Chapter 6

They saw their first Daimons later on that evening, stalking an unsuspecting tourist who was merrily enjoying the pre-Mardi Gras preparations. Clad in the classic tourist getup of socks, sandals, and a rather loud tee-shirt, he had no idea that he was any danger at all, not even when the unsuspecting Daimon was hurled into an alley nearby by Zarek, with Reses following close behind, silent as the grave. Or at least that's what he assumed, since Zarek himself hadn't seen a grave in nearly 2,000 years. He hadn't said a word since Zarek's rather derogatory comments about his appearance, and, truth was, he himself believed he had been a little harsh, but then, he had also been talking to Valerius at the time. Whatever it was, Zarek suspected that the man had to force himself not to shout at him, as he could all but sense the fury he must be feeling. To keep the man from detesting him any further, he stayed silent for most of the night, until a well-aimed blow from a somewhat-talented warrior Daimon struck him just above his earlier wounds. While Reses obediently pulled the man off of him and plunged his own small blade into the ink blot on his chest, Zarek was feeling kind of annoyed that it had taken him so long to help.

"Where the hell were you on that one?" he asked angrily, batting away the hand that Reses seemed obligated to lend him whenever he ended up on the ground.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to be so slow, Master," he said in an emotionless voice. Zarek had already given up on correcting him: so far his attempts to stop the "masters" from being said had done absolutely nothing. While it pained him to admit it, Reses obviously no longer believed he meant anything he said. That concept made Zarek even angrier: never in his life had he been a liar. Call him all matter of names and he didn't mind, but 'liar' wasn't one of them.

"I am not a liar, Reses, so stop acting like I am," he hissed. To the slave, he probably made little sense. After all, Reses hadn't exactly said he was one: Zarek said it mainly to get the man to say something other than his 'slave lines.'

"I am sorry. I did not mean to offend, Master."

Zarek growled, and threw his hands up in the air in defeat.

"You're sorry, you did not mean to offend, you did not mean to be slow," he mimicked mockingly. "What the hell do you mean, then, if not that?"

He looked back at Reses, but his pretty golden eyes were as blank, as cold, as ever. It was like an emotional switch had been turned off, and now his emotions were a mystery.

"I am a slave. I mean nothing," he responded, and something clicked in his eyes briefly. Zarek certainly didn't expect him to say that, but obviously he had been told it time enough to start believing it. Zarek had been told it too, but in his case it wasn't just something he had been told. It was the truth, no matter which way you looked at it. Some way or another, he was always useless when someone needed something. Only recently had he begun to think that they weren't as right as they thought, and even that took some serious encouragement. If he remembered correctly, Acheron said it unbalanced the person's perspective to be made feel worthless. Despite his promise to be as biting as possible, he wasn't about to confirm that.

"Reses, you are not nothing. That is simply a slave tool used to make you feel submissive. It takes years to stop believing it, so please, don't even start. I'm assuming this came from those bastards before me, correct?" He asked mildly, examining the numerous holes in his shirt, and feeling for the wounds beneath. Damn it, but with that Daimon's injury to add to the Valerius' various attempts at killing him, his entire chest was riddled with puncture wounds, and the need to constantly rest was starting to get on his nerves. Some immortal he was: the entire fight would have been over a lot quicker if those damn Dream-Hunters would just help him. Just once. Was that so much to ask?

He was so caught up in muttering expletives that he didn't notice Reses frowning at him.

"Yes. You speak as if you know something about being a slave. Master," he added, almost as though he had forgotten. That, Zarek supposed, was some progress. It was a shame that he wasn't about to talk about how he knew this; it probably would have made more progress towards Reses actually acting like a human being, instead of a tortured animal.

"Some. But I tend to know more about mental disorders," he said, not looking up, trying to find a way to overlap the shreds of cloth at his side to staunch the bleeding gash. That wasn't exactly a lie: Zarek, as a justified homicidal maniac, tended to understand the insane a bit better than others. If he had been born to this time, he probably would have become a psychologist, he supposed. Sadly, he hadn't.

With a sigh Reses watched Zarek struggle to cover his wounds. From what Reses could see while he stood, there were many of them, some of them angry and red in addition to the ones the other Dark-Hunter, Valerius, had given him. But, although Reses was sure he was in a lot of pain, he didn't say a word, either to complain or to ask for his help. Even though he was still somewhat angry at the Dark-Hunter for his belittling comments on his appearance, he knew that they most likely hadn't been intended to hurt his feelings, but rather to insult the other Hunter. His assumptions were reassured every time he called him 'master-' no matter how hard he must have tried to hide his emotions, his eyes would turn sad and guilty for a moment, then return to their usual blankness. He wanted to ask what was the matter, but since Zarek was such a hot and cold person, he wasn't sure what sort of reaction he would get. He watched as the man continued to make vain attempts at making the obviously serious wounds appear less apparent, and gave another resigned sigh. Regardless of how he felt about Zarek at the moment, it went against his nature to watch someone have trouble and not to lend help. His parents had raised him better than that. He wasn't surprised when he heard his own hesitant voice offering assistance.

"I could help you with that, if you like. I am proficient at healing." An understatement, but oh well.

Zarek let out a laugh, but there was no malice in it.

"Finally, some self-acknowledgement." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, before he let out a sigh.

"But, yes, if you can make these go away some, I would appreciate it." Reses couldn't believe those words had passed Zarek's lips, but he hid his astonishment behind a casual shrug. If the Greek would accept his help, he was willing to give it.

"Alright. Stand still for a moment, please," he said, and he walked forward to crouch next to the Greek and look at the assortment of gashes located near his side and, like he had suspected, many were infected. Those ones he couldn't rightfully touch without purging them of contamination first, other wise he might be sealing in the infection, and he doubted Zarek would appreciate that. So, purging it was.

"No matter how this feels, don't move, please." To make sure his words were carried out, he held Zarek's hips still, the action momentarily making him forget what he was doing. The man had really nice hips…

He shook his head at the thought, and continued what he was doing. He hadn't healed anyone for centuries, and he was afraid he was a little out of practice, but since he didn't have to dissolve anything, he was sure it wouldn't matter. Concentrating hard on the layers of damage, he sealed each wound. He was careful not to make it any stronger than it should be, stopping when he got the flesh back to what he could only assume was its natural state on Zarek's body. While the infected areas gave him a bit of trouble, the wounds themselves were soon completed. Amazingly, Zarek hadn't moved during the entire painful process.

When he opened his eyes, all that was in front of him was smooth flesh and the tiniest of scratches left from the deepest of the wounds.

Resisting the urge to completely heal the scratch, not wanting to go too far and lose control of his healing, he stood again, brushing the knees of his pants where he had kneeled in the dirty alley. He didn't look at Zarek; instead concentrated on separating his consciousness from Zarek's body composition, fold by fold. He was aware that Zarek pressed a hand against the nearly disappeared wounds, and the shock he was feeling blended with the flow of his blood through the fresh skin. With a yank, Reses pulled his mind out of the Greek's now-living cells, and breathed a heaving sigh. It had been so long since he had actually done something like that…he had almost forgotten how. He repressed the absurd urge to thank him for letting him heal him, because that would have been beyond pathetic.

Zarek felt the barely noticeable mark on his side, amazed when he found that the ragged tissue that had been there before had been put back in its place during the painful process. How had Reses done such a thing? While Reses procedure had been much more painful than Acheron's, the Atlantian was the only other person he knew who could heal in such a way, merely by concentrating on the area. He wasn't sure if any of the other Dark-Hunters possessed this particular gift, as they tended to avoid him, but he doubted it. He had wondered about it once, and it seemed to be a trait only Atlantians shared. He remembered that Morsus was an Atlantian god: perhaps he had enslaved Reses before Atlantis had gone under. That would certainly explain why he seemed to have so much in common with Acheron, from the unnatural strength and appearance to his healing powers.

"Reses," he inquired curiously. "Are you an Atlantian?"

Reses looked at him oddly.

"Not exactly. I'm a Doscian."

"A what?" he asked, surprised. That particular term was unfamiliar to him.

"A Doscian. Born on the island of Doscia, which was just South of Atlantis. Slightly less showy than the Atlantians, and fairly peaceful, so we weren't a commonly known group of people. People who claimed to find Atlantis after it sunk were most likely seeing us. Of course, Doscia sunk soon after…er, well, soon after I left," he said hesitantly, running his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture. Obviously, he hadn't meant to say that much about himself, probably expecting Zarek to yell at him for being so chatty. Zarek shrugged. They would get into that later.

"That's quite interesting. Anyway…thank you for healing me. I have never met another who could do that." His back stiffened. "But we don't have time to stop now. Come daylight, you'll be on you own, so we have to move quickly."

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Two chapters in one day…what an achievement. If this chapter doesn't make sense, I apologize. I typed it up while I was kind of up in the clouds from cough syrup. Hope you enjoyed.