Author's Note: Hey guys! Welcome to the land of chapterfics, Julie-style! Exciting, I know. A couple notes, though~ One: Piyam is an OC friend of Garsiv's (not even my OC xD He belongs solely to Anjaden, check out her chapter fic for more of him!) that has been living with them at the palace since Garsiv was a kid.

Also! This fic has an ensemble cast, which means that (probably) each chapter will be from a different character's point of view, unless for some reason the plot demands two chapters in a row for the same character. That being said, this is still a Tus-centric fic. Trust me. It is.

And guys, I'm begging you: please review. It fuels me like the Mt. Dew that makes up my bloodstream. I'll be so encouraged you'll get the next chapters in no time!
And now I've rambled at you enough, commence with the story!

All day, Garsiv had had the sneaking sensation that something, somewhere, was going wrong. Call it the paranoia that came with being general of an army, call it whatever you want, Garsiv had it. In the pit of his stomach, in the back of his mind, in his dreams—or rather, the lack there of: Garsiv hadn't been able to get a good night's sleep in weeks.

But this time, there was no reason for the paranoia. They were not in war, everything had been quiet from the scouts, he and his brothers were getting along, none of his wives were pregnant…there was nothing for him to be paranoid about.

Then again, Garsiv supposed, that was what paranoia was. Feeling like someone was out to get you even if they weren't—

Garsiv snapped back to reality when someone was shaking his shoulder and whispering something in his ear: whatever he was saying, it must be pretty important to interrupt the royal dinner for.

"Piyam has returned, my lord," Garsiv nodded, but something gave him pause—why was this servant telling him instead of Piyam himself? Garsiv knew his oldest and best friend wasn't the type to let the servants do his bidding—he'd much rather interrupt Garsiv's dinner and make up for the months that they had been separated—probably by annoying Garsiv as much as possible.

"Where is he?" Garsiv spat, shoving himself up from the table. He followed the servant's finger, which was pointing to the hallway just outside the dining hall. Garsiv frowned in confusion—what was he doing out there?

Garsiv got his answer soon enough: his best friend was sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall, dying.

Piyam looked like he'd been badly beaten, and he had an arrow embedded in the upper portion of his left arm. There was blood soaking through, staining his dark skin an even darker red-brown, and Garsiv noticed he had to step over a trail of it that led from the door. How long had he been bleeding? A better question was: where were the people who could fix him?

"Get the healers," Garsiv ordered; when the man who'd gotten him just stared stupidly, Garsiv snarled, "Get the doctors, you idiot, before I shove an arrow in your arm!" and then his attention was back on Piyam, his best friend outside of the royal family—and, most days, his best friend including the royal family.

"Garsiv," Piyam coughed out, his hand wrapping around Garsiv's wrist. "Garsiv, I have something to tell…"

Garsiv hesitated, knowing that speaking probably wouldn't be good for him: he sounded like he hadn't had anything to drink in days, and his eyes were red and watering from sand in them. Had he ridden through a—

"Garsiv," Piyam coughed, tightening his grip on Garsiv's wrist. "Need to…"

"Tell me, Piyam," Garsiv ordered sharply, looking down at his friend as he heard the healers running in the distance. "Quickly!"

"Slavers. Gathering on the-" Piyam was cut short by a rattling cough, so Garsiv filled in the blank automatically.

"Border," Garsiv guessed, and Piyam nodded, although the motion made him wince. "Which one?" As much as he knew his friend needed the attention of the healers, Garsiv also knew Piyam would kill him if he chose to fret about him rather than doing his duties.

"Which one, Piyam?" Garsiv barked again, making Piyam's eyes snap back open up at him.

"Northeast," Piyam grunted out. Garsiv opened his mouth to say something else, something comforting, but he couldn't find the words—dealing with the emotional side of things was much more Tus' area of expertise.

And then the healers were there, pushing Garsiv aside to get at their patient. Garsiv growled low in his throat and had to keep himself from shoving the nearest one against the wall in retaliation—which was more self-control than he usually bothered with.

Garsiv had been vaguely aware of Tus' presence next to him all night, but the two hadn't spoken beyond Tus' weak attempts at comforting him when the news first reached the Crowned Prince's ears. As such, they waited in silence for the doctors to give word on Piyam's condition, but Garsiv's mind was far from quiet. Slavers gathering on the border? That was the message that Piyam had very nearly given his life to deliver? Where were the other scouts?

Garsiv sighed. He knew the answer to that one—they were dead, likely as not.

"I need to leave after we get word," Garsiv said aloud, still staring intently at nothing in particular. When Tus didn't answer, Garsiv finally looked back at him…only to roll his eyes in exasperation. How could his brother sleep at a time like this?

Garsiv raised his hand to hit him awake, but then paused: how long had Tus been awake for? Garsiv glanced out the window. It was nearly dawn. And Garsiv knew his brother still wasn't sleeping well, so…maybe two days?

Garsiv sighed again, focusing back on the wall. Tus was not equipped to stay up for days on end like Garsiv was—yet another reason it was good that Tus was Crowned Prince instead of General.

The wooden door to the healer's quarters flew open, thudding dully against the stone wall behind it-the noise startled Tus awake, but he managed to scramble to his feet next to Garsiv as the head healer walked up to them.

Silence.

Garsiv hated silence.

"Well!" Garsiv snapped, his hand finding the hilt of his sword in typical Garsiv-fashion—it apparently didn't matter that the other man was not just any healer, but the one who had information they needed. For his part, the healer did his best to seem nonplussed.

"I'll spare you the long details, Your Highness, but we think he'll make it. His wounds were not that severe after all, and-"

"You th -"

"Thank you," Tus interrupted, clapping his hand on Garsiv's shoulder tightly. That was what he was there for: to keep Garsiv from murdering people he didn't have to. "Can we see him?"

"He's asleep right now, but yes, you may," And then Garsiv tore away from his brother and the doctor and stormed through the doors. Let Tus get the specifics of Piyam's condition, he needed to make sure for himself, with his own two eyes, that Piyam was still breathing.

At least Garsiv had the good sense to slow himself to his near-silent prowl when he entered Piyam's room. His friend was heavily bandaged across his arm and chest, with his left leg wrapped in a starchy white cast. Looking down at Piyam, who always had that annoying smile on his face—seeing him broken and bruised troubled Garsiv, because it called for emotions he wasn't equipped to handle—concern, gentleness, softness. Garsiv would much prefer to do what he always did: leave the emotions to his brothers.

But this was Piyam (and he was unconscious), so Garsiv supposed he could swallow his pride just this once. Carefully, quietly, Garsiv sat down on the bed opposite him and just watched his childhood friend sleep away the pain, knowing full well that he might not get a chance to say goodbye before Garsiv himself rode out to meet the bastards that had nearly taken Piyam from him—there were the emotions Garsiv was able to understand: rage, impatience, the urge to do something violent…

Yes, he would be riding out soon enough, because nobody was allowed to attack Piyam but Garsiv himself.