It was an average, uneventful day at camp. Most of the League was out and about, each soldier with his or her own business to deal with. Guards, food gatherers, an occasional sparring match. Despite the war, the camp and its swelling number of occupants had retained its calm atmosphere, one much like the sense of relief after a violent storm. Each soldier was thankful for his continued existence and that his brothers in arms were safe...
Especially a certain mage.
After a night of worry and little sleep, he could finally visit his friend, who had been almost fatally wounded in the previous battle. If the mage- now a sage, as he was a quick learner and there was always a demand for healers- had not been at his friend's side with a Mend staff in hand, the man would have surely died. Yet, of course, he did not. The green-eyed sage's swift and skilled bunkmate would live to wield his silvery blade another day.
Glancing to the pale morning sky, Merric sighed, running a hand through his unkempt green hair. The air was chill and, being used to warmer weather, his normal uniform of heavy robes was helpful in keeping the frail young man from catching cold. Glancing around camp, he saw the usual early-risers performing their usual morning routines. Seeing nothing of interest, he continued on his way, unaware that he'd attracted more than one amused glance.
To Merric's dismay, a certain freelancer had been chosen to guard the healer's tent. Like everyone else he was a bit wary of the shapeshifter's abilities and foreign ways, though treated Xane with respect. With talents like his and their potential for mischief, it was best to stay on his good side.
The strange teen caught sight of him and grinned in his usual contagious manner. "Yo, Merry!"
Knowing the pink-haired freelancer had a poor memory with names, the sage was still a bit annoyed. "Merric," he corrected.
"Aha, sorry!" Xane grinned again, chuckling. "So you're here to see your boyfriend, right?"
Merric raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar, foreign word. "Boy... friend?"
"You know. A guy... that's your friend..." Seeing that the sage did not catch his meaning, Xane sighed. "I meant to say: lover."
Merric blushed madly at the thought. "No, no! We are but brothers on the fields of war! Why would you say such a... such a vile thing?"
Xane shrugged embarassedly. "Well, word's been goin' around camp for quite a while now..."
"And I never heard of this?" The sage let out a sigh. "Ah, no matter... Now, may I see how my friend is?"
The freelancer nodded, stepping aside to let him through. "The worst of his wounds've been healed, though I'd recommend you not wake him."
"I understand," the sage replied, pushing the flap of fabric aside and vanishing into the healing tent. Inside it was warm and rather comfortable, the tent's design offering stability and circulation, among other things. Merric spotted his friend lying in a cot toward the tent's far end and approached quietly. The myrmidon lay in silence, bandaged chest rising and falling rhythmically, and he seemed to wear a frown upon his face even in sleep. His long, dark brown hair lay spilled across the pillow and his shoulders, attracting the sage's emerald-green gaze. When he'd first seen the length of his hair, he'd the thought the swordsman a woman- female myrmidons weren't exactly unheard of- though he had figured it out in time...
In his sleep Navarre seemed almost peaceful, though the sage knew his friend to be one of the most vicious fighters he'd ever witnessed. In the flickering lamplights' warm glow, his hair looked even softer and silkier than usual... Merric self-consciously touched his own pastel-green coloured bangs; they were soft, though not nearly as long as his friend's. Glancing at the tent's entrance for any would-be witnsses, the sage tentatively raised a hand and stroked one of his friend's flowing locks of hair. Feeling himself shiver, he let out his breath shakily. The strands between his sensitive fingers were like the finest silk; though he longed to touch more of it, Merric was sure his friend would mind being petted like a dog.
Returning to looking over his friend's wounds, the green-eyed sage found nothing to be the matter. No new blood spots or signs of infection, no wheezy, irregular breathing. Just a few scratches remained on the myrmidon's scarred skin, and even those were fading quickly. 'He'll be battle-ready by tomorrow,' thought he with a smile. The bandages around his friend's torso were probably unneeded by now, though Merric made no move to remove them, what with the twisted rumours and his friend's inclination toward violence. He'd watched the myrmidon fight many a battle, and certainly didn't care for a blade pointed at his throat... Interrupted from his thoughts by a stirring, Merric quickly withdrew his hands. Navarre's eyes fluttered open, so dark they seemed black, and settled on the sage with the sharpness and deadliness of a wyrmslayer. Merric couldn't help but feel uncomfortable under his friend's cold gaze, but managed to speak anyway.
"Good evening, Navarre. I came to see how you were faring..." The myrmidon remained silent as always, glancing around before sitting up slowly. If he were in pain or discomfort, he gave no sign. "So," Merric began nervously. "Have you any plans for today?" Navarre only gave him a bored glance, letting out a muted yawn. His silky hair flowed down his shoulders, reaching down to his lower shoulder blades, where it had been cut raggedly. Despite Navarre's bandages, the mage noticed how fit and muscular his friend was. If he were a bit less antisocial, he would be surrounded by women... Remembering the rumour, Merric flushed and averted his eyes. "S-so... you're all right?"
"I am alive, am I not?" The myrmidon finally spoke, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "Now, why are you really here?"
"Just to check on you, really..." Navarre made a low sound in his throat and turned away, standing up with his back facing Merric, and began to pull off the bandages without modesty.
If Merric had been speaking he would have stuttered, instead he bit his tongue, trying desperately not to stare at the myrmidon's exposed flesh. Scars of varied sizes and shapes laced the fair skin of his back and shoulders, though strangely did not make him at all unattractive... 'He's beautiful,' thought Merric as he finally gave in to staring. 'I'm infatuated with... with...'
"Do you stare at every man you come to check?"
The mage froze, cheeks burning. "N-no! I was s-s-s-s-s-" Navarre had chosen this moment to turn around, clad in nothing but his lower garments. For a moment the flustered sage stuttered stupidly, then he averted his eyes from the sight, holding a loose sleeve to his nose to avoid dripping blood everywhere. He swore he could see the faintest shadow of amusement cross the silent myrmidon's features.
"Tell me, Merric. Have you an... unnatural attraction?"
The green-haired sage flinched at the words, shaking his head violently. 'So this is how I die... He shall surely kill me!' "No," he squeaked, shrinking into his robes a bit.
"Really?" The swordsman's voice had taken on a dangerous tone, almost daring. "Tell me the truth, sage."
'He's going to kill me... He's going to kill me...' Merric swallowed, trying desperately to calm himself. "I- I do not-" In a flurry of movement the taller man was upon him, dark eyes piercing his and a cold, sharp object at his throat.
"Tell me. The truth," the myrmidon hissed, pressing his blade's tip against the fair skin.
Eyes wide in fear and full of tears, the sage whimpered. "I... I..." Tears spilled down his cheeks, staining the navy blue fabric of his robes. "I do," he whispered, averting his eyes shamefully. "I love you, Navarre."