Chapter 7: Coming Together Again

*several hours earlier*

"How will we save him? We can't get enough men to mount up a rescue team." Myles was deeply worried, and trying not to show it.

Neal was sipping hot soup, trying desperately to warm his hands. "The guy's a sorcerer—which means…"

"Which means he'd get our names out of Joren one way or the other, if he's as… competent as Roger." Alanna rubbed an aching knee. "I'm too old to be battling sorcerers again."

George was all business. "It doesn't make much difference. This guy would consider us enemies as it is. Now we all know I couldn't get to the servants, so even with the look-outs I posted outside, we're gonna be running blind."

"If the two really are Roger's spawn, we could face a civil war here." Myles said.

George thought for a second. "And we'd need more proof before we can have grounds accusing them of treason. I'll have to try infiltrating the 'suspected' nobles; they might let some things drop."

Neal interrupted. "What about Joren?" He didn't want to abandon the guy who saved his life.

Myles just rubbed his eyes, while Alanna whispered, "May Mithros bless him."

George stood up. "I'll send a message to Sir Paxton."

***

Joren was being followed. He was at a loss as to what to do, being too tired to think straight, so he settled for a simple head-on confrontation. He wheeled the blue roan around and tried to sound tough. "Who are you?"

The man was on foot, nondescript in brown, and yet his face seemed familiar to Joren. A brief look of panic crossed that face, before it cleared and turned to recognition. "Master Joren? You're safe!"

It clicked. Joren had seen him at Myles' house, one of the servants lurking. Both of them in relief, Joren allowed the man to lead him towards Sir Myles while he gave in to exhaustion and dozed in the saddle.

***

Neal looked down at Joren, so pale you could almost see the veins and shadows. The healer at Sir Myles' employ had done his best to minimize scarring, but they still appeared an angry red against Joren's near-translucent skin.

He himself had had no appetite since that night, and barely no sleep. The others in the room, including the spy who had been posted near the stables, talked in whispers. They had found the letter when the healer took off Joren's clothes to examine his wounds. Neal was glad Lady Alanna didn't make him watch that. He had a little training, and probably a lot of natural talent, but it wouldn't have made a difference. He had taken one look at that slender body dotted with red and blue and black, and had backed out of the room, his hand over his mouth. He wasn't queasy by nature, but the guilt he felt made everything Joren endured seem magnified a hundred-fold. Because he had left early, he had missed the shocked gasps of Lady Alanna and Sir Myles when all of Joren's injuries were revealed.

And now it was obvious that the others were excited about the contents of the letter, but at the same time there was an aura of sobriety in the room, brought on by the evidence of cruelty they saw lying in front of them. Neal couldn't concentrate on anything else. He just sat beside Joren watching the blanket rise slowly up, and down, and the criminally long eyelashes flutter a little. He's dreaming. He thought. Of what? He shuddered to think what may be the contents of Joren's subconscious right now.

He was watching so intensely, yet trying not to think of holding that limp hand in his. No. He mentally shook his head. There were people around. They might…

Joren made a slight sound, which made Neal jump. The others turned their gazes on the boy and watched as he thrashed on the bed and whimpered. He also muttered what sounded like "No!" and "Please!".

Everybody just stared, until George regained his senses and approached carefully. He laid a gentle hand on Joren's brow. "Joren. Relax. You're safe now. Relax."

Lady Alanna also joined her husband and made soothing noises, while a slow reddish-violet fire stole over Joren's form. He was just calming down completely when his eyes opened.

***

The vividness of Joren's blue eyes shot around the room in half-panic, his head instinctively dislodging the weight of George's hand, before he fixed his gaze onto the face of the youth by his bed.

"Neal!" Joren grasped Neal's hand, then dropped it just as abruptly. "Wh-what happened?"

Everything was explained to him by Lady Alanna's husband, who sat by his bed, his eyes hooded, yet knowing. "Now how about you tell us what happened? And how you got this letter?" He was holding up the letter from Reginald.

Joren swallowed. He didn't really want to tell them what have happened. They already think he was a milksop; he wanted to keep what little dignity he had. "The other guy, the one at the party, he ain't so bad. He got me out through some secret passage, and he's the one who wrote that letter. Also, there's a kid with him named Marek, who tried to heal me up."

Neal wanted to ask about the injuries, but he wasn't sure he'd like to hear the answers. He left the room as quietly as possible, needing some time to think about what he was feeling. He didn't see Joren try to catch his eye, and he missed Joren's face when it fell after he turned away. He had to think; what was this emotion bubbling up inside of him regarding Joren of Stone Mountain? Neal definitely couldn't call it hatred. Not now. Not after all this.

Joren's spirits sank. Neal had left the room without a backward glance. He didn't even thank me for saving his life. I did my job, and that's it. He probably hates me just like always. He suddenly wanted to be alone. "Sir Myles? Please. C-can I be alone for a while?" It was probably the pleading that insured their prompt retreat, although that weird ol' Baron was looking at him strangely.

Sir Myles went to extinguish the light of the lamp, but Joren panicked. He didn't want to be left in the darkness. Lady Alanna made a glowing ball of reddish-violet fire instead, so that there would be less danger of fire. Lady Alanna and Sir Myles had on blank faces that meant they were thinking of something big.

Joren just lay on the bed, both his mind and body exhausted. The ball hovered above him. He didn't know what to do now. About the threat, he was sure the others would take care of it. But he didn't think he could go back to acting the way he did. They would see right through him. Added to that, the Ordeal of Knighthood was coming up. If it weren't, Joren might consider quitting, but as it were, there was nothing to do but go through with it. Maybe the damn thing will kill him. He sighed. Now was not the time for all these thoughts. He turned on his side, and burrowed into the warm blanket, letting the silence lull him to sleep.

***

Neal sneaked into Joren's room, and was surprised to see the ball of light. It illuminated Joren's pale cheekbones. He looked like someone under a spell. He wanted a chance to talk to him alone, but didn't have the heart to disturb him. So he sat down on the bed and just listened to Joren breathe.

He had thought a lot about what happened, and was sure he no longer hated his former enemy. Just what exactly he was feeling for him, he still haven't figured out.

"I," he cleared his throat, "I want to thank you for what you did back there." His voice was low. But it was enough to stir Joren from his slumber.

He opened his eyes and looked up at Neal. "Neal." He said, happily. "I'm glad you're fine. I'm glad…" He drifted back to sleep, his hand clutching Neal's.

Neal looked down on the sleeping form of Joren, and everything suddenly became clear. Mithros, I c-care about him.