Tir came around the side of Jenna's house and walked carefully across the vegetable rows till he came to Yvain. The boy was dressed in his gardening clothes, a pair of dark Karayan pants, a shirt of Chisan make, and an apron with dirt and mud smudged all over it; and over his dark blond hair, a wide-brimmed hat, probably much more practical than Tir's own bandanna.
Yvain saw him and stopped hoeing, leaning on the handle instead and favoring him with his cheerful, white-teethed Karayan smile. "Hey, Tir!" he said. "The fishing bad this morning?"
Tir lifted his empty can; Yvain peered in and whistled through his teeth. "Too bad," he said. "You ought to go to Karaya and try it. I hear the fishing's much better there."
Tir set the can down and crossed his arms, looking out across the field. "Maybe I should." His and Yvain's rows were markedly different. Yvain, for all his good nature, was no farmer; his vegetables were wilted, stunted-looking. Tir had discovered, to his pleasant surprise, that he had something of a green thumb, and his vegetables were growing tall and healthy.
His eyes on the same difference, Yvain said, "You must have had a parent who gardened. It's from them we get our talents, you know."
"Oh?" Tir thought about it, then shook his head. "I guess I wouldn't know. My father was gone most of the time, and my mother died when I was young."
"Ah." Yvain nodded, crouching down in the soil to pack in a few seedlings. "It's the opposite for me. My father died before I was born."
"Who was he?"
"A Karayan hero," said Yvain, "or so my mother tells me." He stood up, and shrugged. "Mothers will tell their bastard children anything. I've always suspected he was just a trader, passing through. He must have been gone long before her belly swelled."
Tir twisted his mouth, uncomfortable. "My father never said much about my mother, either," he said. "I don't even know if she was of peasant stock, or aristocratic."
"She must have been a peasant, then, for you to be so good at growing things." Yvain tilted his head and squinted his eyes at Tir's face. "But I don't know. I don't know much about aristocracy, but I think your face is too fine for you to have peasant blood." He grinned.
Tir wiped at his face, feeling an unaccountable heat in his cheeks. "Huh. Maybe."
They stood in silence for a while, surveying the garden. Sweat ran down Yvain's face, leaving dark tracks on his brown skin. Tir wiped at some sweat running down his own back and wished that he had had the sense, too, to get a hat; the bandanna hardly protected his hair. With a start, he remembered that he'd come here for a reason. "So you think we get our gifts from our parents?" he said, and Yvain's eyes turned toward him. "Your father couldn't have been a trader, then, he must have been a warrior. Or is your mother hiding talents?"
Yvain's eyes narrowed. "My mother is no soldier, that's for sure. What do you mean?"
Tir shrugged. "I've seen you practicing with your arrows, that's all. You're good."
Yvain turned away and touched his hand to the brim of his hat, bringing its shadow down across his face. "I'm not that good," he muttered. "It's a skill every Grassland child learns if they want to eat."
"But you move well." Tir hesitated, then circled him slowly, like prey, coming to a halt behind him. "You've good form and a strong, sturdy body. And you're quick--I saw you chasing that rabbit, after all."
Yvain spun around to face him, blushing. "You've been *watching* me!"
"I see things." Tir rested his chin in his hand and grinned at Yvain. "I'm very good with a staff, you know. And Gremio has yet to teach me how to wield an axe. How about he teach us both?"
"For what fee?" Yvain said warily.
"I'm staying at your house, friend," Tir said. "And one should never name a price for teaching another person to defend themself." He stuck out his hand. "Deal?"
Yvain's hand crept towards his, then clasped it, and they shook. "Deal," said the boy, and tilted the brim of his hat down again. He went back to his farming without another word.
****
Gremio eyed the two boys standing in front of him with something akin to fear. Tir stood calmly, feet loose and wide apart, expression almost contemplative; he had been taught fighting since he was a small child. Jenna's son, on the other hand, looked a bit rabbit-frightened, standing stiffly and watching Gremio with a hunter's hawk-eye. Gremio cleared his throat and said, "Young Master, are you sure about this?"
"Quite sure, Gremio." Tir waved a hand for him to go on.
"Ahh...." Gremio said weakly, then turned to Yvain. "Do you have permission from your mother to do this?"
Yvain just shrugged.
*Oh,* Gremio groaned to himself. He swung his axe out from behind him, and mirroring his movement, Tir and Yvain picked up the hand-axes they'd borrowed from local farmers. "Um... all right... let's talk about the, uh, initial positioning first, shall we?"
Hold your hands far apart on the handle, gripping tightly. Your legs bent and splayed apart, bracing your body. Your eyes--you know this, Tir--your eyes *always on your opponent's face,* never on his weapon. It's in the enemy's eyes that you see his movement....
"Come at me," Gremio said to Yvain.
Yvain had only just mastered the basic position. He looked at Gremio like he was about to be murdered.
Gremio cursed the quaver in his voice. "Come at me, Yvain."
He saw Yvain set himself, his jaw and his eyes tightening. With a yell, he raised the axe and--looking at Gremio's weapon--charged him with the axe held high, preparing for a downward sweep. Gremio feinted left, Yvain followed him, and he cut in smoothly on the boy's right and patted him gently on the back with his own axe. Yvain skidded to a stop and spun around to look, his eyes widening when he realized what Gremio had done.
"Eyes on my face," Gremio told him gently. "In time, you'll learn what I mean to do, but only through hard experience. For now I can only teach you the basics." He hefted his axe up and thought for a minute, frowning. "Perhaps you'd like to see a practice bought, first?"
Yvain nodded his head vigorously.
"All right." Gremio turned to Tir. "Young Master?"
Tir had mastered the basic forms easily. His face as he settled himself was calm, cool and unreadable. Gremio watched his eyes. He knew every nuance of Tir's personality, knew what every shade and darkening of Tir's eyes meant, but he never forgot that Tir was a master soldier, almost as old as Master Teo had been when he died. Tir was a beginner at the axe, but it meant nothing. True virtuosos, after all, could play more than one instrument.
Tir came for him like a flash of lightning. Gremio was hard-pressed to sidestep his charge, and he ended up bringing up his axe to meet Tir's; they clashed with the furious sound of steel-on-steel. Gremio gritted his teeth over the blade and saw Tir's face, so close to his he could feel his breath, teeth wide open in a grin, eyes dark and wild.
They leapt apart. Gremio swung around Tir's next charge to try to catch his back, but Tir had already danced around him and was trying to do the same. Gremio twisted and caught it, just in time, with his handle, and moved back before Tir could sweep him with his feet--a favorite trick of his. Twisting, he brought the axe up, only to be countered by Tir's. Again the steel sang. Gremio pushed him back, moved back a breath, and brought his axe in low and swept Tir off his feet.
Tir landed with a hard 'oomph', his axe clattering to the ground beside him. He lay on the ground, arms spread out, looking dazed. Gremio stood still, breathing hard; then his own axe dropped, and the sound shocked him out of his stupor. "Young Master!" He ran to Tir's side, fell to his knees and felt for a pulse--oh dear God, what if he'd killed his young master-- But Tir's heartbeat thrummed sweet and strong across his fingertips, and Tir was laughing.
He sat up, rubbing his head ruefully. "Gremio, don't look like you've just murdered me. You won fairly. I just got the breath knocked out of me, that's all."
"I didn't win fairly," Gremio said, wringing his hands together. "You're just learning, Young Master, and I went at you like--like--like you'd used the axe all your life! It's a very different weapon from the staff, Young Master, or even the sword--oh, Young Master, please forgive me!"
"I'm fine, Gremio, really I'm fine." Tir waved his hands away with a smile, and leaped up to pat him on the back. "I'm glad you came at me like that. I wouldn't want to learn any other way." He adjusted his bandanna.
Gremio stood up, nearly weeping with relief. "I'm so sorry," he said earnestly. "I'll go easier next time, I swear. Oh, my gods--if I'd hurt you--"
"That was amazing!" Yvain exclaimed from somewhere behind them. "Wow! Great! Do you want to do it again?"
"No!" said Gremio, wincing at how his own voice cracked on the upward note. He cleared his throat and repeated, "Uh, no, no, no, Yvain. I think that's quite enough for today."
"Gremio--" both Tir and Yvain protested, but Gremio waved his hands.
"Absolutely not. You're both probably very tired, and I very nearly hurt the Young Master. You need long soaks and some good, hot stew."
"All right," said Yvain, shrugging. "Hey, thanks, Gremio. You're a good teacher." He swung his axe over his shoulder and sauntered back to the field, calling over his shoulder, "More tomorrow, then, right?"
Tir frowned at him. "Gremio, you didn't hurt me at all. I don't see why you're so worried."
"I could have hurt you," Gremio insisted. "I almost hurt you." He shuddered at the memory, how if he'd tilted his axe *just so* he could have sliced into Tir's skin--and he'd thought it, too, until Tir had fallen-- Gremio shook his head and wiped sweat from his face. "Let's just leave it for now, all right, Young Master? I really do need to get started on that stew."
"All right," said Tir, and watched him doubtfully as he walked into the house.
****
That night, Tir winced over his sore muscles even once he'd gotten out of the tub. He rolled them and his neck, popping his vertebrae; towelled off and dressed, and poked his head into the bedroom. "Gremio, I'm done. Do you want it?"
"Yes, thank you," Gremio said, sounding somewhat occupied. Tir stepped into the room and saw that Gremio's head was bent over one of Tir's books. He crouched down to see the title: *Ruling Aristocracy and Organizations of Holy Harmonia.*
"Gremio....?"
"Mm?" Gremio looked up, and closed the book with a snap, flustered. "Oh! Young Master! You're done?"
"Yes." Tir handed him his towel. "Here. I'm sorry it's wet, but it's the only one in there."
"Oh," Gremio shook his head, "it's not a problem. I'll just be a few minutes; you can turn the lights off if you want." He gathered his things and went into the bathroom.
"No," Tir called after him, "I'll wait for you." There was no response other than a splash of water. Sighing, Tir picked up the book and thumbed through it, trying to see where Gremio had been, but it was no use. The book fell open, instead, to the chapter he'd been on, detailing the major aristocratic families. He traced his fingers over the foreign names, the Ridiins and the Kailoffs, the Quaivvoses, the destroyed Latkjes.
He cracked his neck again, setting the book down and starting to prepare for bed. Lighting another lamp, Tir slid off his shirt and pants, sliding into his worn sleeping pants and untying his bandanna from around his head. Fondly, he folded it and placed it into his travelsack. His hair *was* getting long, he decided, holding out a lock and eyeing it: it'd almost gotten in his way when he'd been fighting Gremio.
He shivered at the memory. Gremio had been so single-minded, so driven... if Tir hadn't twisted the way he had, he'd be nursing much more than sore muscles right now. Frowning, Tir threw himself onto his bed and kicked up his heels on the backboard, bunching up the pillow under his head. He had seen Gremio fight before, of course. But not for several months, and before--in the wars--he had never been like that. Gremio was tender, gentle, even to his enemies.
As a matter of fact, the only time Tir had *ever* seen him fight that way had been in Sarady.
Tir hugged the pillow to his face. No. He definitely did *not* want to think of that time.
But anyway... Gremio had saved him, then.
He had just gotten carried away.
Noises in the room; Gremio was done with the bath. Tir peeked out from the pillow and watched Gremio get himself ready for bed, felt the stir of things guilty and long suppressed as Gremio slipped off his clothes, revealing a long, pale body before it was covered by worn pants and shirt. Then Gremio sat down on the bed and began brushing out his hair. This was Tir's favorite part of the night. He sat up, smiling as Gremio jumped in surprise. "Gremio," he said, holding out his hand, deliberately trying for the sweetness he knew Gremio loved; "let me, all right?"
A pleased smile lit Gremio's face. He held out the brush, and Tir closed his fingers around its softness and the bits of hair that clung to it. He climbed onto Gremio's bed, sitting just close enough to him that they barely touched, and reached for a handful of wet silk. He ran the brush gently through Gremio's hair and heard, ever so softly, Gremio let out a breath; of pleasure, or fear, or sadness, Tir could never tell. He just put his face to the handfuls, taking in their sweet scent as he carefully and methodically brushed all of Gremio's hair, gentling the snags, straightening the waves. Gremio smelled like spice and musk. It was a very manly, mature, but very Gremio scent.
"Done," Tir murmured, letting go and watching the wave of silk fall back over Gremio's back. His servant turned around and smiled at him as he took back the brush.
"Thank you, Young Master."
Tir tried for a smile, but it was half-hearted, as it always was at night. He hopped off the bed and sat back on his, reaching down to take off his socks.
"Young Master...." Gremio had tied up his hair and was looking at Tir now, eyes narrowed. "Your shoulders hurt."
Surprised, Tir rolled them. "How'd you tell?"
"I've been a beginner, too, don't forget." Gremio got up and came over to him, and Tir started in surprise as hands fell on his shoulders, swiping away the brush of his short ponytail. "Let me just get the kinks out," said Gremio, sounding very professional.
Tir yelped as his fingers dug into what felt like the tenderest spot on his whole body. "G--ow! Ow! Could you be a bit more--gentle?" He tried to crane around to see Gremio, but Gremio just grabbed his chin and twisted his face firmly forward.
"Shh, now," said Gremio, "after a while this will feel very good."
Tir groaned and tried to subtly inch away from the pinch and press of Gremio's fingers, but those fingers--and the pain they caused--followed determinedly, digging into his muscles and making him jump every time Gremio hit a particularly tight spot. "Ugh. It feels like you're killing me."
The fingers paused. "I'm sorry, Young Master," said Gremio, and pulled away from him. "If it does hurt you that much...."
"No!" Tir cursed himself for being such a baby. "No, Gremio, I was just complaining. Go ahead, it's probably good for me."
"If you insist, Young Master."
After a while, Gremio let up, and it began to feel very, very good. Tir tensed his back so that Gremio could better find the tight spots, and it seemed like Gremio unraveled them by way of magic, though of course it was just Gremio being... Gremio. Tir sighed into his pillow, shifting beneath the fingers on his back.
"Does it still hurt?" Gremio asked him.
"No, no," Tir mumbled, "it feels wonderful."
A rumble of a chuckle greeted that statement. "I know. My elder brother used to do this for me when I was younger. I learned by example."
"I didn't know you had a brother."
"Oh, yes. He was very much older than I; a half-brother, as a matter of fact...." Gremio rolled his fingers along Tir's shoulders, then patted his back and moved away. "There. You should feel better, now."
"I do." Tir nestled his face into the pillow, feeling too drowsy and content to even get under the covers. He heard another, quiet chuckle, and then Gremio was pulling back the blankets and helping him move beneath them, tucking him in like he was still a little boy.
Gremio's fingers smoothed back his hair, pressed his cheek, affectionately. "Oh, my Young Master... sleep well. It won't pain you tonight."
Something nagged at the back of Tir's mind--something about a brother--and then the lights were extinguished, and tingling all over with warm and pleasure, he fell into sleep.
****
Jenna had a lovely windchime next to her window. Its metal chimes were decorated with scenes of domestic life: a woman tending her child, a man courting his young lover, two boys playing together. It made little, happy tinkling noises as she and Gremio stood side-by-side rinsing off the dishes from breakfast.
Jenna raised her heat-flushed face to the window and said, laughingly, "There's Yvain again, practicing with the axe. Would you say he's gotten good, Gremio? I don't have any way to tell."
"Oh, yes, he's gotten very good." Yvain learned quickly, and though he didn't show near the savantism that the Young Master did, he would soon be more than able to defend himself and others. Tir had promised he would start teaching him the staff if Yvain could hit him in practice, and after that, Yvain's practices had become feverish, the two boys moving like wildfire across the yard as they sparred. He hadn't scored a hit on Tir yet. Gremio put down another plate on the stack of clean dishes and added, "Has he soldier blood? He has the senses of one."
Jenna smiled. "Every Karayan child has warrior blood. It's in their souls." Then her smile faded, and she sighed, leaning her hands against the basin. "I sometimes feel so sorry for Karayan children... it's them who have to fight when war comes calling. Why, just last month a Karayan friend of mine lost her child in a border skirmish... It's awful."
"It is awful," Gremio said quietly. "But there's nothing you can do. You can only support them and love them and hope they come out all right."
"Mmm. Perhaps that's true." They washed in silence for a while, handing dishes to one another in comfortable routine; then Jenna said, "You worry so much for Tir?"
A plate slipped, and Gremio caught it and put it on the counter with trembling hands. "I-I didn't say I worried...."
"You didn't have to."
"Of course I worry... I worry about many things. How he will grow up, what sort of person he will become...." His own words gave him pause, and Gremio stared out the window for a long time, watching Tir duck, dodge, and sidestep Yvain, never hitting him, never allowing himself to be hit. Tir was a man now, nearly in his forties, and still Gremio worried about those sorts of things.
It would have been different, without the Rune. Now Tir's youth seemed stretched out interminably, like the nighttime horizon. You knew an end was there, but somehow you never saw it and certainly could never touch it, never feel it. How long would Tir be doomed to live as a child?
*Is it because I treat him as a child, or is it because he will forever be a child?*
Laughing, Tir finally struck Yvain on the back, sending the younger boy to his knees. Gremio sighed, ducked his head and began scrubbing furiously at a hard-to-get stain. "I worry," he said, "about how he feels about our constant traveling. He tells me loves it, but does he really?"
"Why do you travel so much?" Jenna asked.
"There are things we must leave behind...." Gremio shook his head. "And things best not talked about."
"I understand." Jenna touched his hand, smiled at him when he raised his head. "There are many people who come to the Grasslands to escape their pasts," she said, shrugging slightly. "We don't ask questions. We don't judge. And Gremio... you are certainly welcome here, if you decide Tir needs a place to stay."
Then Yvain, still on the ground, stretched out his ankle, lightning-fast, and caught the back of Tir's legs. Tir went down, an expression of shock on his face, and as he was falling Yvain struck him on the shoulder with the haft of his axe.
"Oh!" Jenna laughed, pulling open the window. "He hit him!"
Gremio smiled and leaned up to look out the window himself. Tir was accepting the hit with good grace, laughing as he got to his feet and helped Yvain up. "I suppose we shall stay and teach Yvain the staff," he said.
Outside, Tir saw him and waved to him with his solemn little smile. Gremio smiled and lifted his hand back.
Yvain saw him and stopped hoeing, leaning on the handle instead and favoring him with his cheerful, white-teethed Karayan smile. "Hey, Tir!" he said. "The fishing bad this morning?"
Tir lifted his empty can; Yvain peered in and whistled through his teeth. "Too bad," he said. "You ought to go to Karaya and try it. I hear the fishing's much better there."
Tir set the can down and crossed his arms, looking out across the field. "Maybe I should." His and Yvain's rows were markedly different. Yvain, for all his good nature, was no farmer; his vegetables were wilted, stunted-looking. Tir had discovered, to his pleasant surprise, that he had something of a green thumb, and his vegetables were growing tall and healthy.
His eyes on the same difference, Yvain said, "You must have had a parent who gardened. It's from them we get our talents, you know."
"Oh?" Tir thought about it, then shook his head. "I guess I wouldn't know. My father was gone most of the time, and my mother died when I was young."
"Ah." Yvain nodded, crouching down in the soil to pack in a few seedlings. "It's the opposite for me. My father died before I was born."
"Who was he?"
"A Karayan hero," said Yvain, "or so my mother tells me." He stood up, and shrugged. "Mothers will tell their bastard children anything. I've always suspected he was just a trader, passing through. He must have been gone long before her belly swelled."
Tir twisted his mouth, uncomfortable. "My father never said much about my mother, either," he said. "I don't even know if she was of peasant stock, or aristocratic."
"She must have been a peasant, then, for you to be so good at growing things." Yvain tilted his head and squinted his eyes at Tir's face. "But I don't know. I don't know much about aristocracy, but I think your face is too fine for you to have peasant blood." He grinned.
Tir wiped at his face, feeling an unaccountable heat in his cheeks. "Huh. Maybe."
They stood in silence for a while, surveying the garden. Sweat ran down Yvain's face, leaving dark tracks on his brown skin. Tir wiped at some sweat running down his own back and wished that he had had the sense, too, to get a hat; the bandanna hardly protected his hair. With a start, he remembered that he'd come here for a reason. "So you think we get our gifts from our parents?" he said, and Yvain's eyes turned toward him. "Your father couldn't have been a trader, then, he must have been a warrior. Or is your mother hiding talents?"
Yvain's eyes narrowed. "My mother is no soldier, that's for sure. What do you mean?"
Tir shrugged. "I've seen you practicing with your arrows, that's all. You're good."
Yvain turned away and touched his hand to the brim of his hat, bringing its shadow down across his face. "I'm not that good," he muttered. "It's a skill every Grassland child learns if they want to eat."
"But you move well." Tir hesitated, then circled him slowly, like prey, coming to a halt behind him. "You've good form and a strong, sturdy body. And you're quick--I saw you chasing that rabbit, after all."
Yvain spun around to face him, blushing. "You've been *watching* me!"
"I see things." Tir rested his chin in his hand and grinned at Yvain. "I'm very good with a staff, you know. And Gremio has yet to teach me how to wield an axe. How about he teach us both?"
"For what fee?" Yvain said warily.
"I'm staying at your house, friend," Tir said. "And one should never name a price for teaching another person to defend themself." He stuck out his hand. "Deal?"
Yvain's hand crept towards his, then clasped it, and they shook. "Deal," said the boy, and tilted the brim of his hat down again. He went back to his farming without another word.
****
Gremio eyed the two boys standing in front of him with something akin to fear. Tir stood calmly, feet loose and wide apart, expression almost contemplative; he had been taught fighting since he was a small child. Jenna's son, on the other hand, looked a bit rabbit-frightened, standing stiffly and watching Gremio with a hunter's hawk-eye. Gremio cleared his throat and said, "Young Master, are you sure about this?"
"Quite sure, Gremio." Tir waved a hand for him to go on.
"Ahh...." Gremio said weakly, then turned to Yvain. "Do you have permission from your mother to do this?"
Yvain just shrugged.
*Oh,* Gremio groaned to himself. He swung his axe out from behind him, and mirroring his movement, Tir and Yvain picked up the hand-axes they'd borrowed from local farmers. "Um... all right... let's talk about the, uh, initial positioning first, shall we?"
Hold your hands far apart on the handle, gripping tightly. Your legs bent and splayed apart, bracing your body. Your eyes--you know this, Tir--your eyes *always on your opponent's face,* never on his weapon. It's in the enemy's eyes that you see his movement....
"Come at me," Gremio said to Yvain.
Yvain had only just mastered the basic position. He looked at Gremio like he was about to be murdered.
Gremio cursed the quaver in his voice. "Come at me, Yvain."
He saw Yvain set himself, his jaw and his eyes tightening. With a yell, he raised the axe and--looking at Gremio's weapon--charged him with the axe held high, preparing for a downward sweep. Gremio feinted left, Yvain followed him, and he cut in smoothly on the boy's right and patted him gently on the back with his own axe. Yvain skidded to a stop and spun around to look, his eyes widening when he realized what Gremio had done.
"Eyes on my face," Gremio told him gently. "In time, you'll learn what I mean to do, but only through hard experience. For now I can only teach you the basics." He hefted his axe up and thought for a minute, frowning. "Perhaps you'd like to see a practice bought, first?"
Yvain nodded his head vigorously.
"All right." Gremio turned to Tir. "Young Master?"
Tir had mastered the basic forms easily. His face as he settled himself was calm, cool and unreadable. Gremio watched his eyes. He knew every nuance of Tir's personality, knew what every shade and darkening of Tir's eyes meant, but he never forgot that Tir was a master soldier, almost as old as Master Teo had been when he died. Tir was a beginner at the axe, but it meant nothing. True virtuosos, after all, could play more than one instrument.
Tir came for him like a flash of lightning. Gremio was hard-pressed to sidestep his charge, and he ended up bringing up his axe to meet Tir's; they clashed with the furious sound of steel-on-steel. Gremio gritted his teeth over the blade and saw Tir's face, so close to his he could feel his breath, teeth wide open in a grin, eyes dark and wild.
They leapt apart. Gremio swung around Tir's next charge to try to catch his back, but Tir had already danced around him and was trying to do the same. Gremio twisted and caught it, just in time, with his handle, and moved back before Tir could sweep him with his feet--a favorite trick of his. Twisting, he brought the axe up, only to be countered by Tir's. Again the steel sang. Gremio pushed him back, moved back a breath, and brought his axe in low and swept Tir off his feet.
Tir landed with a hard 'oomph', his axe clattering to the ground beside him. He lay on the ground, arms spread out, looking dazed. Gremio stood still, breathing hard; then his own axe dropped, and the sound shocked him out of his stupor. "Young Master!" He ran to Tir's side, fell to his knees and felt for a pulse--oh dear God, what if he'd killed his young master-- But Tir's heartbeat thrummed sweet and strong across his fingertips, and Tir was laughing.
He sat up, rubbing his head ruefully. "Gremio, don't look like you've just murdered me. You won fairly. I just got the breath knocked out of me, that's all."
"I didn't win fairly," Gremio said, wringing his hands together. "You're just learning, Young Master, and I went at you like--like--like you'd used the axe all your life! It's a very different weapon from the staff, Young Master, or even the sword--oh, Young Master, please forgive me!"
"I'm fine, Gremio, really I'm fine." Tir waved his hands away with a smile, and leaped up to pat him on the back. "I'm glad you came at me like that. I wouldn't want to learn any other way." He adjusted his bandanna.
Gremio stood up, nearly weeping with relief. "I'm so sorry," he said earnestly. "I'll go easier next time, I swear. Oh, my gods--if I'd hurt you--"
"That was amazing!" Yvain exclaimed from somewhere behind them. "Wow! Great! Do you want to do it again?"
"No!" said Gremio, wincing at how his own voice cracked on the upward note. He cleared his throat and repeated, "Uh, no, no, no, Yvain. I think that's quite enough for today."
"Gremio--" both Tir and Yvain protested, but Gremio waved his hands.
"Absolutely not. You're both probably very tired, and I very nearly hurt the Young Master. You need long soaks and some good, hot stew."
"All right," said Yvain, shrugging. "Hey, thanks, Gremio. You're a good teacher." He swung his axe over his shoulder and sauntered back to the field, calling over his shoulder, "More tomorrow, then, right?"
Tir frowned at him. "Gremio, you didn't hurt me at all. I don't see why you're so worried."
"I could have hurt you," Gremio insisted. "I almost hurt you." He shuddered at the memory, how if he'd tilted his axe *just so* he could have sliced into Tir's skin--and he'd thought it, too, until Tir had fallen-- Gremio shook his head and wiped sweat from his face. "Let's just leave it for now, all right, Young Master? I really do need to get started on that stew."
"All right," said Tir, and watched him doubtfully as he walked into the house.
****
That night, Tir winced over his sore muscles even once he'd gotten out of the tub. He rolled them and his neck, popping his vertebrae; towelled off and dressed, and poked his head into the bedroom. "Gremio, I'm done. Do you want it?"
"Yes, thank you," Gremio said, sounding somewhat occupied. Tir stepped into the room and saw that Gremio's head was bent over one of Tir's books. He crouched down to see the title: *Ruling Aristocracy and Organizations of Holy Harmonia.*
"Gremio....?"
"Mm?" Gremio looked up, and closed the book with a snap, flustered. "Oh! Young Master! You're done?"
"Yes." Tir handed him his towel. "Here. I'm sorry it's wet, but it's the only one in there."
"Oh," Gremio shook his head, "it's not a problem. I'll just be a few minutes; you can turn the lights off if you want." He gathered his things and went into the bathroom.
"No," Tir called after him, "I'll wait for you." There was no response other than a splash of water. Sighing, Tir picked up the book and thumbed through it, trying to see where Gremio had been, but it was no use. The book fell open, instead, to the chapter he'd been on, detailing the major aristocratic families. He traced his fingers over the foreign names, the Ridiins and the Kailoffs, the Quaivvoses, the destroyed Latkjes.
He cracked his neck again, setting the book down and starting to prepare for bed. Lighting another lamp, Tir slid off his shirt and pants, sliding into his worn sleeping pants and untying his bandanna from around his head. Fondly, he folded it and placed it into his travelsack. His hair *was* getting long, he decided, holding out a lock and eyeing it: it'd almost gotten in his way when he'd been fighting Gremio.
He shivered at the memory. Gremio had been so single-minded, so driven... if Tir hadn't twisted the way he had, he'd be nursing much more than sore muscles right now. Frowning, Tir threw himself onto his bed and kicked up his heels on the backboard, bunching up the pillow under his head. He had seen Gremio fight before, of course. But not for several months, and before--in the wars--he had never been like that. Gremio was tender, gentle, even to his enemies.
As a matter of fact, the only time Tir had *ever* seen him fight that way had been in Sarady.
Tir hugged the pillow to his face. No. He definitely did *not* want to think of that time.
But anyway... Gremio had saved him, then.
He had just gotten carried away.
Noises in the room; Gremio was done with the bath. Tir peeked out from the pillow and watched Gremio get himself ready for bed, felt the stir of things guilty and long suppressed as Gremio slipped off his clothes, revealing a long, pale body before it was covered by worn pants and shirt. Then Gremio sat down on the bed and began brushing out his hair. This was Tir's favorite part of the night. He sat up, smiling as Gremio jumped in surprise. "Gremio," he said, holding out his hand, deliberately trying for the sweetness he knew Gremio loved; "let me, all right?"
A pleased smile lit Gremio's face. He held out the brush, and Tir closed his fingers around its softness and the bits of hair that clung to it. He climbed onto Gremio's bed, sitting just close enough to him that they barely touched, and reached for a handful of wet silk. He ran the brush gently through Gremio's hair and heard, ever so softly, Gremio let out a breath; of pleasure, or fear, or sadness, Tir could never tell. He just put his face to the handfuls, taking in their sweet scent as he carefully and methodically brushed all of Gremio's hair, gentling the snags, straightening the waves. Gremio smelled like spice and musk. It was a very manly, mature, but very Gremio scent.
"Done," Tir murmured, letting go and watching the wave of silk fall back over Gremio's back. His servant turned around and smiled at him as he took back the brush.
"Thank you, Young Master."
Tir tried for a smile, but it was half-hearted, as it always was at night. He hopped off the bed and sat back on his, reaching down to take off his socks.
"Young Master...." Gremio had tied up his hair and was looking at Tir now, eyes narrowed. "Your shoulders hurt."
Surprised, Tir rolled them. "How'd you tell?"
"I've been a beginner, too, don't forget." Gremio got up and came over to him, and Tir started in surprise as hands fell on his shoulders, swiping away the brush of his short ponytail. "Let me just get the kinks out," said Gremio, sounding very professional.
Tir yelped as his fingers dug into what felt like the tenderest spot on his whole body. "G--ow! Ow! Could you be a bit more--gentle?" He tried to crane around to see Gremio, but Gremio just grabbed his chin and twisted his face firmly forward.
"Shh, now," said Gremio, "after a while this will feel very good."
Tir groaned and tried to subtly inch away from the pinch and press of Gremio's fingers, but those fingers--and the pain they caused--followed determinedly, digging into his muscles and making him jump every time Gremio hit a particularly tight spot. "Ugh. It feels like you're killing me."
The fingers paused. "I'm sorry, Young Master," said Gremio, and pulled away from him. "If it does hurt you that much...."
"No!" Tir cursed himself for being such a baby. "No, Gremio, I was just complaining. Go ahead, it's probably good for me."
"If you insist, Young Master."
After a while, Gremio let up, and it began to feel very, very good. Tir tensed his back so that Gremio could better find the tight spots, and it seemed like Gremio unraveled them by way of magic, though of course it was just Gremio being... Gremio. Tir sighed into his pillow, shifting beneath the fingers on his back.
"Does it still hurt?" Gremio asked him.
"No, no," Tir mumbled, "it feels wonderful."
A rumble of a chuckle greeted that statement. "I know. My elder brother used to do this for me when I was younger. I learned by example."
"I didn't know you had a brother."
"Oh, yes. He was very much older than I; a half-brother, as a matter of fact...." Gremio rolled his fingers along Tir's shoulders, then patted his back and moved away. "There. You should feel better, now."
"I do." Tir nestled his face into the pillow, feeling too drowsy and content to even get under the covers. He heard another, quiet chuckle, and then Gremio was pulling back the blankets and helping him move beneath them, tucking him in like he was still a little boy.
Gremio's fingers smoothed back his hair, pressed his cheek, affectionately. "Oh, my Young Master... sleep well. It won't pain you tonight."
Something nagged at the back of Tir's mind--something about a brother--and then the lights were extinguished, and tingling all over with warm and pleasure, he fell into sleep.
****
Jenna had a lovely windchime next to her window. Its metal chimes were decorated with scenes of domestic life: a woman tending her child, a man courting his young lover, two boys playing together. It made little, happy tinkling noises as she and Gremio stood side-by-side rinsing off the dishes from breakfast.
Jenna raised her heat-flushed face to the window and said, laughingly, "There's Yvain again, practicing with the axe. Would you say he's gotten good, Gremio? I don't have any way to tell."
"Oh, yes, he's gotten very good." Yvain learned quickly, and though he didn't show near the savantism that the Young Master did, he would soon be more than able to defend himself and others. Tir had promised he would start teaching him the staff if Yvain could hit him in practice, and after that, Yvain's practices had become feverish, the two boys moving like wildfire across the yard as they sparred. He hadn't scored a hit on Tir yet. Gremio put down another plate on the stack of clean dishes and added, "Has he soldier blood? He has the senses of one."
Jenna smiled. "Every Karayan child has warrior blood. It's in their souls." Then her smile faded, and she sighed, leaning her hands against the basin. "I sometimes feel so sorry for Karayan children... it's them who have to fight when war comes calling. Why, just last month a Karayan friend of mine lost her child in a border skirmish... It's awful."
"It is awful," Gremio said quietly. "But there's nothing you can do. You can only support them and love them and hope they come out all right."
"Mmm. Perhaps that's true." They washed in silence for a while, handing dishes to one another in comfortable routine; then Jenna said, "You worry so much for Tir?"
A plate slipped, and Gremio caught it and put it on the counter with trembling hands. "I-I didn't say I worried...."
"You didn't have to."
"Of course I worry... I worry about many things. How he will grow up, what sort of person he will become...." His own words gave him pause, and Gremio stared out the window for a long time, watching Tir duck, dodge, and sidestep Yvain, never hitting him, never allowing himself to be hit. Tir was a man now, nearly in his forties, and still Gremio worried about those sorts of things.
It would have been different, without the Rune. Now Tir's youth seemed stretched out interminably, like the nighttime horizon. You knew an end was there, but somehow you never saw it and certainly could never touch it, never feel it. How long would Tir be doomed to live as a child?
*Is it because I treat him as a child, or is it because he will forever be a child?*
Laughing, Tir finally struck Yvain on the back, sending the younger boy to his knees. Gremio sighed, ducked his head and began scrubbing furiously at a hard-to-get stain. "I worry," he said, "about how he feels about our constant traveling. He tells me loves it, but does he really?"
"Why do you travel so much?" Jenna asked.
"There are things we must leave behind...." Gremio shook his head. "And things best not talked about."
"I understand." Jenna touched his hand, smiled at him when he raised his head. "There are many people who come to the Grasslands to escape their pasts," she said, shrugging slightly. "We don't ask questions. We don't judge. And Gremio... you are certainly welcome here, if you decide Tir needs a place to stay."
Then Yvain, still on the ground, stretched out his ankle, lightning-fast, and caught the back of Tir's legs. Tir went down, an expression of shock on his face, and as he was falling Yvain struck him on the shoulder with the haft of his axe.
"Oh!" Jenna laughed, pulling open the window. "He hit him!"
Gremio smiled and leaned up to look out the window himself. Tir was accepting the hit with good grace, laughing as he got to his feet and helped Yvain up. "I suppose we shall stay and teach Yvain the staff," he said.
Outside, Tir saw him and waved to him with his solemn little smile. Gremio smiled and lifted his hand back.