"Sothe? Are you all right?"

Sothe tore his eyes away from the swarming mass of soldiers in the makeshift mess hall, searching each of them for a mess of bright red hair or that distinctive orange cape. Micaiah's face had gentle concern written all over it. She frowned at him.

"You haven't even touched your food."

Sothe glanced down at his bowl and, as if to humor her, took a spoonful of soup and deposited it perfunctorily into his mouth. His eyes immediately returned to the crowd of soldiers navigating around tables and chairs shoulder-to-shoulder. Micaiah only sighed.

"You're looking for Tormod, aren't you?"

"I haven't seen him since he ran out of the prince's tent earlier — not here, not in his tent with Muarim, nowhere. I know he's still upset."

"You don't think he'd go after Izuka, do you?" Her eyes lit up with the faint light of alarm. "He did seem very distraught…"

Sothe shook his head. "No. I know Tormod. He might be hotheaded and excitable, but he'd never do anything like that. It's not like him." He pushed the bowl away and stood up. "I'm going to go find him. You stay with the others. I'll be back soon."

The area around the Liberation Army's camp was lined with trees and scrubby bushes, the ground covered in thick underbrush and the occasional bramble. Sothe wandered the edge of the camp, moving just beyond the reach of torchlight, where the moonlight drowned in shadows. There was no one to hide from here — he was among friends and allies — but it was an old habit, and probably not one he'd ever break at this point.

He found Tormod not far from the camp, his cape strewn on the ground in a rumpled mess. Tormod was possessed by angry, racking sobs, kicking furiously at the harmless ground. Sothe was relieved to see that there was nothing on fire in the vicinity. It seemed that Tormod, when truly distraught, resorted to hitting things with his bare fists rather than with magic. He pounded a tree with his hands, tearing at the bark with his fingernails. If he heard Sothe's light footsteps or sensed his presence, he didn't show it. He just carried on, making desperate, frustrated gasps and snarls.

Sothe bent and picked up the cape from the ground, shaking the dust and grass from it. "Hey." His voice was quiet.

He heard a hiccuping noise that Tormod quickly tried to disguise as a sniff. He ceased his assault on the tree, his shoulders hunched and taut, as if to keep himself from shaking. "What do you want," he demanded, his voice raw and thick.

"Are you crying?" Sothe approached, though slowly, and held out the cape. Tormod didn't take it.

"No," he snapped, but there was no way to mask the way that he scrubbed his face against his sleeve. In the moonlight, Sothe could still see the damp traces of tears, his face puffy and streaked with red. Tormod was an even worse liar than a sneak. He sniffed again, and Sothe couldn't help but notice the way his hands had balled into fists. "What are you doing here?"

"I came looking for you, idiot. You just ran off without saying anything, and you were gone all this time. People were worrying," he added, for good measure.

"I just — I just needed some time alone." His voice was sullen and angry and sad, all at once.

"What, to scream and cry and punch trees, like a little kid?"

Tormod's eyes blazed. "Shut up! You saw what happened back there! What Izuka did to Muarim! Muarim, he almost — he could've — " His voice broke at the mere thought. "Sothe, I can't…if Muarim had gone feral, I don't — there was nothing I could do, and — " Against his will, the tears began to run again, retracing their paths on his face. He grabbed fistfuls of his own hair in his hands, his whole body beginning to shake. "Izuka, that…that bastard…"

"Hey, Tormod, I — "

Tormod broke out into sobs, awful, racking noises that tore mercilessly from his throat. He pitched forward, and Sothe half-caught him, letting the cape drop back to the ground. Tormod shuddered and gasped, seized by rage and despair and ugly, desperate fear.

"He couldn't — he poisoned him, Sothe! He poisoned Muarim, he tried to make him…one of them, and — and there's nothing I can do!" Tormod beat one of his white-knuckled fists against Sothe's shoulder in desperation. "He gets away with it just because — just because — I hate him! I hate him! I hate him and he tried to kill Muarim and — and there's nothing I can do!"

Standing here, with Tormod leaking tears and spit against his chest, Sothe was struck with the sudden realization of just how little time had passed since the two of them had been a couple of scrappy kids in General Ike's army. Three years? That was nothing. They might play at being men now, but they were still just boys. That awful, gripping fear of losing one's parent — the bond that Tormod and Muarim shared — Sothe could understand that. He knew what that was like. If it had been Micaiah back in that tent…

He gripped Tormod tightly with one arm, his other hand resting gently on the back of Tormod's head. "I know," he said quietly. "I know."

"I can't…if Muarim…if he d-died…Sothe, I couldn't — I couldn't — " Tormod went slack, sagged against Sothe, and let out a terrible, sad noise. The furor seemed to have evaporated, all spent, leaving him exhausted. "I can't…"

"It's over now." Sothe's voice was hushed. "It's over. It's okay, Tormod."

The hand against Sothe's shoulder had unclenched, the fingers limp. Tormod was all quiet sobs and hiccups now. Sothe eased his grip a little, but kept his hand cradling the back of Tormod's head. He let the air fall quiet around them until Tormod seemed to have settled some, when his breathing seemed to soften and steady.

"Hey." Sothe gently ruffled his hair, placing a hand on his shoulder, as if to help steady him. "We should get back to camp. Muarim's waiting for you."

Tormod nodded, sniffling a little. He took a staggering step back away from Sothe and attempted to scrub his face clean of any trace of tears. He wasn't altogether successful. "Thanks," he mumbled, his voice still thick with swallowed tears. "I…uh. Yeah. Just…thanks."

"Wash your face. You look like a mess." Sothe offered his canteen. "…Don't mention it, all right? If something like that were to happen to Micaiah, I'd…I understand. That's all."

Tormod didn't respond right away, rinsing his face with the cool water from the canteen and taking a big gulp for himself before he handed it back. His complexion was already beginning to return to normal. "Thanks, Sothe," he said again, sounding a little more like himself with every word. He picked his cape up off the ground and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm lucky to have someone like you around, you know?"

Sothe let out a breath of a laugh. "Yeah, and somehow you're worth all the trouble. Come on, let's go. Muarim needs you."

By the time they arrived back at camp, the activity seemed to have died down, and everything was quiet and nearly still. It seemed everyone had retreated to their tents at this hour — the fires that lit the camp at night were beginning to die down, some already little more than glowing embers. Tormod was silent for the rest of the walk back, but it was neither sullen nor uncomfortable. It felt, rather, that he had grown into it, somehow.

Vika was waiting by Muarim's bedside when they returned, though she was beginning to doze herself. She looked up sleepily when they entered, pushing the hair from her face.

"Oh, hey, Boss. I was wondering when you'd come back…" She glanced at Muarim's sleeping form. Although was still and his breathing was steady, there was a sickly pallor about his face. "He's been out this whole time. He seems okay, though."

Tormod nodded, setting his cape down by the mat that served as his bed. "Thanks, Vika. I'll take over from here. You should get some sleep."

Vika stifled a yawn. "You sure, Boss? You look pretty wiped out yourself. I could stick around for a while longer, if you want…"

"No, you go sleep," he said firmly. "I've got it. Thanks for looking after Muarim."

She gave him a drowsy smile. "No problem, Boss."

Vika half glided her way out of the tent, and Tormod approached Muarim's bedside, dropping into a kneel. Sothe stayed three steps behind him, unsure of how much space he might want now. Tormod laid the back of his hand against Muarim's forehead, and then breathed a sigh of relief. "He's not running hot anymore," he muttered. "I think he's going to be okay."

"Of course he's going to be okay. Muarim couldn't die with you around even if he tried."

Tormod let out what sounded like a breath of a laugh. Muarim stirred, a low, creaking groan escaping from his throat. He opened one eye.

"Little one," he rasped. His voice sounded cracked and dry and weary. Tormod grasped Muarim's broad hand in his small ones, leaning forward. Standing just a few feet away, Sothe could feel the world close in around the two of them. That was Tormod's world — it always would be. But he didn't feel excluded, watching foster parent and child. He just felt…privileged, somehow.

"I'm here, Muarim." It was impossible to deny the way that Tormod's voice shook, the last lingering bits of tears still stuck in his voice. "How are you feeling? Are you all right? Can I get you anything?"

"No, little one. I'm fine…" A smile touched at the corners of his mouth, and he closed his eyes again. "Just tired. I just wanted to make sure that you were all right…I know how you worry." He lifted his other hand and squeezed one of Tormod's with it. "You must get some sleep, too, little one. You always try to do too much."

"I do enough," Tormod said, with about as much modesty as Sothe had ever heard from him. Muarim let out a deep, contented sigh, and seemed to slip back into sleep. Tormod stepped back, let out a long breath, and flung himself facedown onto his mat. Sothe crouched next to him.

"You all right?"

"Yeah," came the muffled response. "Just tired."

"Yeah, well, you sure know how to tucker yourself out." Sothe paused. "I can stay, if you want."

Tormod lifted his head, just slightly. "What about Micaiah?"

"What about her? She'll understand." Sothe sat down next to Tormod, ruffling his hair teasingly. "Someone needs to make sure you don't set the tent on fire in your sleep."

Tormod was too tired to voice any protest beyond a derisive snort, and he rolled over onto his side, kicking off his shoes. "Put out the lamp, will you?"

The light extinguished, darkness settled over the tent, cool and comfortable. The only sound was that of Muarim's gentle, even breathing, and the rustle of sheets as Sothe returned to the mat. Tormod let out what sounded like a sleepy sigh.

"Thanks," he murmured again, on the tail end of a yawn. He shifted and settled into a more comfortable position, half-curled up on his side. It wasn't long before his quiet snores filled the air, and his legs and arms splayed themselves haphazardly on the mat. Sothe rested his chin on Tormod's head, feeling suddenly pensive. He and Micaiah might have their difficulties, their fears and worries, but they were lucky to have each other, just as Tormod and Muarim were. And he felt lucky, somehow, lying here in the dark of the tent, the sound of steady breathing lulling him to sleep