Chapter 20

Suspicious Minds

"What's that? You're going to have to repeat yourself, boy."

The apprentice swallowed, sallow-faced and sweaty - presumably from running. "Your daughter's home, master. Miss Anarei."

He gritted his teeth, attempted to focus, to make sense of the words as the boy shuffled awkwardly upon his feet. It was only after a pregnant pause that he found his voice again. "Thank you. You may go."

He thought the boy left far too quickly - his apprentices often lingered to chat. Behind him, his wife let out a quiet chuckle, the sound of which only served to make him cringe. "Your face could curdle milk, dearest."

"She's your daughter," he grumbled.

There was a small, winning smirk upon her face as she strode up to him, a thick, dark brow arched high. "I did tell you she'd be back sooner than you'd planned."

Twenty years past the early days of their courting, silver-streaked and lined in the face - and still Estarra bore that look. He'd never been able to make sense of her gift, what she could see and what she couldn't. He hadn't believed her - he never did.

And as always, she had the right of it.

He loved her for it, and she knew it. Still, he rolled his eyes, turned his head to face her. "You didn't mention the boy."

"I thought I'd spare you the details." She shifted her gaze towards the descending pathway that led from their home to the foot of the small hill. "My father didn't want to hear about you, neither."

"That's not really a fair comparison." He pursed his lips. "He'd better be a respectable lad."

Estarra's only response did not at all comfort him - a barely-stifled chuckle and a brief squeeze of his shoulder. "Ah, Cleunn." Her brows knitted together, then she lifted her head, peered forward. He could hear the trotting of hooves, and the voices - one of which could only belong to his eldest. "You'll learn soon enough. Now be quiet."

Two horses approached, his daughter perched upon the leading palomino - she was thinner and darker from the southern sun, her hair a curly, windswept mess atop her head. Still, she beamed as she caught his gaze, throwing her arm into the air in greeting. He heard her call out - mam and da, but by then, he'd turned to look upon the other. A pale horse with faint spots trailed a little behind, grunting and huffing as its rider attempted to tug upon its reins.

The rider - the olive tinge in the boy's skin tone marked him as a southerner, as did his rather wiry physique. His short, messy hair was of an odd shade of faded brown, and as he approached, Cleunn couldn't help but to wonder if the grime on the boy had discoloured his hair somewhat.

The boy turned and met his eyes - they were filled with anxiety, and he muttered something hurriedly to Anarei.

He looks shady. Cleunn narrowed his eyes. They always look anxious when they're up to no good.

In response to her companion, Anarei simply smiled, then reached over to clasp his forearm in some gesture Cleunn could not place. All he was aware of in that moment was that he did not, in the very least, like the southern boy.

He decided the boy could wait; his daughter took precedence. She hopped off her horse, laughing - he caught her in his arms and kissed the side of her head. "Disregarding your parents' wishes again, I see."

Anarei squeezed him hard, and buried her face into his chest. He felt her inhale deeply, and looked up to meet his wife's gaze - her eyes were soft, and her lips quirked in a smile he knew to be mirrored in his own face. "I missed you too, da."

"You must be tired." Estarra was stroking Anarei's hair, though he wondered if it was their daughter, or the southerner she addressed. Her eyes were focused upon the boy - she was far friendlier than he was inclined to be. He made a mental note to ask her to stop afterwards. "Welcome to Virkove, young man."

The boy gasped softly, stiffened and dipped his head in a hurry, before his eyes even met Estarra's - suspiciously averting eye contact, Cleunn thought - and when he greeted her, his voice was soft, and his tone was weak. "Thank you, madam." He turned to Cleunn then, his head hung low all the while. "Sir. I'm only here to escort your daughter home; I'll be out of your way soon."

Suspicious, and unwilling to stay. Cleunn frowned as Anarei broke free of his embrace to hug her mother. Now that he could do so at close range, he looked the boy over. He seemed to be about Strahan's age - and even more sullen than the other was occasionally prone to be. He turned away from Cleunn doggedly, and folded his arms across his chest - his right moved stiffly, and his lips thinned as he covered it with his left arm. The sight did not inspire any form of confidence in him. Injured are we, boy?

"You two run into any trouble on the way back here?" He deliberately addressed the boy.

The boy turned to face him, though he averted his gaze before it fell on Cleunn's eyes - they were of a strange colour that Cleunn didn't have time to place - and he shook his head. "Nothing we couldn't handle, sir. I assure you that your daughter is none worse for the wear."

Estarra had released her hold of Anarei, and was watching him through narrowed eyes - he saw the warning clearly enough. "You're hurt."

"We got tangled in some old caves with demon spiders." Anarei had moved to grip the southerner's arm once more - Cleunn was glad to see the boy looked as discomfited by the gesture as he, himself, felt. "He saved my life, da."

He sighed, broadened his stance, and crossed his arms. By the standards of the north, Cleunn knew he lacked the breadth and build to impose fear - not the way his brother did, at any rate. Still, the boy looked anxious enough.

For now, anyway. He caught his wife's eyes once more. You saw this coming, Star - yet you don't seem in the least bit worried. Still, I can't help but to be.

He wished he shared her confidence. "You should get cleaned up. We'll talk after; I'll come check on you." Yet again, the boy neglected to meet his eyes. "Both of you."

The boy muttered something inaudible, before he was cut off by Anarei dragging him up the stairs. He seemed glad to be going - this time, he didn't fight against Anarei's hold.

It wasn't until they'd left that Cleunn turned to face his wife once more. She wore a slight, almost wry smile as she reached to take his hand. He grunted his dissent; she chuckled. "He didn't even introduce himself. That's just bad manners."

Estarra rubbed his shoulder with her free hand. Her eyes gleamed - her smile deepened. "His name is Lear."

Lear. He rolled the name in his mouth. It tasted foul and irksome, worrying to even consider, though he imagined that was rather an unfair conclusion. After all, both Rei and Star seem to trust him.

He pursed his lips. "I don't trust him."

His wife's laughter rang loud and clear with amusement. He knew that laugh, and knew it well - there was more to the boy than what he could see. With Estarra, there was always more.

How much, Cleunn didn't care to know. He wanted the boy well - and then he wanted him out.

"Your father wanted me out of there."

"He wants every boy out of there."

Lear lowered his head and minded his step over the cracked stone path. His shoulders felt stiff from the way they'd tensed against the cold; he rocked them back, feeling the uncomfortable fit of Strahan's rather more weather-appropriate clothes. Still far better than freezing, I suppose.

"He thought we'd been up to no good, didn't he?" He recalled the look on the older man's face - he and Anarei had been sitting on her bed, and she'd been checking and redressing the wounds on his forearm, which hadn't been healing well. By the way Anarei's father had glared at him, he might as well have been caught trying to undress her.

She let out a chuckle, bowing her head as she tugged the furred trim of her cloak closer about her neck. "Maybe. But we weren't, so don't worry about it." She did not sound anxious in the least bit - if anything, she sounded resigned, just a touch sad. "Da won't bite. He's just worried, is all."

"I shan't bother him, then - or the rest of your household, for that matter." Lear shut his eyes against a gust of wind; his damp hair felt icy, now, and he regretted not picking a hooded coat. "I have some savings with me, still. I can find a place to stay until the week is up."

"No, stay." Anarei turned towards him, then seemed to catch her own hastiness, and cleared her throat. Now home, clean, and adequately clothed in furs, she looked young once more. Her hair - once limp and dishevelled during their travels, often frizzy - formed sleek, thickly-coiled ringlets that fell loose about her flushed cheeks. It added to her air of innocence, made her voice all the more imploring. "Don't waste your coin. You may need it in later days."

He felt his brows tighten and his eyes narrow, but managed a snicker nevertheless. "And cause your father such distress? That would be impious of me, wouldn't it?"

"I've told you, da isn't going to bite." She bit her lower lip, then looked away. "There's nothing between us, anyway, so you needn't worry."

Lear considered his options. It would be much cheaper to lodge at Anarei's home, but the non-monetary costs had him opting for an alternative. I'd gotten her into enough of my troubles, and now her family, too? He preferred being able to move freely, to move away where he wanted, when he wanted.

"Still, I don't want to cause tension in the household." He tried for an apologetic tone. "Your father may not bite, but he'd be on edge. I don't want that, when you should be enjoying some amount of peace with your family."

She went quiet, her eyes trailing the stone pathway beneath their feet. Her hands remained at her throat, clutching the furs there. He could see her fidget with the fabric, her fingertips occasionally sliding beneath. He didn't need his sight to know what she was feeling at.

When she spoke, her voice bore traces of resignation - much like her father's had when she'd insisted, earlier, that he would be staying. "If that's what you really want. I've taken up too much of your time already."

If there was more on her mind, she did not say it.

"And I've taken up too many of your resources." Lear felt the flare of irritation and tried to curb it by sucking in a sharp breath; it chilled his lungs instantly and he almost choked. He recovered after a hoarse cough. "Anyway, I'd left my things at your place, so we'll try to work this out later. Now… aren't you going to show me your hometown?"

"The paths, the shops, and the training grounds." Anarei murmured, eyes downcast. After a moment, she seemed to steel herself and lifted her head; she did not look much happier, and there was a humourless quality to her strained smile. "We'll pass the marketplace on the way to the grounds."

"What do people usually buy from here, when they come and visit?" For her sake, he tried for a smile, himself. "I know you have a lot of ores and minerals."

"We don't get many visitors." She began, lowering her hands to hug herself about the chest. Up ahead, stone-walled shops lay strewn precariously upon the sloping landscape, flanking the winding pathway on both sides. The crowd had begun to thicken - she wove through them, moving closer to his side. "Mostly, the shops sell what we need - food, oil, wood, pelts, the like. Occasionally we have traders who bring fabrics and spices." She crooked a little smile. "Nowhere near as colourful as Lut Gholein."

Anarei's mention of his hometown inspired a bittersweet feeling within him, and Lear allowed his tone to warm. "It's not as if I have much coin to spare, anyway… but if we see a good pair of socks, I'd gladly invest in them."

"We spin some wool." She ducked around a group of men - large, rough-skinned men of the north - and veered towards the porch of a smithy, where the sound of hammering rang clear. It reminded Lear of Haedrig's forge, though here, admittedly, the weapons lacked the elegance so inherent in the weapons forged in the south. "And some other softer fabrics, but usually we just trade those, since they're not warm enough for our weather."

He reached for the scarf around his neck - for a fabric woven here, it had been rather appropriate for the desert mornings. He wondered if they still wove such swaddling cloths. "And the weapons? Surely with the metals here, the smiths can forge great, robust weapons. I've seen your swords, but I've also seen a lot of mallets, hammers, axes, and polearms." He'd only just finished speaking when a lightly-armoured but heavily-muscled man passed by with a broadsword strapped across his back. "It's true that your people can wield one in each hand without breaking a sweat, isn't it?"

Anarei quirked a slight smile, then peered through the window into the forge. "My people are known to possess brute strength, I suppose. Taranis alternates between his hammer and his axe - they're pretty heavy, even for me." She paused briefly, turning and watching as a couple of chatting women passed, then stepped back onto the path. "I'm sure you've read the tales and epics. Bul-Kathos, the guardians of Arreat, the great old warriors?"

"Of course," Lear replied, glad for the more light-hearted topic. "And the more recent history too… I'm sorry for the loss of your people, but it looks like you're resilient - you've bounced back, hmm?"

She guided him down the narrow pathway, pausing to wordlessly point out a tiny shop with a window display bearing jewelry and precious gemstones. In contrast, her words sounded bleak. "We do what we have to, to survive, I guess." Her eyes moved to his own, her gaze pointed. "All of us."

Lear lowered his own gaze, and wondered just how well Anarei understood the notion she spoke of. She's not as naive as she was when you first knew her, but she's still not as exposed and experienced as she'd perhaps like to think she is, is she?

"Well, looks to me like you're managing to do a lot more than merely surviving." He nodded towards the jeweller's shop. "People here are still falling in love, aren't they?"

For the first time that day, he saw a glimpse of genuine amusement in her expression, though it manifested itself in the form of a grudging smile. "Periodically." She remarked quietly. "You needn't sound so surprised. We northerners aren't all that cold and unfeeling."

If you were colder and more unfeeling, I wouldn't be here right now. Lear reconsidered this. Or was I really just a good test subject for you to practise on?

Regardless, he offered her a more heartfelt smile. "Of course."

On and on, they made their way further down. Closer to the market square, the shops and homes were newer and larger, the glass windows clear rather than soot-clouded. Anarei stopped at a baker's for half a dozen raisin buns, still warm and steaming from the oven, smelling richly of butter. "We can get some pears from the grocer's, and if we're lucky, we'll find the corn cart out at the edge of town." She tucked the bundle of buns into her cloak, then clasped her hands together. "It's nice and hot, cooked over charcoal with spice. You'd like that, I think."

Anarei was definitely happier now, her eyes bright with childish joy. Lear was glad for that, and smiled once more.

They meandered along in comfortable silence. She pointed out various interesting shops - knick-knacks, a dimly-lit bookshop, the apothecary, and a quaint little corner where live chickens were sold.

It wasn't until she'd handed coin to the wrinkled old man in exchange for two glistening, golden cobs of corn, that Lear noted the first signs of trouble.

His mind's eye saw them before he heard them - the girls standing beneath the awning of an adjacent building, giggling in hushed tones, though not quite hushed enough to hide the jeer within.

Anarei's lips were firmly pursed together. She held out one of the two cobs. "Here, while it's still hot."

She was evidently intent upon ignoring them, so he obliged by biting into the corn, focusing instead on the richly-spiced butter and the sweet, juicy kernels. "This is really good."

She'd only begun to smile at him when the jeers rose in volume. Even as she grabbed his wrist and made to drag him away, Lear caught the words, spoken in pitchy tones with barely-contained glee -

"Hey, Naveau! Finally got a boyfriend? And a southerner, too! Why's he wearing your brother's clothes?"

And this is why I'd rather leave soon. He had the tact not to vocalise those words, and instead quickened his pace to match Anarei's. "Rumour-mongers?"

"Girls with nothing better to do with their time." Her voice was lower, the smile wiped clean from her face. "I haven't been particularly active in the romantic aspect of things." She adjusted the hold of her cob, the kernels untouched. "Sorry. It's none of your business."

"I'm sure." Lear wasn't particularly bothered by the girls, and he couldn't resist the steaming corn in his hand, so he took another bite. She threw him a quick glance; he caught a glimpse of her furrowed brow before she tugged grudgingly upon his injured arm, then released her hold entirely. With reluctance, he picked up his pace, inwardly lamenting his cooling cob of corn.

Eventually they came to flatter ground, where warmer winds brought life to the soil, and a light forest took root. Not far from the start of the treeline was a clearing - the solid bedrock was cracked and fractured by robust roots; the gaps were in turn covered by sparse grasses, or filled in by sand to form a safer, more even surface.

There were benches formed by split lengths of logs. Anarei found a bench upon higher ground, then lowered herself onto the smooth log with a soft, tired sigh.

"We can see quite a bit of the view from here." She told him, pulling the pears and buns from within her cloak. "Here, can you see?"

Instinctively, Lear looked east - where the warm air originated. Over the strait, he could barely make out the stronghold of Entsteig, its stony battlements standing against a backdrop of looming peaks.

What he could make out very distinctly, however, was a much closer presence - a contained flame of vermillion, which nevertheless seared its surroundings in his mind's eye.

He lowered his voice. "Anarei, do people lurk about around here?"

Anarei had only just pulled out a raisin bun, and she arched a brow curiously. She handed the bun to him, shaking her head. "Not unless the boys and girls run out of romantic places to haunt. Some of us hunt in these grounds, though. Why?"

"Because." Lear accepted the bun, and gestured towards the beacon tower with a nod - a stone mound set into a thin stretch of tall grass between the almost-bare training grounds and the dense treeline further down the slope, somewhat obstructing his view of the Demon Hunters' stronghold. "There's someone up there. Alone."

"Mm." Anarei had taken a bite of corn as he'd gestured, turning to follow his line of vision. She chewed slowly, then swallowed before speaking, her voice lighter. "It's probably a militia scout or a ranger checking up on our surroundings. Don't look so worried."

"If you say so." He dropped into a seat beside her, taking a bite out of the bun as he considered his bare cob - he'd bitten off all the kernels before they reached the training grounds. "There's no reason to worry… unless he or she doesn't like southerners, right?"

Anarei let out a breath - it sounded almost like a scoffing chuckle - then leaned back, dropping one hand to the edge of the seat to support her weight. "It's a changed world, Lear. The people who matter aren't against southerners - not even in Virkove. In case you haven't noticed, my mother's southern. I'm part southern. Strahan is southern. My aunt Lianni, who's married to my Uncle Veive, is southern. My cousins are part southern."

Except the southerner part isn't exactly the most unfavourable part about me. Lear snickered despite himself, and focused once more on the occupant of the beacon tower. "It's good to see. I suppose people unite despite their backgrounds when they share a common foe. Too busy to quarrel amongst themselves, then."

"I suppose. But we're pretty hotheaded, too, so I wouldn't discount all possibility of quarreling, regardless." She quirked her lips, then held out a pear.

At that moment, the vermillion shifted, and a loud, bellowing cry echoed throughout the surrounding vegetation. Lear leapt off their seat, dropped his half-eaten bun as his hands reached for his knives.

Anarei merely let out a slightly startled, "Oh." The voice had yelled her name, after all.

He'd thought it was a bear that lumbered towards them at first - an orange streak that trudged across the landscape. Anarei stood, perking up, and even let out a soft, but affectionate sort of laugh. It wasn't until the vermillion had gotten richer in hue, closer in person, that Lear saw the young man.

He was evidently of northern descent - tall, broad, and liberally muscled. A curly tangle of bright orange tumbled about his more sculpted face, brushing a stubble-dusted jaw. Like so many others, he wore dark, heavy clothes without much adornment - they were sturdy and made to endure. In his hands, he held a hammer, and an axe - both brutish, but well-forged.

The young man flashed a row of even teeth with his wide grin. "Who's your boyfriend, Rei?" His right hand loosened, dropping the axe carelessly onto the ground, then reached out to snatch the pear from Anarei's hand, taking a large, inelegant bite. Lear could feel his face heating up despite the chilly air. Dear goodness, I've run into the jealous boyfriend. He can turn me into minced meat if he so wishes.

Anarei made a sound, then punched the young man in the arm - she didn't look as annoyed as Lear had expected. "You're horrid. He's a friend." She turned to Lear. "This is Taranis."

That rang a bell. "Ah, I've heard about you, sir." Willing his voice to be firm, he held out his hand, hoping that the other man wouldn't shake the injured limb too hard. "My name is Lear. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He did. "Taranis Cethlion." His grip was rough, as was the shake that followed. Lear winced and pulled away. Taranis took no heed of this; he simply took another bite of the pear, slanting his eyes towards Anarei. "Hug?"

"You stole my pear. You don't deserve a hug." She grinned nonetheless, then wrapped her arms firmly about him. "Jerk."

Taranis chuckled as she pulled away. "When did you two arrive?" He glanced at Lear. "For that matter, how's it you're here with him? You're meant to be in Lut Gholein."

"We arrived in the late morning. She preferred to return here." Lear muttered, unsure of what to think of this man. "I wanted to escort her home, and as you can see, she's well and whole."

"I'm sure Master Naveau's conducted a thorough examination." Taranis finished off the last of the pear, crunching hard upon the juicy flesh. He tossed the core aside, then wiped his hand on his cloak. "How'd you two meet, then? I don't suppose Strahan got you to trail her all the way back so she'd be safe?"

Anarei sighed and rolled her eyes. "Strahan's probably on the way back from Lut Gholein himself. We met in Tristram. He's just visiting."

"I'll be on my way soon." Lear added quickly, as Taranis' gaze shifted onto him. "I… won't cause any trouble while I'm here."

Taranis arched his brows, then, slowly but surely, they furrowed - Lear wasn't sure he liked the way he was being looked at. Afterward a moment of cold scrutiny, Taranis remarked with a deeper voice, "Your boyfriend's really nervous, isn't he, Rei?"

"No, no… I'm just…" Lear was at a loss for words. He felt flustered - Anarei's father, Anarei's mother, and now Anarei's close friend, if not boyfriend, had all reacted differently to his presence. At that moment, he wished he was far, far away from where he stood. "It's just cold here." He attempted pathetically.

Taranis was obviously no more convinced than Anarei was - while she simply shrugged a shoulder and retook her seat, he lowered his gaze, looked Lear up and down. Lear's toes twitched within his boots, and he made the effort not to tap them upon the ground. Taranis' eyes - a dark forest green - narrowed; they'd found the weapons. "Worried you'd be attacked up here?"

"Always, sir." Lear took a tiny step back. He didn't like the way the man was so forward, so brusque. And, of course, the way he can turn me into minced meat if he so desires. "We met plenty of monsters out for our blood on the way, so… better safe than sorry, I suppose."

The man's thick fingers tightened about his the handle of his hammer; his gaze, however, left Lear's own to find Anarei's. She spoke up first - the warning in her voice was clear. "Drop it, Taranis."

Taranis smirked, his eyes narrowing further as he reaffixed them upon Lear. If the expression had at all reeked of mean-spiritedness, he would've been less imposing - but this man of Barbarian descent was all open dislike. "I'll have you know, I take it as a personal insult that you think you'd be attacked within our walls."

Somehow, that inspired some defiance within Lear. He lowered his eyes to Taranis' weapons - first the hammer, then the axe upon the ground - and before he could hold it back, his retort came tumbling out. "At least mine are sheathed."

Behind him, Anarei groaned - but he was far too engrossed in the way Taranis seemed, in that second, to grow taller.

"That's because I came here to train." He swung the hammer around just once - even beneath the shroud of his clothing, the tensed muscles it took to perform the action were visible. "Did you come here to train, too? We can go a round."

"Your huge weapons against my little flimsy ones?" Lear patted the knives, feeling the smooth, slender leather sheaths, imagining the blades in his hands. "...And your huge body against my little flimsy one?"

"No." Anarei had left her seat, and moved to plant her feet firmly between the pair of them. "No."

"Yes." Taranis addressed her, nodding his head in the affirmative. He looked excited at the prospect, eager for a fight. "Come on, Rei - I want to get to know your friend, and you're always saying my brain lives in my fist. Give us a chance to pound at each other's heads, grind our weapons together."

"At the moment, I'm wondering if it doesn't live up your a-"

"I concur, Anarei." Lear cut her off. There was a warmth in his chest now, and he knew it was immature and impulsive - still, what harm can this do? "I'm rather interested in how a northern-born-and-bred fighter fares, myself."

Taranis let out a bellowing laugh, but Anarei was clearly unimpressed. She rounded on Lear, arms crossed. "You're not even fully recovered from that last incident." The hazel in her eyes flashed. "Remember, where you could have died?"

"Which one?" Lear couldn't help but grin. His feet were starting to feel warm - there was no going back, now. "Don't worry, this is just a spar. He doesn't really want to kill me -" He considered this, then wiped the grin clean off his face, and turned to Taranis. "You don't, do you?"

Taranis wore much the same expression - anticipation. But his response, if at all careless, was genuine enough. "Not yet, anyway."

Anarei clapped a palm to her face, shaking her head. She mumbled something Lear couldn't catch, but then she backed away, sinking into her seat with an obstinate thump. "Don't come crying to me after. Either of you."

Lear managed an apologetic smile, though he doubted Anarei saw it at all. He refocused upon the other man, consciously keeping his face cool and calm as childish excitement bubbled within him. "It's your place, sir; you can lay down the ground rules."

"Everything is fair game and the first person down loses." Taranis hoisted his hammer up; the polished handle weighed heavily upon his shoulder. "We go all in - weapons and such."

"You're dressed in battle-worthy clothes, and I'm -" Lear looked down at his borrowed garments - a knee-length tunic that was too long, over a long-sleeved undershirt that was too wide-cuffed, and trousers that were too thin and floaty for his liking. "- in clothes that I'd rather not ruin." He eyed the hammer and the axe once more, before letting out a sigh. "I'd rather not ruin my weapons, neither."

Taranis thinned his lips. "So what exactly would you propose, hm?" He did not sound impressed.

"You have two weapons. I have two pairs of weapons." Pausing, Lear removed his Strahan's coat, unbuckled his belt, unwound his own scarf and pulled the long tunic over his head. "I'm proposing that, if I'm forfeiting half of my weapons, you may consider doing the same." He tapped his toes on the ground deliberately; as he'd intended, Taranis' eyes followed the movement, taking note of his boots. Only then did he continue. "You want a fair game, don't you, sir?" Rolling up the tunic, he tucked it under one arm and proceeded to unclasp the belts holding his knives to his hips and legs.

He heard the distaste in Taranis' voice as he laid the tunic and his knives down on the bench. "Sounds to me your friend's saying I don't fight fair, Rei."

Anarei's response came in three dry, irritated words. "You're both idiots."

"Do what you need." Taranis rounded on him once more, eyes narrowed. He reached for his fallen axe, grasped its handle and lifted it unflinchingly. Then, with scowl upon his brow, he trudged to Anarei's bench and lowered it. The heavy thump did not go unnoticed. "Don't go easy, because I'm not going easy on you."

"I'm three-quarters your size, sir. I don't expect to have the luxury to go easy on you." Lear felt a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Don't get too excited, now. You're not on a job; you won't get to kill him after you taunt him. You'll just make him hate you if you carry on like this.

"So much for laying down the ground rules." Taranis had shrugged off his own cloak. It fell in a heap by his axe. Underneath, the frame of his body was just as daunting - still as bear-like as it had seemed. He flexed the fingers of his free hand. "I apologise in advance if I do end up bruising your fragile little form." A pause - then a deeper, and rather more genuine smile followed, "But somehow I don't think I'm going to be that sorry."

Lear allowed himself a chuckle of honest amusement. "You flatter me, sir." He let his hands fall to his sides, let his shoulders slump, and tilted his head just a touch to the side, closing his eyes momentarily as coloured lights blazed brightly against the dark backdrop of his mind.

When in a direct confrontation, don't take a stance that's easy to read. His teacher had said - the gods rest her soul. Rather, appear passive, stay loose, but heighten your awareness, so you can react quickly to whatever comes at you.

"Well... anytime, now, when you're ready."

Taranis turned, his body half-angled towards him. His face bore that same unimpressed expression - bored, distinctly disgruntled.

Anarei's cry of panic had barely left her throat before he slammed his hammer into the ground before him, causing the earth to quake and sending a flurry of rock and dislodged sand towards Lear. In the settling dust, Lear saw the man smirk.

Taranis' meaning was clear enough - he'd meant that as a greeting. A welcome to the battlefield.

Keeping his own expression stern, Lear let out a grunt under his breath - he'd have to reassess the ground conditions again. He wasn't familiar with the more inner-energy-based abilities of the Barbarian tribes. What if he'd somehow made the ground prone to random aftershocks?

Somewhat reluctantly, he leapt forward, bounding on his feet as his own strength burst from them with every hop. The ground seemed to hold, despite the tremours. Lear considered gauging the man's reaction to a straightforward assault. Is he an offender, a defender, or an evader?

Having previously straightened from his first attack, Taranis simply held his ground, broadening his stance. He watched as Lear advanced, but only for a second, before raising his weapon and charging forward, poised to strike. Offender.

Lear took one last stride before pivoting on his landing foot, turning out of the way of the charge. With Taranis' back to him, he took another step, shifting his weight onto his alternate foot, and swung a kick at the small of Taranis' back.

He caught the glinting steel of the hammer as its bearer made a turn, the mop of orange ducking low in anticipation. The barbarian gripped the handle of the hammer with both hands, securing it before him in an attempt to parry the blow. Daring to wonder just how much brute strength a Barbarian possessed, Lear braced himself as streaks of lightning erupted from his steel-plated boot, right before it clashed with the weapon.

Taranis let out a grunt, but again, held his ground - then shoved, hard. The force caused Lear to backpedal, as it had the Barbarian; Lear noted he was red in the face and panting. Still, he looked more furious than winded. The bellowing cry that rose from him preluded his assault; he advanced, forsaking any pretense of good-will, and swung the hammer straight towards Lear's face.

There was no taking this hit. Lear simply let himself fall, minding to break his fall with his uninjured arm; at the same time, he straightened his leg, snaked it around Taranis', and hooked the back of his knee with his own heel.

The Barbarian cried out in surprise. Taken so suddenly, he lost his footing and tumbled forward. Feeling good about the spar's progress, Lear launched himself off to the side, just as Taranis's hammer hit the ground, once again causing the earth to tremble. The Barbarian grunted as he rolled - for someone so obviously large and heavy, he wasn't in the least bit clumsy.

When he found his footing again, Taranis snatched up his hammer and launched himself to his feet, teeth bared in a snarl. The foot he planted upon the ground erupted vermillion in Lear's mind, then the earth shifted, threatening to throw him off his feet. With unrestrained fury etched upon his face, the Barbarian charged, the swings of his hammer relentless - and even swifter than before.

Nevertheless, he was easy to read - Lear could see every muscle burning brightly before they even moved. You know what's coming. You can see it. His teacher's voice echoed in his mind, like a drop of water in a cave. The question is, can you react in time?

I'm still faster. That seemed the only edge Lear had now. He stood his ground, feeling his own muscles burn and sear as he focused on his lower body. A split second later, just before Taranis' hammer came within range of smashing his head in, he leapt, righted himself in the air, and aimed a kick at the back of the Barbarian's right shoulder.

The Barbarian slammed the hammer into the ground, turning to his right and pivoting around it. causing Lear's foot to miss by the breadth of a hair as he raised the weapon, muscles in his arm tensing - the swing was aimed at Lear's side, no doubt as an effort to knock him clean out of the air.

As well as shatter half my ribcage. Taranis' ferocity took Lear by pleasant surprise. He had never gotten used to the idea of sparring - if one were practising, one ought to do what one would in a real confrontation. He was glad that Taranis shared his principles in this, at least.

The problem remained that he was in mid-air and didn't have many means to change his course. He decided upon taking a calculated risk, held up his hands and tried to cushion the hammer's impact, hoping hard that his arm bones would hold.

His vision flashed black for an instant, and then he felt the breath being knocked out of him. When his eyes started working once more, he was staring at the scratched surface of Taranis' hammer, and there was a sharp pain in his right arm. Now I've done it.

Anarei's peridot was coming for him, but he could hear the yelling anyway - loud, clear, and very angry. Taranis, however, merely stood smirking, his arm stiff and unmoving where it held the hammer directly over Lear's nose. It wasn't until Anarei had shoved him aside that he'd laughed - boisterously and gleefully.

"How many times are you going to make me fix that damned arm?" Anarei snarled.

Lear sat up and noted with relief that, painful as it was, he could move his arm. Good, I didn't break anything.

His stomach churned as he felt the warm wetness on the bandages against his skin, and saw the anger in Anarei's eyes. "...Sorry."

"You're an idiot." Anarei was muttering under her breath; her hands trembled as she reached for his arm, though they steadied as she slowly, laboriously, began to roll up the sleeve. The barely-contained fury in her voice and movements did not go unnoticed by Taranis, whose face darkened.

"Bloody Madawc's axe." He breathed, having noticed the blood. "I did not do that."

"You didn't." Painful as his arm was, Lear was enjoying the look on the other man's face. "This was from a confrontation that took place about a fortnight ago."

"I said he was injured." Anarei snapped. Her grip of his shirt-sleeve tightened, jarring the wound. He yelped, hissed and glared at her, but she didn't seem to care. Heatedly, she spat, "I'm going to need to bring you back home before I can fix this. I didn't anticipate you tearing yourself up like a big dumb lug."

Taranis scowled. Lear wondered if it were only Anarei who was mad at him, now. He was rewarded with affirmation as the Barbarian fisted his large hands. "Why the hells didn't you just say you were wounded this badly?"

"Big damn ego." Anarei responded, before Lear could speak. Her eyes flashed as she turned her gaze to him. "Get up."

Lear winced at her command, and, deciding that going against it would bring him no benefit, obeyed. He turned to Taranis, inclining his head to hide the growing smirk - the man's face was amusing when flustered. "Sorry for the sloppy finish, sir. You won, anyway."

Taranis simply narrowed his eyes in response. Lear didn't particularly care about Taranis' opinion of him; the spar was fun while it had lasted.

He didn't have long to feel happy with himself. Anarei had gathered up his things, and, digging one hand into his shoulder, she turned him towards the pathway back up the hill, then released her hold of him after a rough shove, as if touching him repulsed her. She said nothing as they trudged along back where they came, the peridot bubbling like boiling water all the while.

By the time they'd made it back to his temporary room in the household, Lear was wondering if her hands were poised to heal, or to inflict more hurt. In precious few words, she commanded him to sit, then disappeared.

She returned only a few minutes later with a tray of medical instruments, which she slammed upon his bedside table. The anger in her face only deepened as she unwound the bandages, layer by layer, tugging carefully where the blood had clotted and stuck the fabric together. Still, she held her silence.

"I'm sorry I went overboard." Lear tested, and braced himself for a backlash.

She tossed the bloodied bandages across the room - they missed the bin and landed upon the wooden floorboards. "No, you're not."

"Hey, it could've been worse, right?" He lowered his voice, and tried to be apologetic. "None of us really hurt the other; this acting up was just untimely."

The hands upon his arm tensed. "More people are coming for you." She was quieter, and he was grateful for her discretion even amidst all that anger. "And you're spending the time you're meant to be using to heal getting yourself cut up even more. I'd like to think better of you, but at this point, I don't think you even care."

Lear was silenced. He remembered his teacher's words again: Worry all you want before a confrontation - that's a good thing, it keeps you on your toes, makes you anticipate, helps you prepare. But once you've started, don't hesitate. Don't worry, don't fear. Just do.

But that wasn't a confrontation, and Taranis wasn't an assignment.

"I'm sorry."

She wove a tiny set of silver shears through the stitches in his arm, cutting them loose - some had torn free of the flesh, leaving bloody, jagged edges of skin. Her voice was clipped. "It's not fair, you know."

"What isn't, the fact that I'm boarding here, eating your food, dirtying your brother's clothes, and using up your medical supplies without paying for any of it?"

"No." She scowled, tugging the remains of the thread free. He winced as it pulled at his skin. "The fact that you stuck around long enough for me to learn to care about you, and then treat whatever the hells this friendship is as dispensable." The hands moved to thread a curved silver needle. "Maybe it is. Probably. But it's not fair."

Anarei's words weighed heavily upon him. Lear reached up with his left hand and rubbed his face. So reckless. The soft voice of his conscience, one he hadn't heard in a long time, broke through to the forefront of his mind, now. You don't usually treat people like this - like dirt. Even your assignments weren't dirt. What's the matter with you?

He brushed his fingers back through his hair, and sighed. "It's not." He swallowed as Anarei tested the tautness of the thread. "Are we friends?"

She dug her needle into his flesh for the first stitch, brow furrowed. He cried out, but she only frowned more deeply. "Worst friendship ever, I'll wager. We can't even get along a few days without having a go at one another." Stitch after stitch, she brought his broken skin together, forming a neat, straight line. Each dig of the needle, pull of the thread and tug of the knots sent shivers down his arm. "What does it matter, anyway? You're going to leave, and then we'll never see each other again. Maybe friendship is too much to hope for."

"Maybe I -" He winced loudly as Anarei pulled a particularly wide stitch tight, and had to squeeze his eyes shut to fight back the tears. "- Maybe it'd make more sense if you just consider me a patient, huh? A very troublesome, petulant patient?" He tried for a grin, though it felt like a grimace.

"Am I just a naggy healer to you, then?" Anarei had paused in her work, the thread stretched taut where she had ceased to stitch. She wore an expression of displeasure, but he could see the hurt, feel the peridot surge. "It only works if both of us feel this way. Otherwise it goes right back to being unfair."

That, Lear didn't understand. "You… kind of saved my life a few times, Anarei."

She went back to her stitching, though her grip of his hand loosened; she was gentler, all things considered. "Because that's what a healer does for troublesome, petulant patients. On the other hand, you've saved my life, too. Remember that demon spider?" She took a moment, then sighed and looked up at him, eyes half lidded. "That's all we are to one another? Petulant patient, naggy healer?"

"Evidently not." Lear blushed, recalling the events that followed the misadventure with the demon spider. "Look… Anarei, you helped me, took me home, gave me a place to stay. You took care of my needs. That makes you a friend, doesn't it?"

"I think it does." She murmured, her eyes upon his. The hazel wavered briefly. "But sometimes, I'm just not sure, since we'll part ways, anyway." She frowned, and went back to her stitches, her voice even lower than before. "At this rate, I think I'll end up hurting whether or not you consider me a friend."

"So do you want me to try, or not?" Lear managed to keep his voice level, but he could feel his fuse shortening. He didn't like it - hated it - when Anarei spoke like that. So damned cryptic. Why is this girl so damned cryptic? "If it's all the same to you, I should just get out of your way."

Anarei reached for the bandages upon the tray, then slowly but steadily wound them about his wounds. She'd obviously sensed his exhaustion at the subject. "You've made it pretty clear you want to, and are going to, so there's really no reason to ask me." The bandages were tight; she tucked in the ends, securing them well.

As she collected the medical supplies and rearranged them on the tray, carefully separating the soiled and used tools from the sterile ones, Lear sat upon the bed in uncomfortable silence. It frustrated and confused him that one second he and Anarei could be chattering casually, almost enjoying one another's company, and came the next, they were arguing over inconclusive matters.

He decided that he would stay for dinner, if only to be courteous and thank Lord and Lady Naveau for the hospitality they'd offered, no matter how brief. After that, he would move away, and by the end of the week, leave Virkove.

They were close now. To what, Strahan didn't know for certain. His companions were equally unawares, though he wondered if any of them had had the foresight to consider the possibilities that lay beyond the heavy metal doors.

A world of hurt was possible. If so, it was only a question of who, or what, the hurt would be dealt by. Mostly, though, Strahan craved the answers - or the end. Craved, and dreaded.

He has to be in there. Strahan flexed his fingers; they'd gotten sore, holding onto the delicate silver tweezers he used to work curved needles through skin - and occasionally fabric when necessity dictated. The neat, tiny stitches in his coat hid the damages from the day's adventures well; practical practice, Lyndon had said.

He was glad for the distraction - he wasn't in much of a mood to think of what lay ahead. If Karalir isn't in there, this would have been a wasted trip, with wasted time. He corrected himself. For my own purposes, anyway - Tristram should be glad for it, at the very least.

His companions were strewn about the small chamber they'd taken refuge in. He sat facing the single barricaded entrance, dagger at his side - Heulan had insisted he rested, but even Strahan had to admit, pragmatism in full form, that he was not at all inclined, nor able, to sleep. They must have been aware of it, because no one argued when he'd offered to take up both Lyndon and Kormac's watches.

Hours had passed since they'd found the heavy-set steel doors. There was a sense of foreboding - Strahan noted this with wry amusement - in the way it had been placed, at the bottom of a steep flight of steps. The party had backed away wordlessly, as if having read one another's minds by some miracle - even Kormac had appeared to have some reservations.

Getting out of that is going to be tough. Strahan dug his needle into the fabric, then tugged; the repetitive motions were calming. Dig and tug, dig and tug. Retreat won't be an option if we get ambushed and cornered in there.

It occurred to him then that they'd debated this same thing hours ago. For all they knew, the door was merely a ruse - a rather ominous looking passageway deeper into Mad King Leoric's halls, and nothing more. Hadn't they found numerous other ways ahead?

Despite himself, Strahan chuckled. Drainage tunnels and suspiciously narrow pathways - all rank with the stench of death and other bodily fluids.

Somehow, he didn't think those were suitable for advancement.

In the hours he'd spent wide awake, he'd wondered if they hadn't simply been making excuses to fend off the fear of the unknown. Because, if he were to be completely honest with himself, Strahan found the stuffy warmth radiating off the surface of the door just a touch unnerving. Torture by fire was not unheard of.

He wondered how long Heulan would stall then, if that were the case. Still, he thought it unlikely that it would be something so simple as merely torture. The door and its surroundings - instruments and corpses hung, pinned and piled in an orderly pattern, runes carved into the stone ground barely distinguishable beneath pools of blood - were suspicious beyond all measure.

Somewhere to his right, the templar stirred, the sound breaking the thread of his thoughts. He glanced down at his handiwork - the tear in the fabric was all but hidden away. It wasn't until he had knotted the last of the stitches and used his shears to snip away the remains of the thread that Kormac spoke.

"We should wake the others."

He slipped his scissors back into their case, carefully placing the needle and tweezers back into their slots. "Hm."

Kormac took that as permission to proceed and stretched to his feet, joints popping, armour creaking and clicking. There was a dull thump and a soft boyish moan, then came a sharper thump, followed by Lyndon's loud complaint. "Could we not?"

Strahan rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help but to smile. Lyndon was entertaining, at least. "You can stay if you want." He rose to his feet, then threw on his coat, testing the strength of his stitches. "To the victor goes the spoils, though."

In response, Lyndon rolled over and made to get on his feet - groggily, but with a definite air of determination. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

"Are we going already?" Heulan's voice was thick, though it cleared up a touch after a sharp wince, as he brushed against the clotted gash in an attempted to ruffle his hair. "To the big oven-y place?"

"Should've just let me take care of that for you." Strahan could hear the irritation in his own voice. "Are you lightheaded at all? Do you need to sit this one out?"

Despite every aspect of the situation, Heulan beamed. "Naw. My old man used to say, everytime I get bloodied up a little, 'there's plenty more where that came from'." He straightened, and cracked his knuckles before picking up his staff, which he had hugged as he dozed. "Did you get much rest, Strahan?"

"Enough." He pursed his lips. The nagging sense of impatience usually brought on by his companions was beginning to surface. He wondered if it meant he was ready to face whatever lay behind that door - brother, no brother. The end, or just another dead end.

He didn't know which one was worse, so he focused instead on the present. "Whatever's in there, we stick together. Alright?"

The monk responded straightaway with a solemn, but stern, "Yes". The scoundrel was stifling a yawn, but he nodded. The templar merely grunted with an apparent impatience that rivaled his own.

Strahan flexed his fingers. He felt the dust swirl about his feet, felt the tickling sensation in his fingertips that usually accompanied the awakening of his mana.

No putting it off, anymore, I guess.

He let out a breath. "Try not to drop dead."

Authors' Notes:

Em: Another chapter, another bout of Learei, and a cliffie (sorta). Where will the Testosterone Brigade end up! Well, that's for you to find out!

Oph: And what a long chapter that is. Suppose that's because we got a lot of juice from our trip together! So many ideas, so much plottage! Of course, we're not neglecting those who give us awesome review-juice: Heka, General Peaches and Reality Deviant, thanks go out to you!

Em: Speaking of that trip, we had a derpy moment of derpness and wrote one of our favourite things about it into the fic. If you have any guesses, let us know! Also, just to be clear - we don't own Diablo III. Blizzard does!

Oph: However, we do own our own kids, and all the original plotlines, especially pertaining to Learei at this point. So if you have anything to say, any thoughts, any likes, dislikes, queries, peeves, confusions or spazziness about our original input, please let us know, too!

Em: Until then, thanks, you guys, for all the reviewing and encouragement! Keep reading, keep reviewing, and (totally off-topic but related) how cool was the expansion reveal? Hope you've enjoyed this chapter, though, and until next time - ciao!