Disclaimer: I'm only gonna do this once. So trust me when I say, you'd KNOW if I owned the BMT series/universe (TAM is nonexistant here, I'll just mention). I own only my OCs. And the plotline.

Enjoy ^_^!

~L2~

He never found out what that boy's name was, but maybe it was better off that way. The horror, the disgust, the fear he felt – it was cold, thick and slimy like the congealed animal fat he scraped off the dirty dishes. To add but another layer on top of it – a name, an identity linked to a story he never deemed it worth his time to learn...why? What would such a deed accomplish, other than making his own life even less worth living?

Takan hunched his shoulders forwards and burrowed his toes further into the sand. The scratching of the textured rag against the base of a dirty pot increased in tempo, the noise was loud in the quiet and solitude of the immediate area. His hands were sore, but he didn't dare stop as he leaned forwards and dunked the pot into the cool water, thankful to the darkness of this summer night for hiding his shaking hands.

What-What had he done? Oh- oh hell, h-he was going to die. His Master was going to kill him – and probably her too...

Heat rushed to his face as his vision blurred and he clamped the hand holding the sodden cloth to his mouth. Takan sniffed loudly, salty tears carving pathways down his golden cheeks.

No, no, it couldn't end now – he'd-they'd only been here a few weeks, months? He had to make this work somehow, for the both of them, for as long as possible. Just until his Master was defeated, or until they found their little brother – yes, all would be well then.

And that was why he'd had to kill him - that stranger, Ichani Kariko's gift to the Master.

The newcomer had been young (perhaps the same age as his brother), so naive and oblivious of the way things worked out here in the wastelands. Everybody in the camp had a purpose, a reason to justify their survival; important enough for their Master to spare them when choosing who to sacrifice for the sake of victory over his adversaries.

Takan's own personal talent took the form of his exceptional cooking skills; and in fact, he had only gotten this job because the previous cook had tried to flee the camp late one evening after everyone had gone to sleep. Unfortunately, their Master had created an invisible perimeter around the camp, designed to inform him immediately should anyone inside try to get out. Or if anyone outside tried to get in. He himself had known that the perimeter was there because he'd seen the Master setting it up; had known his predecessor would not survive the escape attempt.

But Takan had said nothing.

Because he needed that job.

He wished he could say he regretted it – had he been back in Arvice, he probably would have cried, lost countless nights of sleep over what he'd done; so the fact that he'd felt nothing for that boy at all shocked and frightened him to the core.

But when he saw his sister's face, the faint tendrils of warmth in that glass smile whenever they locked eyes across the camp; he knew she needed him here, alive, and he needed her too. His silence that night had given them both six months of extra time – though the loss of his cooking mentor had been a heavy price, it was one he had paid willingly.

But then this new slave arrived, apprentice to Master Kariko's head cook, and Takan had known instinctively that there was not enough room in this camp for the both of them.

He had been merciful, made the death quick – but the execution had not gone according to plan. The other slave had put up more resistance than Takan had expected, in fact – he remembered that he was losing the fight, recalled the unpleasant slippery feel of clammy fingers wrapped around his neck, pinning him to the sand, when something had happened.

Something deep inside his own mind had shifted and buckled, a pulse of energy (magic?) sent from his body into that of his enemy. And all at once the murderous intent, betrayal and fury - the darkest recesses of the human soul suddenly seemed to vanish from his oppressor's face. The hands that had nearly choked the life out of him hung useless and limp by his sides as he'd sat up, still straddling the cook's hips. The new slave had looked lost, dazed. Defenceless. And it was then that Takan had lunged for the discarded blade just beyond his reach and sliced through the air...

The cook closed his eyes and shuddered.

The body was buried a short distance away under a makeshift sand dune. But regardless of whether or not his Master ever found the body, sooner or later Ichani Kariko would leave; tonight's alcohol induced haze would wear off and his Master would notice the absence...

He remembered the look on the other's face as he shovelled sand over the corpse. It had been vacant, but for a look of mild confusion and pre-occupation, as though trying to remember something he'd thought of a while ago; not at all paying attention to the scene at hand. It had frightened him almost as much as the blood - for although death and torture were not uncommon in the Master's camp, he himself had never killed anyone before...

It was then that a yeel yipped, uncertainly at first as it sniffed the ground, the air, whilst it stood by its Ichani Kariko, but then – confirmation. The animal took off towards the makeshift burial site and the Ichani looked up, narrowed his eyes and yelled something to a slave who bowed hastily and took off after it, the stationary young cook unaware of Kariko's now steady gaze taking in the panic and terror on the other's face. And the suspicious looking bruising around his neck.

A shout was heard a minute or so later, and both Sachakans alone with Dakova, looked up at the noise. The cook heard Kariko swear sharply, and knew his time had run out. His muscles would not obey. He couldn't move, could not get up even as the elder brother rose whilst Dakova fumed and ordered slaves to go and help the scout bring the body back. The cook had never his Master so angry before...

Takan turned back to his cleaning and hoped, prayed to any divine force that would listen for neither Ichani to notice – for the lives of him and his sister to be spared.

It was already too late by the time he noticed the elder Ichani looming over him, his presence announced by a powerful kick to the back of his head, white light exploding across Takan's vision as his grip on the pan slackened and it slipped from his fingers into the watery depths of the lake. The slave's mind was struggling beneath the waves of pain to keep conscious, Ichani Kariko's shouts distorted as though hearing it underwater:

"...worthless...scum...dare you...!...your master?...sent you?"

He was kicked in the stomach even as he curled up into a fetal position. "...ME, SLAVE."

Takan trembled as the Ichani tore his head from the ground by his hair and stabbed his fingers against his temples.

Who sent you to kill my brother?

The slave's mind stumbled over the words, comprehending the primal need to understand and reply quickly, but, oh, his head hurt so much...

Kill...my Master? I would never kill my master.

And it was true. He knew Dakova would defeat him even if he tried.

The younger Ichani appeared next to his brother, a kaleidoscope of expressions flitting across his face as the two nobles conversed. Dakova's face turned contemplative at his brother's words and Takan's Master turned back to his slave, as though regarding the cook for the very first time. He hauled Takan to his feet by his hair, causing the younger Sachakan to whimper quietly in pain, whilst his Master pressed two fingers to the centre of his forehead – a light gesture understated by the force and power of the presence that smashed through Takan's mental defences with all the grace and subtlety of a brick through a glass window.

He was aware of a voice (his own?) pleading in the background as the Ichani tore through his memories, ripping apart anything in his way. The slave couldn't hear, think or feel anything, his every thought annihilated as the hurricane scoured his mind, growing impatient in its search for...something.

The events of this afternoon rose to the surface, and though Takan didn't want to watch, he couldn't bring himself to look away either. It showed the two cooks walking away the camp, the picture blurred and suddenly he was back on the sand again with the other man's weight boring down on him, rubbery fingers squeezing his neck. Takan could feel himself hyperventilate, unsure of whether it was part of the memory or a result of seeing it happen all over again. The angle shifted and he found himself looking directly into his victim's eyes; his heart chilled once more by the malice and the hatred searing through his own and Takan distantly heard himself cry out - though he couldn't remember doing so that afternoon.

And then there was the sensation of something in his mind slotting into place, the moment of confusion and fear mirrored in the other's eyes. His enemy's face seemed to shut down as all the tension drained from his face and his hands slid away from his neck –

Dakova pulled away abruptly and Takan's head lolled to the side, his throat dry and sore. A young woman pleaded and sobbed for someone not to be hurt, but the words and the tone of her voice held no meaning to him. His eyes pricked from the unshed tears and the still smoking brand of his victim's glare; aware of the other slaves watching as he began to cry and rolled away from the pity and the wordless accusations, looking out to the lake and the lushness of the trees on the far bank...

Someone blocked his line of view by crouching down in front of him, a single finger forcing him to raise his head and look back at his addressor; and though their face was still out of focus, Takan instinctively knew the person before him was smiling.

On the other side of the wall, a sheet covered lump lay curled up against the partition, tufts of dark copper hair poking out like bristles from a well worn paintbrush. A small hand rested against the cool hard surface of the wall, fingernails short and uneven from when he'd bitten them the day before.

A man in mid to late thirties approached the bed quietly, dressed in casual clothing of a simple white shirt and dark trousers made of good quality material. He stopped at the side of the bed and regarded the lump in amusement and an odd sense of nostalgia for the times when the boy had been so much younger, back in the times when everything had seemed to be going so well...

Not to imply that his feelings for his son had faded, not at all, the magician could see flickers of the wonderful young man his son would become – it was just a little unnerving sometimes how quickly it all went past. Minutes melted into hours into days into years, the translation slick and seamless like oil across a smooth surface. Or sand between his fingers. Time waited for no man; it always escaped somehow, regardless of his attempts to stall for more.

The man sighed quietly, the action adding years to his face. It wouldn't do to be sad, the future was bright in the form of his son; if nothing else, he would always have him, and the thought gave him some small measure of comfort.

He leaned over, pulled the sheets away from the boy's face and took a moment to smile, placing a kiss on the teenager's temple; making sure this time that he put up a small barrier that prevented him from catching any glimpses of what the other thought of while he slept - something Dorrien had insisted on after being interrupted during a rather enjoyable dream.

-Wake up, Dorrien.

The teenager flinched at the mental communication, giving a small growl of irritation as he pulled the covers back over his head. His father smiled at him from the bedside.

-Come on. I've let you have your lie-in; it's afternoon now.

At this, Dorrien let out a low groan of despair, movements slow as he rolled over and stretched.

Rothen turned back to the main area of his rooms, satisfied his son would rise momentarily, to see his wife standing by the window looking out onto the Gardens and the various students bidding each other farewell on the road beyond. There were dark bruises under her eyes were especially vivid in when in contrast to the unlit room, and Rothen knew with an aching heart that Yilara couldn't been sleeping well lately. This particular medication was no longer strong enough to keep the illness at bay - and the effect had worn off faster than it ever had before...

Yilara looked over at her husband and smiled brightly, though it seemed a little strained and lacked some the sparkle that had been present in times gone past. Yet to him, its beauty had never faded. And neither had hers.

Her eyes glinted in mischief as she allowed herself to be pulled into an embrace, resting one hand on her lover's chest. Whilst the amount of physical contact she had with her husband had by no means declined much from when she had been in better health; and they still loved each other very much – it felt different now. Her husband was considerably lighter, softer with his touches than before, even when they made love as they had done a few days before (it amused her to no end how Rothen still got all red-faced and flustered over that subject in general – though she supposed his day-to-day job did not require the physical contact and distinct lack of squeamishness that hers did).

But it did seem to her that he and everyone else treated her as though she would shatter unless without the utmost care and it annoyed her immensely – she was a woman, not a prized ornament on a mantelpiece. Yilara knew they all meant well, but it wasn't nice to be reminded of her weakness on a daily basis.

She felt Rothen kiss her forehead, cheeks, lips lingering on her mouth; as well as the way the hands slipping over her waist and hips, deliberately moving away whenever they happened across an area that seemed unnaturally bony or thin.

Perhaps he found her angles too acute for his mathematical mind to deal with.

The Alchemist murmured against her hair about how breakfast was waiting for them on the table, and they headed over to it together, Yilara willing away the tinge of hurt at the other's refusal to hold her, and at the way he seemed to cling to her arm, as though scared she would collapse into a boneless heap without his support. She felt her appetite slip away.

They were halfway through their cups of sumi when Dorrien was finally regurgitated from his bedroom, bare feet scuffing against the floor as he blundered over to the table, his hairstyle reminiscent of someone who had tried, and failed, to wrestle a wild animal. The teenager slouched into his seat, and grunted a greeting at them both. Yilara smiled, unable to hold back a chuckle at the transformation from the sometimes overly cheerful morning-loving little boy to the creature before her eyes. The Healer reached over and ruffled Dorrien's thick dark hair, and the boy whined and shuffled away whilst Rothen grinned at the exchange.

Then chastised his son for yawning without covering his mouth. Dorrien grumbled in reply.

Few words were said and yet the atmosphere remained relaxed and easy. This was the way their family gatherings were - they were few and far between as each magician usually ate at different times to suit their routines; and so the three of them were just content to be in each other's presence for once.

Dorrien stared at his plate, half eating-half playing with the food on his plate as he pondered over one of the reasons for his unusual sleeping pattern. The room next door. Akkarin and Lorlen. Together.

Shards of memory slowly drifted back through the fog that clouded his mind. They'd made a lot of noise early this morning with their...mutual fondling. The boy felt heat rush to his face and he fidgeted as his brain was bombarded with possible images, rather accurate recollections of the noises they'd made...

Dorrien winced, and bit his bottom lip hard. Rothen raised an eyebrow.

"Are you feeling OK, Dorrien?" he asked the boy and felt his wife's interested gaze on their son as well. The flush across Dorrien's face deepened as he suddenly wished for the ability to sink through the floor. Across the table, his parents exchanged a look and Yilara forced herself to maintain a serious, concerned aura.

"Your father is right, you don't look very well at all. Perhaps you have a fever," he said as she leaned towards the boy to place a hand on his forehead.

The teenager's eyes bulged as he almost pushed his chair over in his haste to get away from the imposing hand, not wishing to explain to his parents what he'd been thinking about.

"N-No! I'm fine, honestly!"

Surprised by his sudden outburst, both adults looked at their son with curious expressions on their faces and Dorrien bowed his head to the ground. "Excuse me please. I'm not feeling very hungry at the moment." He announced flatly as he turned and all but ran back to his bedroom.

The magicians stared at the spot their son had occupied before facing eachother. Yilara cast her husband a sympathetic look, her eyes bright with silent laughter, whilst Rothen merely shook his head, small red patches forming high on his cheeks as a knowing smile remained on his face.

The small group of servants Rothen greeted at his front door a few minutes later did not look very happy.

They wore a smart black and white uniform and an incal he recognised as belonging to House Delvon. Three rather bulky suitcases rested against the banister behind them and the Alchemist held back a grimace, guessing that they had most likely attempted to carry the bags up one of the building's narrow, winding staircases. That they had succeeded was, in itself, a triumph.

"Good afternoon gentlemen. Can I be of assistance?"

A young man with black hair and eyes a fascinating shade of green bowed formally and stepped forwards, asking the Alchemist if they might have a moment of his time. The magician agreed and invited the servants inside, the door closing with a small click behind them.

After a few moments of quiet, the next door down the corridor opened a crack. The three suitcases silently rose off the ground and drifted down the hallway. The door shut behind them silently.

The bags were set down in the centre of the guest room, and a shuddery sigh slipped through the silence as he massaged his sore temples. His eyelids became heavy as he stared at the suitcases, before sliding down the wooden floor, clutching the white sheet he had taken from the bedroom around his naked body. His clothes were in a clustered heap on the floor, but he couldn't face donning last night's outfit again. He didn't even want to look at it. He also knew that a visit to the Baths should also be high on the priority list, but...Lorlen just couldn't be bothered to do anything.

He knew such a defeatist attitude went against everything he believed in: that even when your life came crashing down around you, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and implode - there was still work to be done; whether it be helping someone else, doing assignments or reading up on something. The trick was to not think about it.

That was what he'd done when he'd first arrived at the Guild all those years ago, an aimless husk of a child who'd never even seen a proper city, let alone Imardin, until some two weeks before the Initiation Ceremony. He'd walked into the University with Walin and the other boy's parents, and hadn't the willpower to tell them he didn't really want to join the Guild. Lorlen just wanted to go home, with his mother. But she'd gone now, gone to join his father...and so, in her absence, he'd revived their one of their favourite pastimes - reading.

Every minute of those first few weeks outside lesson time and a few hours of sleep (which even then he had sometimes tried to make himself forego), he had gone to the library and read. Textbooks. Books on culture. Fairytales. Ancient Myths. But mainly textbooks – just as she had told him to.

...promise that you'll do your best and show them that being a member of the Houses does not make them superior to you...show them how much better you are... no-one is above you, Lorlen. Understand? NO-ONE.

Lorlen had joined the Guild with only his mother's (she who had been cast out of her family) viewpoints on the House social system and had instantly wanted nothing to do with any of his peers. He'd read and worked ahead, the next lesson's work, next week's work, next month's work. He vowed to learn everything, annihilate every barrier they put in his way – he would be better than all of them – even that boy Akkarin.

Lorlen had ingested it all with a hunger and a ferocity that even the librarian, who had been keeping a close eye on him, had found disturbing in a child so young. The boy had even been there during meal times, not wanting to eat with the others out of fear and repulsion; he grew thin, pale...the teachers began to pull him aside after lessons – ask if he was being bullied or if he wanted to move seats and sit next to someone he wanted to talk to; and all the while Lorlen muttered his customary 'no thank you much my Lord/Lady, I'll be fine' at the ground in between them.

And then, after five weeks of Warrior theory, there had been their first ever practical lesson in Arena-

The sound of Lord Rothen's door opening was loud enough to startle him, and he allowed himself to wince as the House Delvon servants exclaimed at the empty space the bags had been in. He knew should have at least unlocked the door when they'd knocked earlier (as Akkarin's note had predicted), but...he'd just wanted to be left alone. His former Alchemy Teacher calmly dismissed them, saying he would sort it all out and they had complied easily enough.

Light footsteps walked towards down the corridor to the rooms, and Lorlen's chest began to ache from how fast his heart was thumping and how little oxygen he was letting himself breathe for fear of giving himself away. The tread stopped as the little colour left drained from his face, his complexion matching the white sheets that covered his bare hips, the material trembling lightly in his grip.

-Lorlen.

The Healer froze.

-It's OK, I've sent them away now...I'd like to welcome you on behalf of my family and wish you a good summer break. Feel free to drop by whenever you want to; someone will almost always be there.

The Alchemist waited seemed to leave the sentence hanging. Lorlen felt the room being scanned for a presence and felt a blanket like sensation engulf him as he willed himself into non-existence. Rothen sighed quietly after a few moments.

-I'll leave the door unlocked for you.

Rothen's presence and footsteps grew distant and the sheet slipped through his slackened fingers, pooling around his bare feet. Goosebumps rose to the surface of his skin, fine dark hairs prickling from a gust of wind that whistled in through a crack in the bottom of the door. He gave the door a blank look and a fragile template of a smile before turning back to regard the room before him.

There was nothing special about it, he'd seen into other rooms of the Magician's Quarters before and knew this space to be identical to every other he had encountered. The floor was made of wood, a different type from the main door – lighter in complexion, greyed with age and dust gathered from disuse. It was big, certainly large enough to store all that he owned and more.

Empty words, empty mind, empty room, empty life.

Empty empty empty empty empty.

The bittersweet tang of irony made his lips twist into a grimace-like snarl. There was silence.

"What do I do now?"

He wasn't sure whether saying it aloud made him feel anymore substantial as a human being, or if it was simply something to fill the room, if only for a moment. His lips mind room did not reply.

His life? For the last five years, his life had consisted almost entirely of Akkarin. Akkarin was his life. Akkarin was now gone. Therefore, there was nothing left.

...there was nothing left...

The thought sparked a reaction in him, and he wordlessly stood up – urging himself to do something to keep himself occupied. A sharp bolt of pain ripped up his spine and the Healer whimpered quietly. The ache when he'd woken up earlier, both from the hangover and from...had been hideous; and whilst he'd Healed some of it away, Lorlen had deliberately kept a portion of it behind. He didn't want to think about why – it had just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

He stood and made his way over to the suitcases, popped the latch on the nearest one and began to remove his belongings. He'd gotten to his stuffed toy of a reber when he stopped, overcome by an desire, a longing he hadn't felt in years.

The idea of it sounded ludicrous at first, but then – could he really stay here tonight? In that room, alone, after what had happened?

The Healer's hands dropped to the suitcase.

Lorlen put the toy back and began re-packing.

Rothen had been surprised, but happy, when he found Lorlen outside his door a few minutes later, and invited the young Healer inside. Yilara had looked up from her cup of sumi and smiled warmly, gesturing for Lorlen to sit down and help himself to some breakfast, the Healer decline earning him a mildly condescending look from the Head of Healing Studies as she glanced at her husband and asked why it was all young people seemed eager to starve themselves today.

Yilara had suddenly began to cough violently, and at once the carefree light-hearted atmosphere had vanished, the noises hoarse and unpleasant as she'd hunched over in her chair, and her husband had hurried off in the direction of what Lorlen presumed to be their bedroom. His former teacher's voice, usually so calm and even, seemed unsteady as he'd asked Lorlen to pour her a fresh glass of water and keep her breathing her normally. A door on the other side of the rooms opened and another set of footsteps approached the towards the two Healers, as a boy with thick dark hair knelt down on the floor besides the chair and held her hand, his voice wavering when he called her name and she replied only with heaves.

Lorlen had set down the glass and fell to his knees, holding her hands whilst she'd tried to get her breath back. He'd sent his mind into her body, his concentration shaken in his hurry to find the source of the problem, and found it there, in her lungs and felt himself freeze as he saw.

What on earth...?

She pulled her hands away firmly, severing their connection abruptly as Rothen re-entered the room with her medication. The three males had watched with baited breath as she poured some of the white powder into a glass of water and began to drink, the sounds of her swallowing loud in the near silence. Yilara had placed the then empty glass back on the table and took a few more deep breaths, her head bowed towards the ground. The boy, Lorlen presumed him to be their son, had knelt down next to him and wrapped his arms around his mother's leg, resting his head on her knee. Once her breathing calmed, she gave a breathless laugh and ran her fingers through the boy's dark hair. Rothen put his hand on her shoulder and she squeezed it back with a strained smile on her face.

My apologies, the female had said when she looked back at Lorlen, her expression all ease and friendliness, as though nothing had ever happened, and made a humorous comment about how Rothen would never be late to any of his lessons if he ran as fast as that all the time.

Lorlen had watched in awe at the sheer strength and willpower of the woman before his eyes. He'd felt ashamed of himself for bailing out so early on – he was complaining about his life? At least he had his health, she didn't and yet...

Oh, he was so pathetic.

-It's OK.

The mental communication had made him look back up and it was only then he realised he'd started crying. Yilara's concerned face swam in his vision, and the Head of Healing Studies had leaned forward in her chair to hold his hands, just as the young magician had done for her only a minute or so beforehand. Her smile was soft and relaxed like a warm embrace; and Lorlen remembered the horrific lurching sensation in his chest as he recalled that smile from another time so, so long ago...

A pale gaunt face that had haunted his memories flashed before him and Lorlen had let out a sob before he could stifle it and looked to the ground, not wanting these strangers to see him like this. What was wrong with him today? Yilara had stroked his hands with her thumbs.

-You were only trying to help; only trying to do what you thought was best - that's all that matters. All that ever mattered.

Lorlen's eyes snap to meet hers and for a split second, her words seem to brush something deep inside him. The young Healer felt a tentative grip on his arm and had looked down to the boy gazing at him with confusion, pain but a strong sense of determination that made Lorlen pause. How old was this boy – 12, 13? The child was even younger than Lorlen himself had been back then, and he was already so grown up. The thought made him sad. Had he himself looked like that? Lorlen smiled shakily at his former teacher's son and felt rather than saw the boy smile back in return. He looked up at Rothen and smiled brightly. The Alchemist had a beautiful family, and he was honoured to even be considered a temporary attachment of it.

After that, Lorlen had hastily made his exit, bidding the three of them farewell and happiness over the summer holidays. Rothen had seen him to the door, clapping a hand down on the Healer's shoulders with a sympathetic smile on his face and Lorlen had laughed at what a state he must look. Rothen had never seen him as anything other than the quiet, passive student he'd been in class. His former teacher had wished him good luck and closed the door, the young magician abruptly stopped from turning back to his room by the curiosity in the boy's big blue eyes. Something had flashed across his gaze as he nodded sombrely in farewell, the door closing quietly between them.

Lorlen had remained outside the door for a few moments before turning back towards his rooms, unable to dismiss the eerie familiarity of the boy's parting look. He felt himself shudder and picked his pace as he headed back to his own rooms, the building falling silent once more as the door shut with a small click.

The young Healer left the rooms bare when he emerged a short while later, the bags once again outside in the corridor. Lorlen had arranged for the House Rassil carriage – the only one he had access to – to meet him around him outside the Healer's Quarters in half an hour.

He would carry the bags there himself; servants were, after all, like magicians, only human – and though it was technically their job, he thought it unfair that someone without magic should be left to carry a heavy load when he could just do it himself. The upper classes had grown so used to having someone to fulfil their every fleeting whim, they had grown lazy and selfish in their inactivity. Lorlen suddenly couldn't wait to leave the Guild; he had a feeling he wouldn't miss it nearly as much as he had suspected so barely a couple of weeks ago. But well –

The brunet coldly slapped the thought aside as he stepped out in the afternoon sun, annoyed at himself for having wasted almost the entire day.

At this rate, he'd be lucky to reach his destination before nightfall; the path that led there thinned out halfway through the forest – the carriage would not fit through, so he'd have to disembark and carry the bags there himself; and Lorlen really didn't like the thought of trying to navigate his way through the woods in the dark...

How long had it been since his last visit, he mused, regarding the two or three vehicles left on the road in front of the University. Three years? Four?

Five years in thirty two days time, the Healer recalled as he watched two magicians standing by a large carriage a short distance away, hating how accurately he remembered.

Lorlen felt himself brooding again and was grateful when one of the magicians spotted him and smiled brightly. The purple-robed man left the carriage to greet the Healer, his smile dropping a little by the time they were face to face.

"Lorlen." The man sounded almost relieved to see him.

The shorter magician attempted to return the expression, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Hello, Terrell. I heard you two were leaving now...?"

The Alchemist looked briefly back over his shoulder at Yikmo.

"Yes, we are; Lorlen..."

The man in question felt himself frown lightly at his friend's distracted tone. Terrell's face crumpled into a terrible sort of despairing anguish, sorrow colouring his voice. " -why didn't you tell me?"

Dark eyes widened at the other's words, dread making his stomach clench.

No – it's not possible...there's no way-

"Ah, I wondered if you would show up."

Yikmo's voice had never been more welcome and Lorlen felt lies false words spew from his mouth like blood from a ruptured vessel. He had never been so competent at lying before, and he blamed his new talent on...

Never mind.

"I apologise; you were right – I really don't know how to hold my drink." The Healer grimaced, causing the Warrior to grin toothily and shook his head.

"And you call yourself a Healer? You better than anyone should know how much you can or can't handle."

The Kyralian's rueful smile was not entirely forced.

The Vindo nodded over Lorlen's shoulder. "Going somewhere nice?"

If Terrell was shocked by the Healer's sudden departure plans, he didn't show it.

"'Nice' isn't the word I'd use."

Yikmo laughed and Lorlen found himself smiling at how genuine it sounded.

"I hope you have a relaxing time, regardless. We all need some time away after yesterday; a fresh start." His eyes drifted to the silent Alchemist by his side, but made no further comment. "What are your plans anyway?"

"Not much in all honesty; I have nothing planned so I think I'll just take each day as it comes, see how it goes." The Warrior blinked slowly, his face unmoving for a moment. He grinned again.

"You shouldn't say that – free-time always goes quicker that way."

Lorlen laughed quietly under his breath.

"Perhaps...but anyway," he stepped forward and embraced the Vindo warmly, "take care of yourself, yes? I'll write you in the near future."

Yikmo pulled a face.

"Don't say that, you sound just like Akkarin."

The Healer's face tightened.

"I promise."

The Warrior smirked and turned back towards the carriage, clapping his hand down on Terrell's arm in a sign that stated they needed to leave soon. The Healer and the Alchemist stood in silence for a short while, the silence awkward for reasons Lorlen knew he probably should recall but couldn't. He nevertheless broke the silence first by smiling.

"I hope to see you too, Terrell." His voice was quiet, soft and the Alchemist seemed to flinch away, but beamed in return nonetheless.

"And I you!"

The taller magician embraced Lorlen, drowning him in purple robes. The Healer tried to pull away a few seconds later, but the Alchemist's grip around his back held firm, and Lorlen hesitantly wrapped his arms around the other once more. Terrell eventually let go, and the short magician was left confused by the look his friend was giving him.

"Goodbye my friend."

And then Lorlen stepped away, turning his back to the carriage but the Alchemist remained stationary. He said nothing in reply.

Terrell joined Yikmo inside the carriage a couple of minutes later after checking the bags were secure one last time. He was headed for Elyne, but agreed to drop his friend off at Immardin's port where the Vindo Warrior would return to his homeland by boat.

He opened and closed the door, rapped his knuckles against the carriage ceiling and felt the vehicle lurch forwards as it trundled away.

Lorlen stopped and turned back to face the retreating vehicle, smiling as he waved. Yikmo leant out the window and waved back, content to temporarily ignore Terrell who sat adjacent in brooding silence. Neither of them spoke until they had passed the front Gates.

"You didn't tell him."

The harsh tone of the statement sounded accusatory even to Yikmo's ears, but he wasn't in the mood for showing his friend sympathy right now. The Alchemist's lack of reply seemed to agree with him, and the Warrior made a rude noise. "What were you doing yesterday evening? I thought this was one of the reasons why you decided to go after him following your little spat with Akkarin."

Terrell looked uncharacteristically angry when he met Yikmo's gaze.

"It's none of his business."

The Vindo looked shocked as realisation dawned on him.

"...You like him, don't you?"

"And your point is?"

Yikmo frowned severely, but remained silent. Terrell regarded him with cold amusement.

"You don't approve."

The Warrior looked away. It was true that homosexual relationships were not exactly encouraged in Vindo culture, and were more often than not seen as a disgraceful act unless under extreme circumstances...but this situation was not borne of extreme circumstances. This was just Terrell being stupid and overemotional. The fact that his chosen "concubine" would be the man they'd just left behind, especially with Akkarin no longer around...Lorlen was fragile at the moment, and he didn't need Terrell's indecisiveness right now to screw with his head even further.

"My personal feelings aside, Lorlen deserves to know the truth - and you'd be a poor friend to think otherwise."

The Alchemist bared his teeth silently, his eyes boring holes through the floor of the carriage. Yikmo sighed loudly. This is absurd. I shouldn't even have to explain why this is so wrong. The carriage pulled to a halt and the Warrior looked out the window, the murky brown water of the Tarali River on the other side of a cobbled street that lay before them.

"Yikmo."

The man in question looked up.

"If Lorlen and I ever meant anything to you, you won't tell him."

The red-robed magician flinched. That wasn't fair.

"Why can't you just tell him? If he is so important to you, surely you would want him to be-"

"I'm just trying to help, OK?"

"Help him or yourself? Because you certainly won't be helping her-"

"Them." The Alchemist's voice was unnaturally calm and quiet.

"...what?"

Terrell gulped silently and looked out of the window.

" 'Because you won't be helping them'. Not just her. Not anymore."

The Warrior stared. The piece slotted into place with an almost tangible chink.

His eyes widened impossibly. Oh no...

The Alchemist's eyes shimmered oddly in the late afternoon sunlight, his face contorted in bittersweet agony. He pushed the door open and waited in silence for Yikmo to get out.

"No, Terrell, wait-"

"Close the door on your way out, please."

Yikmo remained in his seat for a few moments, until he realised that, as far as his friend was concerned, this conversation was over. He stepped outside, the driver already undoing the ropes that secured the suitcases to the roof of the carriage. The Warrior took the suitcases from the servant, who bowed politely in return. The magician went back to the window and peered in to find his friend hunched into the far corner, glistening tracks making his cheeks sparkle. He'd never seen Terrell cry before...

"Terrell."

The Alchemist looked up and smiled brilliantly as always - but this time it wobbled.

"I hope you'll be able to come, Yikmo. Keep in touch."

The Warrior nodded in agreement and Terrell knocked again on the carriage ceiling, the vehicle stuttering as it began to cross the cobbled pathways that ran alongside the riverbank. Yikmo watched it go with a sadness for his best friend's pain that made his stomach flip.

It wasn't until a few hours later he realised that Terrell hadn't actually answered his question.