his numerous weapons clinking behind him, the guard subdued and contemplative as they escaped the hot afternoon air. Once inside the shaded shelter of indoors, Shanza abandoned both Erakil and his mother on the main floor, and mounting the twisting steps to the upper level alone, paced slowly down the hallway, each of his steps measured and quiet.
Reaching their room, Shanza slipped inside, the door sliding shut after him. Leaning against its sturdy support, he surveyed his surroundings for a delayed moment. He was stalling and he knew it, but he needed to gather his thoughts. Letting long lashes flutter shut, Shanza exhaled a weary breath before opening them once more.
Sunlight, red-hued and muted, shone through clothed windows, highlighting the bed- the empty bed, and spilling across the rutted surface of the floor. An hour previous, Ikeda had been asleep; he had spent most of his time sleeping these past two weeks. Ikeda was healing, and healing quickly at that, but his battle against the dragon and the ensuing wounds had certainly leeched his strength.
While Shanza was slightly-- and very secretly-- glad of Ikeda’s forced rest, the Dragon himself was finding it nothing short of infuriating. Shanza was quite aware of how increasingly frustrated his partner was growing, indeed it was impossible to miss, as it had to be admitted that Ikeda wasn’t exactly an ideal patient. The Thanobian had always been dominant, self-reliant, and strong. However now, constantly faced with his own weakness and vulnerability, Ikeda’s once unshakeable confidence was splintering. And that wasn’t all.
Though Ikeda slept much of the day, his dreams were broken by nightmares so vivid they roused not only himself but Shanza as well. In turn, Shanza had only been able to glean that they possessed dragons and death and sometimes himself, and because Ikeda wouldn’t speak about them, of course he wouldn’t, he spent the majority of his depleted energy deflecting Shanza’s concern.
Shanza, however, was rapidly becoming exasperated with this routine. He had every intention of confronting Ikeda, whether he wanted to discuss the subject or not. He didn’t know how else to help him, and Ikeda’s attempts to ignore his troubles were very obviously not succeeding.
Shanza treaded towards the man in question, having spotted him reclining in a cushioned chair on the opposite side of the room, an expansive rectangular window unveiled and open before him, though it offered no reprieve from the insufferable heat. Then again, Ikeda seemed not to notice the weather, for his eyes, pale and tight, were transfixed upon the maze-like interior of Penira.
Tangled streets and whitewashed buildings met his inspection, spreading into the distance like a great unearthed ant colony, the city’s crooked homes and looming towers stemmed only by the glittering expanse of the ocean, just visible beyond a harbor choked with ships. Like the ruffled wings of lazy seagulls the sails flapped with the sea’s breeze, sun-bleached and nearly indistinguishable, against the far-off horizon.
“Ikeda?”
Ikeda seemed not to hear him, his gaze still fixed, unfaltering and intense, beyond the window’s frame.
Drawing nearer, Shanza studied Ikeda, who had likely just bathed, for his hair was wet and his chest, shirtless, was still slightly damp. He wore no bindings either, as both himself and Shanza had opted on letting the healing burns and fresh scars breathe unhindered. Free of all constriction, defined muscles along his shoulders and arms gleamed both from the water and harsh sunlight spread across his tanned skin, skin which was still speckled with fading bruises, mending cuts and the hardened memory of painful heat-evoked blisters.
Shanza reached out and laid two fingers on his shoulder, a whisper of a touch, and Ikeda started so violently that both of them jerked as if stung.
“Shanza-” Ikeda began only to stop, almost gasping his partner’s name he was so startled.
Having learned better than to ask how Ikeda was feeling, or whether he was ‘all right’ or not in the previous days, Shanza simply stared at him, wishing his eyes weren’t stretched so wide because he really didn’t want to appear as alarmed as he felt.
But he couldn’t seem to control his features and his hand was still poised, as if stuck, several inches above Ikeda’s torso. Worst of all, his stomach had knotted itself and he was feeling more helpless than ever: Ikeda was worrying him. He couldn’t remember a time when the Thanobian had been either so very detached or… skittish.
“I-” Awkwardly, Shanza retracted his arm and murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Ikeda assured, sounding more himself, but he was still a few shades paler than normal.
Not entirely certain as to how he should proceed, as Ikeda had been rather withdrawn recently, though not quite this badly, along with the fact that he truly didn’t want to provoke an argument, Shanza teetered, indecisive, before settling, “Shakhty and I spoke today.”
When Ikeda made no comment, Shanza continued, “He commended your bravery. I… he thinks quite highly of you, you know. He said he’d never seen such a display of courage, that he-”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ikeda intervened, sharp and conclusive, before glancing away.
Folding both arms over his front, Shanza glowered down at Ikeda in displeasure. He was proud of his Dragon; why couldn’t Ikeda be proud of himself?
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Shanza informed him, an edge to his voice. But instead of replying, Ikeda’s stare had dropped from Shanza’s face and was now examining the fresh mars, clearly visible, along his own arms and chest. “Ikeda,” Shanza pressed, “You have done a great thing.” He deserved respect, and even more than that, he deserved to have peace.
However, in the same manner that the last week had passed, Ikeda was deaf to the Serpent’s words. He had no wish to pursue this topic, and so he refused Shanza’s comfort just as he had refused his advice.
Rising to his feet in one stiff, curt motion, forcing Shanza to pace backwards several steps and still unwilling to reply, Ikeda turned from him and walked towards the bed, snagging a black shirt from the chest at its base. Pulling his arms through the sleeves but leaving the ties undone, cloth sticking to his damp skin, Ikeda glanced briefly at the ceiling, then met Shanza’s thoroughly unimpressed glare.
Sighing, Ikeda placated, “I’m fine.” And when Shanza’s cheeks flushed with indignant responding fury, Ikeda embellished, “With the fight, with the dragon, with… all of it. I am. I just don’t like the reminder. That’s all.”
Softening, Shanza lost his rigid posture. He was reluctant to raise the subject with Ikeda, as sometimes he was indeed fine, though more often than not he was distant and downright moody.
“You’ve been very quiet,” Shanza murmured, pale arms curled about himself as if to ward off the Dragon’s recently unpredictable temper.
Both hands resting against his sides, the newly acquired scars tight across the breadth of his back, Ikeda exhaled lowly, “I’m tired.”
“I know.”
Realizing that the Serpent wasn’t about to relent and abandon the subject simply because he wished it, as he had done the last two weeks, Ikeda paused and considered his partner.
Standing a hesitant, wary foot across from him, Shanza was so uncomfortable he was almost emanating unhapinnes. Indeed, it almost tainted the air around them, and Ikeda disguised a remorseful wince. He hadn’t meant to be so short with the Serpent. Shanza meant everything to him; Shanza comprised his entire world. The fight against the dragon had, at the very least, cemented that truth.
But Ikeda really, truly did not want to discuss that incident now or ever. He knew full well what Shanza was hedging at, however his nightmares were no one’s business save his own. He was supposed to protect Shanza, to be strong and infallible and not worry him with situations which had no feasible solution.
His dreams would recede eventually, if only Shanza would leave them alone. “Shanza-”
“It’s not just going to stop, to vanish and go away!” Shanza interrupted, momentarily rendering Ikeda speechless at the fact that they’d grown so close the Serpent could, apparently, read his very thoughts. And so he failed to reply before Shanza continued, freeing him from his astonishment, “There’s a reason, there’s a problem behind them, and no amount of your ignoring it will solve anything. You have to realize this,” Shanza’s vehemence dissolved into pleading, desperate for Ikeda to understand.
His features masked, the beginning tendrils of anger simmering beneath his carefully controlled neutrality, Ikeda repeated once again, “I don’t want to talk about it.” Deciding the conversation was now over, Ikeda made to turn away when Shanza snapped.
“I’m your partner!”
The yell took him by surprise and Ikeda froze mid-step. A cautious glance at Shanza revealed that the Serpent was rather riled, indeed. His hands were fisted and trembling, almost imperceptibly, and there was a suppressed, dangerous yellow hue encroaching upon the usual deep emerald of his irises.
Ikeda was faintly disgruntled to note that Shanza had, sometime during the past morning, reacquired his evira, and they were as sensitive to his moods as ever.
“Shanza-”
He didn’t get the chance to finish. The veiled, torpid scent of acrid spices abruptly dissipated, and with it the aggravation and anger bled from Shanza’s frame.
Crossing the tensed space between them in two strides, fingers curled around the huge, cool stone embedded within the gold coiled about his palms, Shanza appealed, his voice faded to a whisper, “Don’t shut me out! Everything we’ve done, everything we’ve been through and fought through… Let me help you,” Shanza implored. “If we don’t have each other, what do we have?”
“Shanza, it’s not about you,” Ikeda deflected, once again attempting to turn from the Serpent. “Nothing’s wrong. I just need time to-”
He needed time to let the horrible all-consuming terror abate, to bury the lingering fear which seemed to have seeped into his bones, invading both his dreams and stalking his waking hours. His body wanted nothing other than sleep and the truth was he hardly had the strength for anything else. He, Ikeda Keftalar, was weak and vulnerable and he couldn’t bear it. This wasn’t how he was supposed to be!
“To what? How much time, Ikeda?” Shanza countered, his usual patience frayed by his own helplessness, “It doesn’t help, it doesn’t. Time mends nothing. I know.”
How long had his own past haunted and hounded him? How long had loneliness and isolation crippled him? Ikeda should have known better. He had lived that life once, they both had. Time only let old wounds fester and harden, and Shanza wasn’t about to watch as Ikeda went through that again. He should have known better, he should have known to let Shanza in, not to shut him out. After all they had been through, why couldn’t Ikeda trust him to be strong for them both?
But Ikeda wasn’t about to be placated. His wrath invoked and goaded on by his discomfort, he sneered, “You know? What do you know?” His temper flared like a beast unleashed, untamed and erratic. From the shadows of dulled pain which whispered about his injuries and the fear that throbbed with them to the all-pervading tiredness, eating at his energy and rendering him constantly weak, amid the prophetic dreams and the ever growing sense of foreboding, Ikeda didn’t have the will for patience.
Shanza had to understand.
Ikeda had not won that battle, only two weeks and a life time ago. He had lost his strength, lost his pride, lost his courage and his poise and his confidence. He almost felt as if he had lost himself. Stripped of his strength… he was nothing. And he could never, never let anyone witness how bare and terrified and ashamed he had become. Not even Shanza. Especially not Shanza.
He had to keep him back, had to protect him. Gesturing sharply at his chest, Ikeda snarled, “Look at me!”
“I am!”
“It’s so easy for you to- look at you.” Ikeda advanced on Shanza, vindictive, “Look at yourself, Shanza!” The impossible smoothness of his ivory skin, the silken wheat coloring of his hair, the glimmering golden serpent coiled across his lithe frame, his long, slender limbs and graceful fingers... How could Shanza possibly see him with anything but aversion? “Look at how beautiful and perfect you are! I see it every day. How do you think I compare?”
Shanza shrank back a defensive step, confused and sputtering, “Compare? Who’s comparing? Who cares? I’ve told you, I-” His eyes falling to the familiar, darkened and withered surface of Ikeda’s abdomen, Shanza tried haltingly, “Your scars, your burns, they’re nothing to be ashamed of! Why are so- why do you… I have never-”
Hurt and sorrow etched into his expression, curving his lips and creasing his brow, Shanza lapsed into silence, unable to conjure the words. He couldn’t form his thoughts into coherency, just as he was equally incapable of translating his love and devotion into something tangible. Ikeda was frightening him and Shanza needed so badly to help him heal.
Stricken by the pain on Shanza’s face, Ikeda’s anger receded swift as a swollen tide pulled back to the sea and, wavering on suddenly unsteady legs, he lowered to the chest at the bed’s foot and sat, scarred fingers tangling in drying curls.
“It’s not you, Shanza,” He murmured, remorseful and mollified. And that was the truth. It was just about everything but Shanza at this point.
“If it’s not… then why are you pushing me away?” Whether intentional or not, Ikeda was keeping him held at a safe arm’s distance. He wouldn’t let Shanza in, wouldn’t confide in him, wouldn’t trust him to find a solution; he wouldn’t even accept his help. “I’m your partner. Why can’t you trust me? To be vulnerable, to be hurt, to need help—that is not weakness! You don’t have to be strong and fearless and perfect. Not with me.”
“Yes I do!”
“You can’t!” Shanza countered hoarsely. “No one can! Look at what it’s doing to you to try! You can’t be perfect, you can’t be fearless, you can’t always be strong. You’re human, Ikeda, flesh and blood. You hold yourself to a standard too high; it’s impossible. It’s not real. You can’t.”
Glowering up at Shanza, who was still standing and thus irritatingly taller than him, Ikeda was so riled he could barely speak, which was just as well because the Serpent cut him off before he could even begin, “You-”
“Before we met, this is how you were. Yes, you were feared and respected and all may have seen you as flawless. But you were alone, and you were miserable. You did it to yourself! And you’re doing it now. Don’t push me away!”
“What do you want me to say?” Ikeda huffed back, incredulous and growing ever more defensive, though he didn’t want to fight with Shanza. There had already been enough anger shared between them only minutes before, and it very obviously hadn’t led to any solutions. “Admit I was afraid? I already have! But that fight is finished. I’m over it.”
Stiffening, Shanza crossed uncompromising arms over his front and leveled Ikeda with a particularly low blow, “Your dreams would speak otherwise.”
“They’re dreams!” Ikeda spat, barely managing to rein in a hot rush of indignant fury, and he sent Shanza a reproving grimace to show he hadn’t appreciated the sharp comment. “I can’t control them anymore than I can convince you that I’m fine. Which I am.”
Shanza couldn’t summon a reply, and his arms slid from their tight hold across his chest, falling listless to his sides. Ikeda… wouldn’t see. Even if he spent the entire afternoon shouting at the Thanobian, Ikeda wouldn’t change, not if he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want to hear it.
His stare fixed on the floor at Ikeda’s feet, he followed the Dragon’s shins, moved up past his knees and thighs to scrutinize just above the buckle of his belt, where discolored, hardened mars masked the toned muscles of Ikeda’s abdomen. They writhed across his skin, twisted and mangled it. Like an oil painting smeared before it had set, so the dark scars appeared, splashed over the comparable paleness of the rest of him.
Shanza studied the prominent burn that spanned Ikeda’s stomach, traced it to his ribs where the long-healed wound then splintered into smaller, raised ridges that peppered his upper body. Shanza’s fingertips knew them well, knew the contours and plains they mapped across Ikeda’s torso.
“Tell me you’re not ashamed of your scars,” Shanza spoke so quietly that the uttered demand blended into the thickened silence of the room around them. But Ikeda didn’t miss it, nor did he fail to note the unsaid, following quick on the heels of Shanza’s appeal: don’t lie.
Every muscle in Ikeda’s body stiffened, coiling like a snake about its prey, ever tighter and suffocating in vehement reproach to Shanza’s barbed request. The Serpent certainly wasn’t interested in pulling his punches. Narrowed eyes slowly rising to meet Shanza’s shadowed ones, Ikeda held them as he retorted softly, his question just as hurtful, “What of your Gift?”
“I’m not ashamed,” Shanza whispered. But his hands had curled around the black stones glimmering against the paleness of his palms, and there was an undeniable rawness to his voice. “Not anymore. It’s part of me; it will always be part of me. I accept that.”
Ikeda shook his head, teeth gritted. “It’s not the same. The Gift protects you, gives you power and abilities others can only imagine. What do… what does this-” Ikeda indicated his chest with a curt wave of his hand, wondering bitterly, “-do for me? Remind me of my faults and my failures? What good is that? Or is its use in serving as a constant reminder of how disfigured and repulsive I am?”
“You are not-” Shanza choked, the word lodging, black and ugly, in his throat. “I don’t think that, I’ve never-”
Surging to his feet and straightening to his full, impressive height, Ikeda loomed over Shanza as he spat, “I think it! I do!”
That was the truth—and so was the reality that Shanza couldn’t possibly not be repelled by the abhorrent mess that was his body. He remembered the staring and the whispering and the pity. He remembered the comments, the horror, the disgust. It was them, some now faceless, others, like his mother, clear figures in his mind, but mostly it was himself.
Flinching at the harsh confession, Shanza stayed where he was and met the Dragon’s glower, and Ikeda’s eyes were so icy and guarded their past months together might as well not have happened. There was none of the openness, nor any hint of the trust and affection Ikeda had shared with him since their horrible escapades in Cathand. It was gone.
“Ikeda,” Shanza pleaded, growing ever more desperate. He didn’t know what to do and Ikeda was retreating even as Shanza tried vainly to engage him, “Don’t shut me out!”
Shanza reached for his shirt, intending to strip Ikeda of his cover. He had to prove the scars roused no aversion in him. They never had. The Dragon had to see that, had to witness the pride, the desire and devotion that Shanza held for his beautiful, magnificent partner, if only Ikeda would let him. And if Ikeda loved him… if Ikeda loved him he wouldn’t--
Ikeda slapped Shanza’s hand away. Then he stepped back, out of his reach. “Leave it.” Tugging his shirt shut and fastening the ties at his side in stiff, brisk movements, he masked the terrible blemishes sprawled across his front, closing them off to both the world’s eyes and Shanza’s. Ikeda then turned and left the room without a backwards glance, the slamming of the door ringing sharp finality behind him.
“What happened?” Haedkel demanded, her voice crisp and forceful, immediately garnering the attention of the frantic Methrians clustered before a towering section of the South Square’s surrounding wall. They balked at both her and the authority in her tone, indeed several of them even shied away from the formidable tribal woman.
Behind her, Ryunne was glad to stand in Haedkel’s shadow, unnoticed by the group nervously assessing the Gifted interloper and for once not the subject of her unnerving intensity. Besides the half-dozen people idling in front of Haedkel, there was a group of children, all of their dusty cheeks tear-tracked, being herded and hovered over by a young boy a short distance away.
Peering past them and back to the closer Methrians, Ryunne followed the down-turned gaze of a young girl, dressed in billowing, dusty orange, who was incessantly wringing her hands, the golden bracelets smothering her arms clattering each time she did so. Her stare was rooted slightly beyond her own feet, never wavering from its fixation on an iron, ornamental, and very weather-beaten cover belonging to one of the many drainage tunnels that led to the town’s underground waterway.
These grated lids of sorts were intended to both conserve water and combat flooding in the stormy spring season, though it had not rained in Halvaella for over twenty years, and perhaps that explained its neglected state. Wondering at a time when water had not only been abundant, but in excess, Ryunne tried and failed to imagine such a foreign thing. For as long as he had lived, Methron had been plague by drought.
Somehow, however, Ryunne suspected it wasn’t mere coincidence that the townspeople were standing, awkward and helpless, in a loose circle around the damaged opening. Several of the iron rungs were twisted and bent outwards, while two towards the middle had been eroded and worn to such a degree that only the ends remained, and so like the gap-toothed mouth of a child, it smiled up at them, the steep drop beneath it as dark and inhospitable as one’s pharynx.
It was the girl in orange who eventually answered Haedkel, though she wouldn’t meet the healer’s penetrating gaze. “The children were playing and- and I just looked away for a moment, but one,” Sniffing, she snuck a fleeting, guilty glance at Haedkel, but dropped her eyes before continuing, “He- he slipped through the grating, and we can’t reach him and- and he won’t respond. The fall… he might not have-”
“Send someone down,” Haedkel intervened, stemming the young girl’s hysterics, her dark features black as the earth and utterly unruffled.
“We can’t,” the girl sniffed again, forlorn, “The hinges are rusted shut and the gap’s too small for anyone but a child to-”
Ryunne was eyeing the narrow space even as she spoke. It didn’t look that small. Certainly someone of a slender, shorter stature could squeeze through it; in fact Ryunne was fairly confident the gap would be quite able to accommodate his admittedly slight frame. Surveying the loose semi-circle of people, it shouldn’t have surprised Ryunne to find that he was the slimmest Methrian about, save for the remaining children. Even the young girl outweighed him by a good twenty pounds.
Noting his thoughtful expression, Haedkel focused her full, unblinking attention on him, which he was thankfully growing more accustomed to and was therefore capable of replying without tumbling over his own tongue when she prompted, “Ryunne?”
“I think…” Ryunne paused, blushing and not entirely sure why. Haedkel, and particularly Shumba, who was mercifully not present, seemed to have that effect on him regardless of what he was doing. “I think I might be able to fit through it,” He murmured, meaning only for Haedkel to hear him, but the square had gone conveniently silent just as he’d answered.
Haedkel inspected the grating, appeared to contemplate it for a moment, then returned to Ryunne. “Are you certain?”
Embarrassed, as at least a dozen pairs of eyes were now ogling his face, Ryunne ducked his head, hiding behind the dark strands which had escaped his tie, and echoed his earlier statement, “I think so.”
“Fetch a rope,” Haedkel demanded of a man hovering anxiously at her elbow, who was all too happy to oblige her. Watching as he sprinted across the Square, skirting the parched skeleton of what had once been a small garden, though now all that remained was a twisted, sun-bleached stump of a date palm tree marking the center, and then disappeared into a nearby home, Haedkel nodded in satisfaction and her concentration shifted back to Ryunne.
Gripping his shoulders, Haedkel frowned, the fine links of gold looped between her fingers warm through the coarse material of his shirt as she advised gravely, “Sweetling, it could be a very long drop. This is not safe.”
“I know.”
Turquoise irises, bright and penetrating, considered him as Haedkel reasoned without hesitation, “The boy probably did not survive.”
Ryunne swallowed uncomfortably but didn’t flinch. “I know.”
“Are you certain?” Haedkel repeated, her frown not having diminished. “You have no doubts?”
“I’m sure.”
Lips pinched, she arched a pearly, skeptical brow at him and informed, “Shumba is going to be very angry when he learns of this.”
Sighing, Ryunne objected, “Haedkel-” He did not want to discuss that rather delicate subject, especially considering their present situation. It was neither the place, nor the time— not that Ryunne would ever really be willing to dispute this with her, but that was beside the point.
Mercifully, any further discussion was interrupted when the Methrian man returned, rope in hand, and offered it to Haedkel. Sufficiently distracted from haranguing Ryunne, Haedkel examined it critically and tested the coarse hemp with several deft tugs before finally deciding, “Good, this should do.”
Leading Ryunne towards the tarnished iron cover, the rest of the nervous Methrians shuffling back to give them room to maneuver, Haedkel knelt down, squinted through the gaps but could see nothing, and so with a casual shrug, she began knotting one end of the rope around the strongest of the grate’s rungs. Dark, defined muscles along her arms flexed with the movement, tensing when she pulled the braided hemp tight, only to tie another, determined to make Ryunne’s anchor as sturdy as possible.
Standing above her, Ryunne eyed the opening once more. Not only would it be mortifying if, after all their trouble, he couldn’t actually fit past the bars, but the details of what he had volunteered to attempt were just now occurring to him.
Haedkel had been right, of course: they didn’t know how deep the chute led, nor if the boy even lived. He hadn’t answered anyone’s calls, and there had been no sound from below since Ryunne and Haedkel had arrived. When Ryunne descended, there would be no light, no space, and no one to help him should anything unsavory happen. And the thought of venturing into that black, foreboding pit only to retrieve the boy’s broken body made Ryunne’s blood run cold, despite the afternoon’s blistering heat.
His fingers clenched around the rope as if to combat the chill of his thoughts, slack hemp coiled limply between Haedkel and himself, Ryunne cleared his throat and, in doing so, caught the attention of the girl in orange.
“What’s his name?” Ryunne asked softly as she faced him.
“Numeil,” She supplied, still wringing her hands, the numerous bracelets chiming ceaselessly as she continued, choked-sounding, “I’m so sorry. I was watching him for his mother, I-”
Haedkel rose and shushed her into silence with a brief, soothing gesture. “Hush now, all will be fine.”
Brushing black, dusty hands against the front of her pristine, blindingly white tunic, Haedkel pried the rope from Ryunne’s tense fingers and slipped it about his waist. Haedkel was gentle, fastening the knot with almost fastidious care, and Ryunne wondered suddenly if she had sons of her own.
The last knot secured and the corded hemp now lashed firmly around him, Haedkel stepped back as Ryunne paused to adjust it. For once, Ryunne was thankful for the ugly thickness and coarse, hardy make of his clothing; the rope was pulled nearly too tight and therefore slightly constricted his breathing, but it wouldn’t chafe through the harsh material shielding his skin.
“Go slowly,” Haedkel told him, “Use your feet to lessen the strain on your arms.”
“I know,” Ryunne protested, his voice taut with trepidation.
Stepping over the grate, its gaping, toothy smile yawning below him, Ryunne was both relieved and reluctantly dismayed to find that the narrow opening wouldn’t prove a barrier for him. Unlike a small child, he wasn’t really in danger of falling through it, but neither would he have trouble purposefully slipping past the damaged cover.
Surveying the black, quite possibly bottomless expanse, Ryunne couldn’t shake off a sudden bought of fear and indecision. Nothing stirred, save for the grit of sand beneath his heel as he shifted, peering into the impenetrable darkness that was waiting to swallow him whole.
It was so quiet—unnervingly so. The girl in orange had stopped fidgeting, her bracelets finally stilled. Even the children had stopped crying. Everyone else in the Square seemed to have ceased breathing it was so silent, and Ryunne hated their staring. Why couldn’t they just go away? Or better yet, make themselves useful. Somehow. He didn’t know with what, or how, but he certainly wanted them to disappear.
The only presence he appreciated, or even felt like tolerating, was Haedkel, standing tall and so very reassuringly unperturbed at his side. She was practically radiating calmness and it was doing wonders for his rapidly fraying nerves. His hands were sweating against the rope, palms clammy beneath his gloves, and he couldn’t seem to persuade enough air into his lungs, this throat bobbing, tight and painful, with each breath.
Haedkel murmured something and Ryunne glanced up, perplexed. She had spoken in her own tongue though, and offered no explanation at his inquiring look. But the distraction had been enough to free Ryunne from his anxious stupor, and so with a deep, composing sigh, he relaxed and was about to begin descending when Haedkel spoke again.
“It is unfortunate you do not have your brother’s Gift.”
Ryunne blinked, faltering as he wound the rope about his right hand, one foot bracing himself against the opening’s ornamental molding. “I- excuse me?”
“Take care, Sweetling,” Haedkel evaded his confusion, her features calm as she promised, “I will be waiting for you.”
With a grateful smile, Ryunne squatted and shifted, very carefully, until he was sitting, his weight dispersed, across two of the rungs. Slipping first one leg through and then the other, feet dangling in the dark nothingness below, Ryunne shimmied nearer the edge and bent forward to grasp the iron bar before him. The afternoon’s hot sun barely penetrated a meter into the complete blackness of the tunnel, illuminating only the corroded stones that comprised its walls.
“We could lower you,” Haedkel suggested, hushed, and she crouched beside him, having noted his hesitance.
Ryunne shook his head, distracted as he mulled over the safest way to descend. “No, I think… I think I’d rather do it myself.” He hoped the boy was all right. And if not, then that he was only injured, or perhaps unconscious, and Haedkel would be able to remedy that easily enough.
“Very well,” Haedkel accepted. “When you have found him, call to me, and we will pull you up.”
Nodding his thanks, Ryunne inhaled the scent of dusty desert, savored the sun on his face and the all-pervading heat which wrapped about one’s skin, then skirted forward and let himself slide into the waiting darkness.
He swung wildly for a moment, the rope twisting above his hands and sending him spiraling towards the cobbled wall, but Ryunne managed to bring his legs up and brace himself, sand and stone scraping beneath his heels once more. Pausing both to collect himself and allow his precarious lifeline a few seconds to stabilize, Ryunne cursed softly and counted the seconds.
It was fortunate he wasn’t very heavy, and that his arms were fairly strong. There wasn’t too great a strain on them, and Ryunne was confident he would make it to the bottom without too much difficulty. Slowly checking his grip on the rope, coarse hemp warm beneath his gloved palms, Ryunne began to descend, leaving the sun and the desert’s familiar heat behind as he lowered torturous inch by inch.
Blackness closed in on him, suffocating and thick as a cloak thrown over his vision, and as his feet hit water and then slippery stone, trying to make out the world above was like staring up at the distant silhouette of the moon on a starless, lonely night.
Ryunne shivered despite himself, loosened the rope from about his waist, and attempted to recover his bearings. He was standing calf-deep in cool, tepid water. He couldn’t see it—couldn’t see anything, in fact, except the all-pervading black. He might as well have been blind for the good his eyes did him. Hoping they would adjust, Ryunne breathed in the smell of stale, poisoned air and dank sewer water and coughed it back out again. It was cold, reeked of rot and things much worse, and he was now wet.
Luckily, however, one of his worst fears had now been assuaged. He hadn’t landed on Numeil, and further groping about in the dark, nervous hands skimming through the slimy water at his feet, proved the boy was no longer at the bottom. Which meant he couldn’t possibly have been killed by the fall. And as Ryunne’s eyesight began to accommodate for the utter lack of light, he could just make out a break in the wall about three feet to his right.
Why oh why would the boy have gone further in? One hand trailing along the slick, mossy stone wall, Ryunne followed it until smooth rock curved beyond his fingers, leading out as slightly less sour air drifted past his nostrils. Whatever went beyond his little alcove was larger, and extended much, much further. He could hear the faint, oily slithering of water which had spent too long a time trapped beneath the earth as it traveled deeper into the recesses of the drain-way system.
“Numeil?” Ryunne whispered softly, his voice tinny and hollowed, echoing off the toxic underground stream and disturbing the eerie quiet. Calling again, Ryunne stepped further into the even darker tunnel, squinting as he heard a faint rustling several feet ahead of himself. It was growing closer, sliding through the water just beyond him, perhaps Numeil had-
Ryunne stopped, horrified. He tried to backtrack, tried to shrink out of the way and into the safety and relative light of his entry point, but it was too late, he was too slow.
Rats. Enormous, stinking, squealing, putrid rats. They pushed at him, scurried about his heels and clawed about his toes and as he stepped to avoid them Ryunne tripped on a slick, furry body and fell. Blackened water, thick and foul as rotten mead, exploded around him and very suddenly they were everywhere.
He shoved one off his chest, kicked frantically to free his legs from the rodents scrambling over them- three, four, five of them- he didn’t know how many, couldn’t see anything and there seemed to be a thousand tiny feet everywhere at once, clawing at his thighs, his calves, his arms and abdomen and there was one on his back. Ryunne twisted, grabbed it by what turned out to be the scruff of a surprisingly large neck and hurled the spiteful creature as far as he could. It hit stone and splashed a ways off, shrieking wildly, then amidst much more squealing and scrambling and writhing of revolting furry bodies they were gone.
Lying half-prone, his elbows, torso, and feet submerged, Ryunne shuddered and didn’t move for nearly a minute. Then a muffled noise echoed towards him and that had Ryunne shooting upwards even before the sound had fully penetrated. But it wasn’t the heralding of more repulsive sewer scum… it was much too soft, too low and rhythmic.
In fact, it sounded rather like someone crying. Ryunne felt a bit like crying himself, after the nerve-shattering episode with the rats—he could still feel them on his skin, the memory of their razor claws lingering like the phantom memory of a particularly unsettling nightmare.
“Numeil?” Ryunne tried again, his own voice terribly wobbly, and the hushed sobbing quieted. Sloshing through the pungent water, his eyes narrowed and straining vainly to make out any distinguishable shapes, Ryunne almost stumbled over Numeil before he saw him.
Crouching next to the boy, whose faint outline he could now see, Ryunne laid a gentle hand on his nearest shoulder and whispered, worry thrumming through him, “Hey there. You’re fine now; I’ve got you. Let’s go home.”
Numeil blinked at him, the whites of his eyes huge and pearly against the darkness which swamped everything around them, then he sniffed, blinked again, and resumed sobbing. This time, however, it seemed a little less hysterical and great deal more relieved. As far as children went, anyway. Scooping Numeil up, Ryunne balanced him on one hip and tucked muddy hair back from the boy’s face, checking for possible abrasions but thankfully finding none.
Securing his hold on the tiny body, Ryunne began sloshing back towards the broken grate which had cause the entire ordeal, wary of the rats, though most of his attention was centered on Numeil, who was still sniffling quietly against his chest.
“Are you hurt?” Ryunne asked softly, adjusting his grip on the boy to make it as comfortable as possible and quashing the sudden urge to tack ‘sweetling’ onto the end of his question, which proved definitively that he was spending altogether too much time around Haedkel.
Numeil shook his head, sniffed piteously, and curled his fingers into the damp, coarse cloth of Ryunne’s shirt. He supposed that was a no… but how the boy could have escaped injury after falling as far as he did was a complete and utter mystery to Ryunne. Either Numeil was in shock, or he had only bruised and otherwise only moderately hurt himself—whatever the case, Haedkel was waiting for them and would be quite capable of mending any and all misfortunes.
It only took him about a minute to find the break in the canal’s wall which led to his alcove of sorts, and after groping about for the rope and managing to lash it to himself and somewhat to Numeil with one hand, his other supporting the boy, Ryunne then shouted, his voice warping strangely as it spiraled up towards the distant light above, “Haedkel?”
“I hear you,” She answered after a slight pause, even deeper and more earthy sounding than usual.
Relief surged through him. It was so good to hear her voice. “I’ve found him! He’s all right,” Ryunne assured, hoping his words were distinguishable despite his having to holler from the bottom of a very dank pit. “Pull me up?”
“Of course,” Haedkel promised, followed by a more garbled endearment that may or may not have been ‘sweetling’, before she requested, “Are you ready?”
“Yes!” Ryunne wanted nothing other than to escape this black, stinking, rodent-infested underbelly of Halvaella. As the rope tensed and then strained almost crushingly tight against his waist, Ryunne murmured to Numeil to keep gripping his shirt, and so with his arms now free he could brace both of them, though his feet were wet and kept slipping against the stone.
It was admittedly more difficult than his descent, and seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to reach the top. And even when he had managed to half-escape the horrid place, one elbow braced on hot metal rungs, Ryunne was painfully blinded by the scorching midday light. There was a flurry of chaotic activity all around him and someone took Numeil from him- he couldn’t see who, couldn’t see anything as there were fuzzy spots and an even fuzzier whiteness dancing across his vision.
But when he’d shifted to pass of Numeil he’d been forced to release the rope, and bereft of its support his suddenly weak arm collapsed and Ryunne only had a second in which to realize he was going to fall-
Two strong hands caught his forearms, fingers like iron pressing into his muscles, and he was hauled onto the warmth and the safety of solid ground. For a moment Ryunne thought it must have been Haedkel, and blinking rapidly against the scorching brilliance of a high afternoon sun, he turned to his rescuer and came face to face with none other than Shumba.
Ryunne flushed with disbelieving red and he was ridiculously glad to see the healer. “Ahh-”
“Ryunne,” Shumba croaked, sounding as if there were thorns caught in his throat. He tried again, just as unsuccessfully, “Ryunne-” Giving up on talking, Shumba set Ryunne on his feet, freed him from the rope, and stepped back to inspect the muck-covered, disheveled Methrian, all of this in uncustomary silence.
Shumba looked like he wanted to kill something. Which was frightening because even when the guard was killing something he only wore that unsettling wooden, detached sort of expression.
“Don’t you ever do anything like that again,” Shumba warned him very, very lowly, and Ryunne was more shocked by this than anything else because the healer was furious and he’d never seen him so much as show he even possessed a temper, let alone lose it. But Shumba was angry and he wasn’t making any effort to disguise it.
“Shumba, I-” Teetering, his legs tired and wobbly with relief beneath him, Ryunne staggered towards the irate guard, and he couldn’t have been more thankful when Shumba caught him about the waist, keeping him upright, even if the long fingers were grasping him a little too tightly.
Yellow eyes scanned his face, pupils narrowed by the sun’s harsh light restless as they sought to cover every inch of Ryunne’s appearance. For a moment he said nothing and was silent again, almost as if either too infuriated or too worried to speak. But then the floodtides burst, as Ryunne had known they would, and Shumba barraged him with questions, all of them too terse for answering, “Are you hurt? What happened? What about your hands? Were you cut?”
“No, I-”
“Let me see your palms,” Shumba demanded, curt and breathless, then without waiting for Ryunne’s compliance he snatched them up with remarkable gentleness considering his still smoldering temper, and held them close for inspection. However Ryunne was still wearing his now rather tattered gloves, and so Shumba pinched and poked at his fingers instead, muttering all the while, “Damned stupid morons should never have let you-”
His next words indecipherable and growled, Shumba shook his head, enraged, and began anew, “If Haedkel thinks she’s not going to hear about this from me than she-” With an agitated huff, Shumba persisted, “Do they have an idea how dangerous that was? What could have happened? You could have fallen, you could have, have- Gods, it makes me want to- to- to-” Shumba was so angry he couldn’t finish his threats, and so instead they faded into hissed, spiteful curses that were so foul Ryunne barely understood half of them.
Trying to placate the irate guard, Ryunne objected, “No, don’t. It was my-” But Shumba wouldn’t pay his protests any attention; he was far too busy inspecting, prodding and otherwise critiquing him.
“How about your feet?”
“Shumba,” Ryunne pleaded, finally getting through to him, and the healer fell silent at last, though his piercing stare didn’t soften in the slightest. Tawny amber eyes were fixed on his face, bright as the desert sun, and Shumba had Ryunne’s chin cupped between both hands, the Methrian’s dark, cinnamon skin warm against his fingers. His own gloves were long lost, abandoned somewhere during the panic to reach Ryunne.
“I’m not hurt,” Ryunne whispered hoarsely, “I’m all right.”
It was a long minute before Shumba answered, his voice hushed, one thumb stroking the smudged line of Ryunne’s cheekbone, “I know.”
“You do?” Ryunne squinted at Shumba skeptically.
A strained smile curving his expressive lips, Shumba offered in explanation, “You’re blushing.”
Predictably, Ryunne’s flushed an even deeper red.
Then a shadow fell across Ryunne, thankfully disguising any deepening of the color in his cheeks, and a quick glance sideways proved the towering figure to be Haedkel, who must have finished mending Numeil and returned him to the very grateful girl in orange. Ryunne studied them for a moment, relieved to see the boy looking quite healthy and very happy in the girl’s arms, and her bracelets were jingling again, chiming as she bounced him and kissed his forehead.
“You seem unharmed, Sweetling,” Haedkel observed, breaking Ryunne’s concentration, “I’m glad. You-” And then she stopped talking because Shumba was glowering at her and it didn’t matter that the foreigner was at least a good inch shorter than she was. “Is something the matter, sea-seeker?” Haedkel wondered sanguinely.
“Is something the matter--” Shumba almost went purple with rage and he was too irate to finish his sentences again. There were violent storm clouds and murderous intentions building in his eyes and Ryunne half expected him to lunge at Haedkel. He didn’t, of course, but the muscles in his lean frame were tense with restless, dangerous energy and he looked about ready to snap from the strain of keeping still.
“It’s still obvious,” Haedkel remarked with a sly quirked brow meant for Ryunne.
“Haedkel!” Ryunne choked, scandalized
Shumba, however, chose to ignore Haedkel's comment in favor of leveling her with one of his own, “I’m very angry with you.”
“So I see,” Haedkel smiled, predatory. Patting Ryunne’s wet shoulder, she then informed the fuming guard, “It was Ryunne’s decision. He is not a child; I trusted his judgment.”
“He’s fifteen. Fifteen!”
Closing his eyes, Ryunne squeezed them shut, abruptly drained of all energy. Dear Gods, not that again. He should never have told Shumba his age. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Haedkel snorted derisively, then went on to bestow more of her prized tribal wisdom, “Life is too short to fuss over something as trivial as age.”
Ryunne practically felt the anger whoosh out of Shumba, as if winded, and the guard was quiet in response, no doubt speechless with flabbergasted horror. As for himself, Ryunne just cringed further into his very damp, very dirty, very uncomfortable clothes, and he could still faintly feel the rats against his skin.
Ryunne shuddered, immediately garnering Shumba’s attention.
“Ryunne?” Shumba questioned, concerned, and he really didn’t sound the least bit furious anymore.
Opening his eyes, Ryunne curled his arms around his torso and studied the disgusting black streaks smeared across his skin. He probably smelled terrible. His cheeks heating at the thought, Ryunne swallowed the urge to reply simply that he ‘felt dirty,’ and really, terribly, desperately needed to bathe. Or possibly be hosed down. He didn’t even care at this point. Having Shumba see and perhaps smell him in such a state made Ryunne’s stomach curdle with mortification.
Haedkel ‘tsked’ in sympathy and advised Shumba, “Why don’t you take him to get cleaned up, and once that’s done, make sure he rests. It’s been a difficult afternoon for him.” Shumba nodded in accordance, and her rather astute remark really had flushed the rage right out of him.
Letting them talk over his head, not that he could prevent them, Ryunne’s gaze drifted back to Numeil, who had now been circled by at least a dozen fretting adults, some of which were pointing and gesturing at him and he truly didn’t want the attention. Ryunne chewed at his lip, unsure once again.
“Is Numeil all right?” Ryunne wondered, coming back to himself.
“He’s fine,” Haedkel assured, bestowing a soft smile at his dazed behavior. “One of his arms was lightly sprained, and he had a few large bumps, but I’ve healed him now and his mother is on her way. You did well. Now go rest. I’ll handle all that remains to be done.” Gripping his shoulders, Haedkel half-pushed, half-guided Ryunne from the courtyard, and when they were past the enclosing stone wall, she let Shumba take over after a last appraising pat and a murmured order for him to get some sleep.
They walked in silence for a moment, Ryunne bleary with growing exhaustion and Shumba immersed in deep thought.
“Shumba?” Ryunne whispered finally, feeling tired and extremely out of sorts, “Are you angry with me?”
“No,” Shumba reassured, a rushed exhalation. Surprise colored his voice, and he hurried to clarify, “No, I was never angry with you. I was…” Stopping, Shumba pivoted and faced Ryunne, his gaze dark with remorse as he admitted, “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s-” Shumba faltered and whatever he was about to say next disappeared into a short, breathy huff of a laugh. “You’re something else, you know that? I thought I told you to stay put?”
Ryunne’s expression crumpled with dismay. “I know you did. I meant to wait for you.”
“I know,” Shumba sighed, a reassuring mixture of forgiveness and reluctant mirth weighing his tone. “Here, let me carry you back. You’re exhausted.”
Ryunne meant to protest, he truly did, but before he even knew what was happening Shumba had scooped him off his feet and he suddenly found himself pressed against the healer’s rather comfortable chest. It was warm and solid and safe and… it was Shumba. Preparing to object, as he was not a child and therefore did not require being carried, Ryunne opened his mouth, tried to organize a fitting reproach, and promptly fell asleep.
For his part, Shumba had no objections and so he of course did not wake Ryunne, nor did he have any intention of waking his selfless, adorable little Methrian. Even if he deserved a bit of punishment, just a tiny bit, for having terrified him so thoroughly. But it was over, Ryunne was in no shape for badgering, and Shumba would have his revenge soon enough. He always did.
Um… you may notice my usual reply blatherage is suspiciously missing below. :shame: I am very guilty, and very busy, and so this chapter is being spat out for your reading pleasure as soon as possible. If you are truly heartbroken (or feeling slighted/angry/indignant) about the no commenting for this chapter, then do feel free to drop me a line saying “Inky you inconsiderate ass, reply to me!” (Or PleaseCommentThanks is perfectly fine). And then… I will be joyous to do so :) :love:
That said, thank you so very much for all of the reviews/comments/pestering—it was a rocky… four months… but the wonderful, fabulous, unbelievable support really kept Rotd alive. I wish I had time to yammer at you; some of the comments were… wow, just wow. And :love: (therefore I promise a happier chapter next time. Much happier). And… that is all for now.