tyr
morning
"I didn't realize you were a tracker."
"I'm not." He just stood and breathed in deep for a moment, contemplating his next move. "But I ask – could you follow your Garnet wherever she went?"
Zidane stood and scratched his head for a while. "Yeah," he said finally. "Wherever she went. I suck at tracking, but… I'd look everywhere."
"So you know how I feel."
The blonde sighed, eventually. "Fratley," he started hesitantly. "I know this isn't the time or place, but…"
He turned to look at him, that hat covering his eyes. "What is it?"
"Are you sure you love her still? You lost your memory. You're not the same guy." Aware that Fratley was staring, Zidane hurried up. "It's just that, you know, you might get confused…"
"I still love her," he said simply. "I don't know how but I do. That is why I am searching – to ask forgiveness."
"For?"
"For not being the same man." Fratley turned away again shortly and went out into the undergrowth. "Come, Zidane. She's this way."
"I'm such a fool," Mook moaned at his companion as he lay bleeding in the undergrowth. "I broke every code there is, honest, they should kick me out of Mognet… at least, they should kick me out after they burn my sorry carcass…"
"Mook," Stiltzkin said patiently. "It's not your fault. You made a mistake. Now you just have to make up for it."
"I'm gonna die, right?… I want you to tell my momma I love her, and tell Moguo I'm sorry, and tell my cousin Momatose it was me who ate that nut and I blamed it on that dog just so that he wouldn't be mad at me, and - "
"You're going to have a nasty scar, Mook, but you're not leaving this vale of tears yet," the moogle said drily.
"… and tell Mr. Tribal and Mr. Coral I'm sorry, and – what?"
"He missed, Mook. It was shallow. He must have thought you were dead when you fainted and left."
"… I'm not going to die?"
"No. You're full to the gills with potion anyway, you're probably healthier than you were before. You just need a little time for the wound to close."
Mook pondered this, then screwed up his nose. "Oh, darn. And I thought I was a hero. What are we sitting here for? Let's contact Mr. Zidane and Mr. Tribal before it's too late!"
Stiltzkin rolled his eyes.
He awoke with the sunrise, as he always did, only to find his cheek on Freya's stomach with her hand curled tightly in his hair. Amarant jerked in surprise, but then realized that to do so would awake her from her slumber; her breath was deep and easy. Somehow, he didn't have the heart to.
Damnit, you've gone soft, he cursed himself. You bring her in, you tell her what you're thinking, you tell her your history even, you care whether she lives or dies. That's the perfect setup to get hurt. What happened to cool, calm, collected Amarant? Gonna live snapping at her heels like a puppy? Where did freedom go?
The words lost all bite the once-cynical man might have carried with them, because he knew in his heart the answers to the questions nobody needed to ask. I brought her in when she could have taken care of herself, she tells me her secrets, she tells me her feelings, she cares whether I live or die. If I go down – I'm taking her with me.
Is that freedom?
He felt her breathe, her hand stirring slightly within the coarse confines of his mane, saw the deep cuts and bruises his own hands had made, and the painful marks on his own body that she had left in turn. He was sleeping on her body, with the pure simple trust that he would not tear her throat or her stomach out and kill her where she lay. Freya knew that he could.
No, Amarant told himself. Even worse.
This is friendship.
With a slight chuckle, and not willing to stir her, he went back to sleep.
She was close. Oh, sweet drahken-den, she was so close he could taste her on the wind, smell her blood running through his veins, see her heart as he pulled it out of her chest and ate it in front of her bleeding eyes – close, close, close. Nothing mattered any more except the vengeance, running through his veins instead of blood, pushing him down the steep hill as he almost smashed into the steep rockface of the cliff.
Frantically he searched the perimeter, looked for openings, caves, anything; he found none. She was so close.
Freya Crescent of Burmecia, your end is nigh. I shall slit you open and butter your remains over the soil and the earth. I shall pop your eyeballs. I shall break open your bones and suck out the marrow. You, the last, you shall fall – fall onto the earth and shatter into a million bloodied pieces. I shall crack open your head and tear out the brains…
She was on top of the cliff. She had to be. There he would find her.
Strapping his mattock to his back and his fingers to the dusty walls, Rohgn began to climb, and climb, and climb...
noon
When he finally did awake the sun was high in the sky, riding overhead, as if mocking him for the fact that he had slept for many, many hours. Groaning and stiff-muscled, he moved off Freya and watched her turn sleepily, roused; her hand grasped at her midsection where his head had been, then she rolled over, muttered and went back to sleep.
Amarant watched her for a moment, rolling his eyes; her cuts had crusted over, but still looked painful. He searched in his clothes absently and brought out a flask of potion; it wouldn't be so good if he didn't administer it by mouth, but application to skin would at least do a little. He spread it over his fingers and quickly wiped them over her shoulder, her cheekbone, the bruises on her thighs, the cut on her calf, the gash on her arm; he felt slightly embarrassed touching her when she wore so little clothes, but when the lines on Freya's face relaxed and her cuts shrivelled he convinced himself it wasn't sacrilege.
Dumping the rest of it over his wounded back he stood, yawning, grumbling inwardly for letting that stupid woman make him sleep in so long. Really, she'd mucked up his entire timetable.
It didn't stop him moving to the kettle to light a fire beneath it so that she could have water for her damned tea, though, and his subconscious telling him you are SO incredibly whipped, Coral.
Pulling on his pants and touching up the bindings on his hands and feet, he knelt at the side of the lake and washed his face. The water was getting subtly cooler; autumn would be moving in soon. He'd told a half- lie to Freya; the winters here were not only bitter, they were arctic, and he was not willing to spend another one here again. Perhaps Zidane would have caught that goddamn killer and they could get out of here…
Not 'they'. You. Her. Go separate ways. Been nice knowing you, never talk to me again, I promise to give you a Winter Solstice card. Amarant filled the kettle with water and placed it over the modest fire. Had a use for you, but had's the operative word..
… sounds like something I'd fuckin' do. Damnit, what's happened to me?
He tried to put it out of his mind, walking beneath the cool trees of Aless as he woke himself up. It was almost like a cathedral here, the detritus and the forest floor beneath his feet, the scent of the leaves assaulting his senses; Amarant had grown up here, played in the branches. If he listened hard enough he could almost hear his mother calling, half- exasperated and half-laughing, as she searched for him. Unfortunately, his red hair nearly always gave him away, bright and bloodfresh against the cool green of the sunlit leaves and earthy tones of the grey-brown bark, trilling birdsong not quite hiding his snickers from her…
The breezes blew softly throughout the tiny valley, rustling the leaves above him. He supposed Freya had to be awake by now, and turned back…
There was a soft thump behind him.
No game lived in the valley. No bird big enough lived in the valley. Could a monster have gotten in? Hmph! He doubted it, but better to be safe than end up bitten. A disgusted look on Amarant's face, he turned around and silently walked forward…
…and gaped.
The intruder had slid, obviously off the steep cliff, dusty and grazed into the middle of the clearing. His tough grey skin still shone darkly through the dust, the pale grey like stone, rough like the same material; his waist-length hair was dark blue like the twilight, coarse as hemp, roped and braided into a topknot and tucked away from a face so scarred there was barely any feature left.
The man stood out in the clearing like blood against water, leather pants worn and spotted on his legs, a queer little linen loincloth wrapped around his hips for show. His chest had nothing on it but two crisscrossed strips of bright yellow cloth, and oddly, he was decorated all over with matte pieces of metal, chokered around his neck and on his arms; they were tight in such a way that he walked without a sound. A piece of chainmail was strung over his shoulder in the same fashion.
Brown eyes stared into matching brown, hands that wielded a massive war mattock tightened as both gaped. Both shared jagged, angular faces, finely pointing chins, large, calloused hands…
Finally, the silence was broken, but Amarant was mute.
"My name is Rohgn aut Koralle," he grated in a voice like nails. "Who the fuck are you?"
"What?" Queen Garnet fairly screamed, then immediately looked contrite at the nonplussed messenger, sitting on her windowsill. "Stiltzkin, how could this happen?"
"He's young. He's inexperienced. He swears black and blue that the man looked exactly like Mr. Coral." He sighed. "Don't be angry with him, kupo. He's in Central now, and he got a bad fright and an awful knock on the head."
"My Queen?" It was Steiner, looking worried as he entered the room, clanking to her shriek. She brushed away a curl nervously from her cheek and began to pace across the plush carpet of her little waitingroom, hands clenched. "What is the matter?"
"The murderer's in the area that Freya and Amarant are in," she said tersely, immediately switching to Tactical Cool Royalty mode. "And Zidane and Sir Fratley, too. I don't know whether they're made it ahead - or are behind – either way, somebody's in danger, and it's not the murderer."
"What do you want me to do, my queen?"
"That's just it," she half-wailed, flinging herself down in a chair, entertaining horrible images of Zidane being sneaked up upon and murdered in some ghastly manner. Of course, he was one of the most competent fighters she knew – and he was with Fratley to boot – but she was nervous and unhappy and afraid for at least three people, which was never entertaining. "We can't do anything. Obviously that murderer's going in to have a showdown with Freya, and with as far away as we are, all we can do is cross our fingers and hope for the best." Garnet turned to Stiltzkin hopefully. "Couldn't we go in an airship?"
"He'd hear it coming," the moogle reckoned. "If he runs away again, your lady Freya will still just be in as much danger, kupo."
The queen sighed. "I suppose I'm being silly. Four amazing fighters, one man – how much harm could he do?"
None of them knew, and that was the unnerving part.
Finally, panic-stricken and half-ready to gnash her teeth in frustration, Garnet began to bite her nails.
Amarant was down on his knees like the frightened child he was, just out of sheer habit, before he actually realized what he was doing and got up again, angry and confused. "My name is S'alamant aut Koralle," he snapped back acidly, sarcasm covering his total shock, eyes burning. "And you're the one intruding on my territ – "
He could not finish, for Rohgn had dropped the mattock and flung his arms around him openly, laughing wildly and giving him such thumps on the back that it was almost bruising. "You are Damheano's!" he exclaimed in the accent that sent such grief down his spine in remembrance that he stiffened. "You must be. Damheano's or T'ianthe's, at least?"
Amarant moved back slightly, wary. "Damheano's," he muttered, feeling like an infant, lost and at sea. "She was my – mother."
"Ah, ah. The hair found you. When I last saw Damheano's brood you were only two claws high." The smile on the scarred, ruined face was completely unnerving. "Shit. How did you survive? Did not Damheano die?"
"A dozen winters or so ago. She took me from the mountains before the basrii came." The shock was beginning to wear off and he shifted back into comfortable, screaming paranoia. "How'd you get in here? What do you want?"
"I climbed." Rohgn sized the young one up, how bent he was from slouching, trying to hide what he truly was. He moved back and picked up his mattock. "Don't fear so. Your mother and I were cousins-by- mating. I came here looking for a monster up in the mountains here. You can help me, maybe you would have seen the beast."
A great leaden weight clutched his heart. "You, " he spat. "You're here to – "
"Amarant, who are you talking t – oh!"
Damn, at all the stupid times to awaken! "Freya, go get your fucking spear!"
Rohgn had already rushed her the moment he heard her voice, mattock swinging in a wide arc; she jumped back and somersaulted to behind Amarant, clenching her fists, wide-eyed and wondering how in hell's name to defend herself against a war mattock.
"She is under my protection!" Amarant bellowed at him. "Fight with her and kill a Koralle!"
"You're INSANE!" the other man shrieked back, voice ragged and edgy with shock, staring at the Burmecian with such intense loathing in his eyes that she growled. "By the drahkenden, are you mad? Are you blind? Are you deaf and dumb?"
"Why do you want her? What has she done?"
"What has she done? What has she done!" Rohgn howled before looking back at them. He noticed both of their states of undress, and gagged immediately; he had to turn to get back his composure, spitting and shaking with anger. "Oh, sweet fang and claw, you've mated – how can you? How can you willfully shame your dead like this? I swear you'll die along with her!"
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" Amarant finally bellowed.
Rohgn looked at the two in distaste, lips curling as if he wanted to vomit. "You don't know. You truly don't know." He brandished his mattock at them viciously. "You fucking stupid diezrhren, you've been rutting with a basrii!"
Freya felt Amarant stumble back, then when he touched her, immediately barrel back forward. "Lie," he whispered. "That's a goddamn lie."
Rohgn ignored him and turned to the very bemused Freya. "And you," he hissed, "Killer, murderer, thieving bitch – did you know he was a drahken or were you merely toying?"
It was her who stumbled this time, widening her eyes and opening her mouth in a perfect little O.
"Yai, basrii. It was your kind who killed us, your kind who took the name 'drahkenknights' and razed our city. And you didn't know. You didn't even know."
"It was a dragon cult," she whispered. "They said it was a dragon cult."
"And may those same drahkenden give me the holy strength to take you out!" Rohgn curled his lip at Amarant, leaning against a tree with a look of utter blankness on his face and voids behind his eyes. "Watch me take her out, S'alamant. Watch the last one die."
"Fool!" Freya mocked him. "I'm not the last, never the last! Some of the Dragon Knights may be old, but they still exist; and Fratley – "
"I killed them all," came the cackling, hooting reply, voice moving up to a shriek. "And as for Iron-tail Fratley's worthless head, I pounded it against a rock again and again until the blood ran from his ears! Then I threw him from a cliff! The basrii's greatest hero will talk no more."
Freya's heart literally stopped. She felt the insistent beat against her ribs, then an screaming, electric pause; there was an agonizing stillness before it picked up again, harder and heavier and more harried than before, howling inside her chest.
"I challenge you to single combat," she spat crisply, reverting to Knight Crescent before her heart could scream in sorrow. "One against one, weapons, to the death."
"Why should I trust a lying basrii like you?" Rohgn challenged.
The Burmecian cocked her head sharply. "Amarant is our witness. He can bury the loser."
"And avenge the loser?"
"No. He will not intervene."
Amarant appeared not to have even heard.
"No armour. I want this fight to be fast."
Rohgn raised an eyebrow, divesting himself of the chainmail hung over his shoulder and pulled taut down his back. "Your funeral, basrii. Go get your weapon." He brandished his own, the long mattock, much like a garden hoe with the wicked armour-piercing spike at the end. "Then you will die."
She bowed low to him, curtseying with sarcastic stiffness, then left between the trees. The blue-haired drahken turned.
"Don't worry your little head about it, S'alamant," he said diffidently. "After she is dead you and the Koralle will be free from her curse."
He said nothing.
"How did your mother die when she fled from them, young one? Was it long and lingering? Could she have lived if they had not attacked?"
"Fuck off," Amarant said listlessly.
"I'll kill her slowly for you. I'll make her scream harder than you ever did."
"Fuck off, you sorry bag of shit."
"I'm ready."
She stood in the middle of the clearing, and what remnants of Amarant's heart was left broke. Once more was Freya decked out in the scarlet coat of her homeland, her helmet laid aside; she'd tied a strip of cloth around her hair to keep it out of her face, and her expression was a rainbow of conflicting emotions. Amarant counted mad fury, indecision and deep grief before he couldn't look any more.
Rohgn's voice was deeply sardonic. "Any prayers you wish to make before you die?"
"Are you always just so much talk, drahkenspawn?"
"Godless basrii heathen."
She bowed with heart-stopping grace, the Dragon Hair held tightly in her sweaty palms. "Let the fight begin, drahken," she spat. "Let the fight begin."
afternoon
She couldn't win.
Amarant knew she couldn't win. She had injuries all over her, was quite obviously fatigued, and although she was in excellent condition the hands that held her spear were trembling just slightly. He should have woken her up, should have given her the potion to drink for herself, should've, should've –
… did he even want her to win?
The treacherous thought lay in his mind like a disease. All he could see was his mother, doubled-over and coughing so much that her breath was lost. His entire childhood – and a large portion of his adulthood – had been fuelled by the desperate raging hatred felt for the basrii, felt for the people who destroyed his natural home, felt for the monsters who had inadvertantly killed his mother. If it were not for the Burmecians – damn them, damn them! – he could still be living in the mountains, and his mother might still be alive, and his family… he could have lived a normal life, and not eked out an existence as a hunter and a thief…
But Freya…
Amarant tried to watch dispassionately as the two circled each other, Freya light on her feet almost like a dancer, Rohgn heavy and ominous as he paced the meadow opposite. It was their fight, and he could not intervene.
They came together so fast if he had blinked he would have missed it; Rohgn made the first charge. This was not a duel; it was a race to see who could murder the other first in cold blood. The large drahken aimed for her vital areas, chest and head and legs; she had to spend all her time parrying before she got some sneaky moves in. Freya managed to push him back and away with a quick slashing foot movement that Amarant recognized he'd taught her, and felt a small surge of pride through the nausea.
He watched her fight and kick and slam with the butt of her pike to give herself some space, leaving Rohgn bleeding from minor wounds and hers limping from a stunning blow to the side from the flat of his mattock. It was incredibly frustrating for him to watch; she should have been able to have the advantage easily, as Rohgn wielded a melee weapon, but he seemed to have a body made entirely out of water as he dodged and slipped past her pike. She didn't have room to move.
Freya went beserk, using her hefty pike as a bludgeon now, trying to move him away. The drahken's response was to hack away at her legs with all the ferocity of a wild animal, his expression set; she used the leeway to vault over his shoulder and dart into the air, powerful legs like a spring as she disappeared.
And Rohgn laughed.
It had no humour in it. It was merely a sound like the memory of a laugh, high and keening, and Amarant realized that Rohgn was insane. It didn't surprise him – when entire chunks of life were spent looking for vengeance and covered in blood, the mind dissipated into nothing more than held-together thoughts of bitter revenge and burning anger. Rohgn du Koralle was a shell, less than a shell.
And… and… it was all the basrii's fault.
Amarant watched numb as Rohgn calmly stood in the middle of the clearing, eyes closed and muttering to voices only he could hear, as if unaware that Freya was positioning her pike above him to split his skull open and leave him dead on the forest floor. His breath was held as he heard the familiar whine of her descent before he even knew it.
Rohgn merely cocked his head to one side as she came down, then snatched her out of the air in one smooth practiced motion that left Freya dangling in one of his hands like a ragdoll. Dazedly she squirmed, the Dragon Hair almost falling out of her hands in her desperate attempt to gain control back of the situation.
Shit! Sweet zombie-fucking drahkenden, he'd plucked her right out of the air like she was a fly! That was goddamn impossible! How many dragoons had this bastard taken down? Was Freya about to become one of the many?
She didn't deserve this, damn it. She… she hadn't even been on the raid; she hadn't even been born at the time of the raid. It wasn't her fault.
Rohgn flung her to the ground, all the air choked out of her lungs as he sized her up, repositioning his mattock. Then, quite apathetically, he slammed it down on her leg.
The crack was sickening, as was her bitten-off scream of agony. Icewater ran through Amarant's veins.
Rohgn stood in front of her, crippled and exposed, a pathetic sight to see. "If you beg for mercy, I can make it quick," he purred.
She turned her face away from him, teeth gritted, body jerking with the force of the pain. Her hands tightened around the shaft of her pike, her breath coming in sharp staccato bursts.
"Can't hear you, basrii," he mocked. "Say it louder."
With trembling dignity, she raised her right hand and gave a very pointed answer with one of her fingers.
"Ah, well," Rohgn sighed. "See you in hell, Crescent."
His mattock lifted, the sharp point of the blade glinting in the afternoon sunlight.
Freya dreamily looked up at it, ignoring the insistent hammering of her heart as she saw Rohgn's arms lift. So this was how it all ended, assassinated on her back? She was a fool, a stupid fool to be duped so easily, slow in the air and broken on the ground…
If only she had five more seconds, if only she had two, if only, if only…
There was a rapid-fire of two of Amarant's circular throwing knives as they whistled in the air and shallowly buried themselves in Rohgn's back. Rohgn gave a low bellow of pain, stumbling forward, mattock in hand –
With her last burst of strength, Freya slammed the Dragon Hair up into his neck, up and splintering bone and skin and spurting blood –
And Amarant started running –
Half alive and half dead Rohgn screamed with the wreckage of his throat, not allowing his revenge to be taken from him so easily. With the last burst of adrenaline to his body before the point of her spear pierced his brain, he slammed his mattock down in her chest, letting it bury itself there before he fell back onto the bloodstained grass, twitching.
Amarant kicked his body away and kneeled beside the Burmecian as she ell back with a cry, eyes clenched shut as her hands fell limply at her sides. He caught one up in his, wiping the blood away from her face as she tore at the air in her effort to breathe.
"Shit, Freya," he said, voice trembling spasmodically. "This is all my fucking fault. I'm an idiot, I'm a – open your eyes, damnit! Don't you dare close your goddamn eyes!"
They fluttered open obediently as she fought to stop her eyelids drooping, fingers curling around his own. "Am-arant," she rasped.
"I'm just going to cast a spell or somethin', okay? Then I'll get you outta here. You're safe now, no thanks to me. Just lie still and I'll – I'll… do something."
"Amarant."
"This is all my fault. Damnit, Freya, I'm so sorry. I've never been so sorry before in my entire life."
"Amarant."
"And… don't die on me. I'll never forgive you if you die. I'll never forgive me if you die. If you die, I'm going to fuckin' kill you."
"Amarant Coral!" she spat hoarsely, eyes wide open now, claws digging weakly into the palm of his hand. "Can you please get this mattock out of my chest?"
He watched her body rack with agonizing coughs, suspicion and hope suddenly skyrocketing. With clumsy fingers, Amarant slowly unbuttoned her coat, then ripped open her bloodstained tunic.
The head of the mattock was deeply embedded in her breastplate.
She grinned lopsidedly at his staring, exhaling slowly. "Fights aren't… usually fair, Amarant. You just have to make sure that it's usually unfair for the other person."
Amarant traced around the weapon before a large smile broke over his face, tugging it out with a heave and unfastening the straps that held the armour to her body. "You fucking amazing little cheat!"
Her body spasmed with coughs again, but she was laughing, trying to weakly fend him off. "Ow, ow, stop it! You better have some healing spells in there, my leg is killing me… Amarant, if you don't want to get an eyeful stop it, I'm not wearing anything under the plate. I think half my ribs are bloody broken… hey!"
He set her breastplate aside, ignoring her immediate coverup by her hands. There was a large amount of bruising and most likely internal bleeding where the mattock had hit, and she had a number of cuts over her. Muttering beneath his breath, a soft glow emanated from his hands.
Freya sighed in relief as some of the pain ebbed. Her broken ribs and leg still hurt like hell, but Amarant couldn't heal a broken bone. Only time or a White Mage could do that. Still, the overflowing joy at merely being alive was sweet and satisfying.
"Have you finished staring at my breasts yet?"
"Hadn't even thought of that." He stopped busily tearing off his vest to rip into bandages and gave a quick glance down at where her hands were folded. "Hmm, not bad."
"Pervert." Freya rolled her eyes and pulled her jacket over herself so as to gain a bit of modesty as he tended to the worst of her wounds. There was something odd about his eyes…
"You were crying," she murmured, lifting one hand up to stroke his cheek.
"Weren't," Amarant affirmed.
"Your cheeks are still wet. You were really worried about me."
"The wind got in my eyes."
"Did you really care if I was going to live or die?"
"No."
"Amarant, look at me."
He obeyed grudgingly, his expression softening just slightly as she struggled to sit up, gasping in pain. He supported her on his arm, and Freya firmly cupped his face in one hand.
"You did save my life, you know," she said softly. "I couldn't have hit him if you hadn't distracted him."
Amarant shook his head. "If I'd just fought in the first place, none of this shit would have even happened. I'm a coward. I abandoned you."
"You didn't, believe me." She took her hand away and rested her head on his broad shoulder, feeling very much the fatigue that had settled leaden over her body.
"I did. If you'd died because of me… I… don't know what I would've fuckin' done." Agitated, he turned his head to look at her on his shoulder. "I don't want to know."
"Shush, anam cara. I'm fine now." In a reckless display of affection, she nuzzled his cheek, alarmed at seeing her usually stoic friend so thrown. "I forgive you."
For one heart-stopping moment of dangerous intimacy, Amarant wrapped his arms around her and held her close, cheek to cheek.
Freya's laboured breathing and a sudden bout of coughing halted the moment for both, however, and he set her back to earth. The Burmecian could have sworn he was blushing.
"Put some clothes back on," he muttered. "I'm gonna go dump this corpse."
"Okay," Freya said docilely, pulling her tunic quite gladly back over her front. "Pull my pike out first."
"Try to get some sleep."
The order was unnecessary, as Freya had already curled up on her red coat and had sunk, exhausted, into a state of unconsciousness.
Amarant couldn't help smiling for a moment before grabbing Rohgn's body and pulling it out of sight. She was cute when she was sleeping, if only because her mouth was shut.
Zidane contemplated the situation. There was no way of scaling the cliff; they had searched all the places that were viable places to live; there were no underground caves. It was time to resort to the last option.
The blonde cupped his hands over his mouth. "Aaaaaaaaaaaa- mmaaaraaaaaaaaaaaant!" he bellowed. "Wheeeeeere aaaaaaare yoooooou!"
"… For the love of the gods, Zidane, don't fuckin' shout in my ear."
Zidane spun around, weapon in hand, to see a very smirking Amarant appear out of nowhere with something – or someone - very heavy slung over his shoulder. Amarant let the very lifeless body fall to the forest floor with a thump.
"You bastard," the Genome said delightedly. "Where the hell did you come from?"
"Inside there," Amarant admitted, tapping the side of the cliff. "Why're you here?"
"It's a long story. How did you get in there?"
"It's… a long story."
"Who the hell is that?"
They were both interrupted with the familiar whistle of a jump, with Fratley landing gracefully behind Zidane. Amarant stiffened as the Burmecian stood fully and came to stand beside the others, looking at the corpse.
"Ah," he said softly. "That explains everything."
"Hmm, Frat?" Zidane asked kindly. Zidane was very good at making embarrassing nicknames for people who already had good names anyway, but Fratley seemed not to mind. Or to notice.
"I take it that is the murderer we have been hunting?" he asked Amarant.
"Mmm," he affirmed. "Or was."
"It's a drahken," Fratley told Zidane quietly. "They have a notorious hatred of Burmecians. Luckily, there appear to be not many of them left, as I recall."
Amarant stiffened further.
"But… he sort of looks like…" Zidane began, then fell silent.
"I'll go get Freya," Amarant grunted. "Go kick this bastard somewhere where the animals can get him."
The blonde made himself busy by dragging the body behind a bush. Quite thoughtfully he took one of the bloodied glassy strings from around the ruins of the dead man's neck for identification by Treno authorities. Not that they needed one, anyway; if the soon to be Prince Consort told them that they'd killed the real murderer, well, then they had bloody well killed the real murderer, no questions asked.
When he came back, Amarant was holding an unconscious Freya Crescent, who looked rather battered; Zidane noticed strips of tattered green canvas binding her wounds.
"… and she's got a broken leg," Amarant was saying. "The nearest healer's in Treno. Dunno about Dali."
Fratley took her from Amarant's arms whilst the large man handed the Dragon Hair and her helmet to Zidane. "Here's her armour. Now piss off."
"Aren't you going to travel with us to a healer?" he asked, puzzled.
"Hell, no. Why would I want to?"
"Freya might ask for you when she wakes up."
Amarant sniggered. "Believe me, there's one rat that ain't gonna ask for me. She doesn't need me any more. I'm outta here." True to his word, he began trudging off, affixing his claw to his hand.
"Arrogant ass," snorted Fratley quietly, cradling the woman in his arms. "Can't even show the proper respect to a friend."
Zidane scratched his head, then sighed. "Let's just get to Dali, Fratley."
"Good idea, sir Zidane. Let us make haste."
He shook his head momentarily, wondering if there was anybody else on earth who still said 'make haste'. "You can tell me what a drahken is on the way."