Thrain - Part 18: If You Can't Be Friends, Be Enemies
Tylen runs into someone again, and continues to not make friends with him
Need a recap? Chapter summaries
Rivall stood frozen, his expression shattered like someone had just handed him a dead puppy. “Ho… Torp. You of this ask me -- does that boy even--”
Torp’s hand forestalled any comment. “Riv. I need this to be different.”
He scoffed. “Different?! Ho, you want different and Barracks and Muster is how you’ll get it? And don’t tell me you joined up after, I know what you were feeling. This won’t fix it.” The sword seemed abruptly polished to his liking, and he slammed it into the sheath.
“Riv, I am asking as a friend, in need of a favor.” Tylen saw his eyebrows raise as he said it.
Rivall set his mouth in a hard line. “Torp, ya even thought to convince him not to go?”
He shrugged in response, a helpless gesture. The swordseller turned then. “Well, boy? War’s a Weavin’ dangerous thing.” He held up his left hand, which Tylen saw had no pinky. “The Warcrest will do its job. Why not go home?”
He held the veteran’s gaze but saw fire. Ashes coated him. Blood covered his hands. Maggots squirmed in his stew and he drank it, but the discomfort did not alleviate his pain. Something wet touched his hand.
He sucked in a breath. A tear had fallen from his face and graced his thumb. Rivall and Torp looked at him, and he saw they knew his grief.
“Gods, boy. You were in one of them, weren’t you?”
“One of them?” The words came out a bit stiff, choked. He cleared his throat.
The now sorrowed shopkeep nodded. “Haelstra raided several towns, even as far as Jadis.”
Torp now stood tall and anxious. “You--kid. You were in one? How is… Or what happened?”
Tylen had thought that with the two days that had passed, he had begun to deal with the grief. In summoning the Weave, he’d thought he established some form of control. Now, it came crashing in, crushing weight and blackness that robbed him of all but shallow, desperate breaths.
“I don’t--” He labored to get words out. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Torp’s hands trembled, and he clenched them open and closed. It looked as though he would press for more, but Rivall stepped forward and shook his head.
At that moment, Baeumont sauntered into the shop. In tow with him were several other boys, and Tylen didn’t much like how they looked. Beaumont’s bored expression brightened notably when he saw him, which was worrying.
“Oi! What ‘as your name again? Allow me to summarize.”
Elara, having come originally from Ildris, was well-read and artistic. She had drilled him on speech, and insisted he read a dizzying number of books. It was a poor time, unfortunately, to channel her schooling.
“I think you mean surmise.” He sniffed, and had to wipe his eyes, clearing the tears his interaction with Torp and Rivall had caused. Baeumont’s face bucked as a surge of unadulterated rage flooded it. He stepped forward.
“Ho, sonny.” A sword clinked softly against a nearby shelf, and the swordsman stood with it half-raised, ready to leap between Baeumont and him.
The lad stopped short, but his face still spasmed. Behind him, the three large boys fanned out, and their hands went to swords hanging on their belts. Tylen saw Torp drop his left hand behind his back.
Baeumont held the tension for awhile longer, seething. Why on earth he had gotten so angry mystified Tylen. He recalled what Torp had said about his father cutting him off.
Finally, the noble spat. “I recall you. Tylen.” The smile he attempted looked like he had strangled it onto his face. “Cryin’ already. Bet your mother gave you up when she saw what a coward you were.”
Tylen saw red and felt movement; he threw a fist out and prepared to follow it with another. He had no intention of counting how many he threw. The shouts from the two older men behind him never got past his ears.
The last thing he saw, as Baeumont’s jab snapped into his jaw and threw a blanket across his vision, were tinges of green.
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If you could slow down so I have a chance to catch up, that would be great thanks.