Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 2: The Two

The two stumbled into the inn together and collapsed into a chair by the fire. They gave the surrounding customers a look which communicated Go away in loud tones. Then they allowed themselves to relax.

What passed for them as relaxed, anyhow.

:Thiss ssseems like a nicce town.:

:That's what you said about the last one. And what happened, hmm:

:You'rre what happened, Rrrigan. You jussst can't adapt, can you:

:I don't want to adapt! And even if I wanted to, I couldn't. You and your savage impulses…You! You…:

:I have a name, Rrigan. And you'rre not alone in thessse impulssesss. I know you too well.:

:That's it, isn't it? We know each other too well and for too long. Too well to stand each other, and too long to hate each other. Don't we, Torren:

This said with the deepest bitterness and frustration. Rigan sighed and motioned for the tavern girl. She sauntered over, her movements determined by a youthful confidence and refreshingly devoid of any jadedness. Rigan didn't notice. Torren did.

:Lovely young lady, issn't sshe? I rrreally preferr the people we meet in thessse ssmall villagesss. Not that we everr passs thrrough any larrge townsss or ccitiess. Not that you would allow it.:

Rigan nodded at the girl's offer of drink. He sighed and tried to evade Torren's trap. :Since when have human women interested you, anyway:

:I've been with you too long.: came the amused reply. :And I'm beginning to sssee the appeal. We'rre ssso connected…I would have noticssed it beforrre, excssept we both werrre too young. Barrely overrr the thresshold of adolessscence, mysself. And sssame forr you, if I am not misstaken.:

Rigan cursed. "Connected" was far too accurate a term for him. Closer than a thrice-cursed life-bond, for all I care, he thought. Torren heard him, of course, but skimmed right over the familiar rant of self-loathing.

:Perrhapsss, if we werrre to ssee my people, you would be attrrracted to the women of my kind. I think you harrdly notice yourrr own kind. But…: He trailed off, disconsolate. Rigan knew how it went. Torren would never see his people again. He was too…ashamed, maybe.

He bent his head and accepted the mug the girl handed him. She smiled and nodded her head in thanks at the coins handed to her. It was a bit much, but neither of the two minded. They rarely needed money, living off the land, and what they did need; they bought with money earned from temporary occupations at the occasional farmstead or village. They borrowed books, traded for food once in a while, and mostly spent coin on the necessary clothing for Rigan. That had needed to be replaced constantly during the first year until the ever-clever Torren had used his journeyman-level mage Gift to make some magical alterations to the clothing. He'd been very proud of it at the time, much to Rigan's disgust. Torren had, rather pompously to Rigan's mind, declared it to be the first spell of its kind. Until Rigan had pointed out that such a spell had never been needed before. Not before the Mage Storms, anyway. The two had immediately fallen into a depressed state of mind lasting until Torren spotted a wounded deer the next day. "Dinnerrr!" he had declared, and ripped into the poor, defenseless creature with such zeal that Rigan became rather violently sick. Which had effectively ruined the meal for both of them. Not that anything could be done about that.

Torren had not seen his family for several years. Rigan had been orphaned at early childhood and had made his way alternately through the streets and the houses of kindly widows in his home town. He was bright, though, and had pulled himself up by means of the temple schools and whatever else he could find in books and through work experience. He'd helped out at the town inn and local shops, and had traveled south with one of those widows to Haven. With his sharp wits and ambition, he could have started an enterprise by now—he had ideas, ideas of a new type of business—like a tavern without the sleeping quarters, a chain of places where people could meet and order food. And he would be only twenty-three years old by now. At least, he thought he would be twenty-three. Or was he twenty-two, and Torren the one who was twenty-three?

Torren was smart, too. But he tended more toward the purely scholarly pursuits. Articulate, genteel and just a bit stuck-up, Torren was the gentleman to Rigan's streetwise personality. Rigan allowed himself a small smile, this one containing all the bitterness of the past few years. Certainly, Torren was the epitome of the refined gentleman—until the situation turned rough.

Whereas Rigan grew more calm and resourceful the more violent the situation was, Torren, on the other hand…Rigan lifted his arm to run his fingers through his hair. Blonde, I think. It may have darkened since the Mage Storms; I haven't really looked at my reflection since then. Haven't wanted to. Haven't wanted to see what was behind the eyes…

:Ah, Rrrigan…:

Rigan dropped his hand back down, inadvertently knocking the mug aside. The beer splashed a man sitting in a nearby chair. The man jumped up, wiping the beer off of his bearded face with a knotted fist. He turned toward Rigan, who gave a mental groan. He knew this type. They were just a fight waiting to happen. He rose out of his seat to apologize and leave before—something—happened. Again. Already, he could feel Torren's excitement. :Calm down: he snapped, although he knew that Torren couldn't help it, no more than could Rigan help his own instincts. He opened his mouth to form the words of apology.

Only to find himself sprawled on the tavern floor, his hand clutching his left eye. The man tensed, expecting retaliation. He couldn't know that all Rigan cared about was leaving this place, this village. Right now. Before the—situation—spiraled out of his control. He struggled upright, bracing himself first on his hands, then his knees. He stood up and turned to go.

And doubled over as he was punched again. And again. The pain wasn't that bad, really; his body was far too strong for that, stronger than a young man's body should be. But he was too busy struggling with Torren to gather up the strength necessary to push the brawler aside and stagger out of the inn, back to where he belonged. Already, he could feel Torren's hiss in his throat. His head swung around, his eyes lifting to glare at his attacker. The tips of his fingers itched and the area just below his shoulder blades burned.

:Torren, NO:

But too far gone in bloodlust, the gryphon wouldn't listen. The man jerked as his collar was snatched and he was pulled forward to stare, transfixed, into the blue eyes of the young man who now had the upper hand over him. Deep blue eyes that faded, and then brightened into a fierce, golden hue.

Talons extended and four deep marks were slashed into the man's face, narrowly missing his left eye. Patrons shouted in alarm as the man was lifted and thrown crashing through one of the tables. They watched, hardly daring to move, as the now feral young man leapt down on top of his prey. His lip curled back as he looked down at his erstwhile attacker, and he lifted his arm, talons curved. His hair, now dark brown and shaggy, textured almost like feathers, fell around his face. Then his expression grew composed and genteel. He lowered his arm and swiveled around.

Torren stalked out of the inn, barely slowing down as he pressed additional coins into the tavern girl's limp hands. Once out of the inn, he ran down the road until he came to the wooded area marking the edge of the village. There, he allowed the rest of the change to come.

:Rrrigan:

:Yes, Torren: The tone was resigned.

:I—I am sorry.:

Another sigh. :I know. I know how you feel before you do something, understand? I know before we do something. And, Torren…:

Torren gave his wings a shake and started to run through the clearing, gathering speed as he went. :Yesss:

:You no longer owe me for changing on you in mid-flight.:

They both laughed as Torren's hind foot left the ground, his wings spreading in flight.

And, of them all, this laugh was the bitterest.

o.o.o.o.o

"Get out of my way, you little snot!" Akakios shoved the Third-former away.

"Akakios!" The young mage inwardly groaned. Ciryl, while not a bully like Akakios, was also a slacker and one of the students least beloved by the teachers. And it looked like he was becoming a bit too familiar, again. Akakios sighed. It seemed like he was going to have to grind his fellow Fifth-former's head into the cobblestones again.

"Hey, Aki, I—erp!" Ciryl yelped as Akakios dragged him forward by his lapels. "I-I was only just coming to tell you that-that-that—"

"What, Ciryl?"

"P-p-perrey…"

"What about Perrey?" That name sounded familiar. A teacher? He didn't usually bother to remember most of their names.

"Th-they say that the Healers think he'll be fine. Just needs a week or so to make sure the bones heal fine and…" Akakios remembered Perrey now. He, along with his group of bullies, had tried to gang up on Akakios after classes. Just a week at the House of Healing? He must have a stronger constitution than I thought.

"B-but that's not all. You s-s-see—"

"Spit it out!"

"J-just that the headmaster's watching you. Something about you pulling up your marks on the next examinations or he'll throw you out to the Temple schools, no matter who your aunt is."

Akakios tried not to roll his eyes. It was the same thing, all over again. Nothing ever came of it. He ignored the comment about his aunt; they were all but strangers, anyway.

"He-he said that you got an eight on your last mathematics exam!"

"And your point being…?"

"That's out of a hundred!"

It occurred to Akakios that he was doing much more complex equations in his magical studies than anything presented on those exams. He mentally shrugged his shoulders. He certainly didn't care about school.

"He means it this time, Akakios. He really hates you!"

"Well, thank you so very much for your concern, Ciryl," he drawled. He let go of the boy's lapels, and sent him sprawling into the dirt for good measure. "I'll keep it in mind."

Akakios strolled off through the Merchant School's entrance and down the hall toward the east wing, supposedly renovated centuries ago after a fire ripped through it—he'd been uninterested in the prestigious institution's history until he'd heard the rumors about its supposedly unsavory first years. Too bad you couldn't get away with what you could in those days, though Perrey's gang was coming awfully close to it. He walked down the hall, ignoring the cowers of the students and the looks of disapproval directed at him by the instructors. He was too preoccupied to acknowledge them, his mind occupied with thoughts of his magical training.

His master was hiding something. Akakios couldn't put his finger on it. He'd been working so hard completing the exercises he was given, especially since he had discovered the nodes. One raven lock fell down over his brow, obscuring his vision, and Akakios brushed it back. Then he blinked. Was his hair turning white? He relaxed. It was only a few strands. But it was a reminder of yesterday. Throwing his books aside, he had spent the afternoon and evening in his room, touching the ley-lines that ran parallel to the city, weaving the strands together into a spell. And now that he could touch the nodes that were only beginning to reform after the Mage Storms…

Those were the only times he felt at peace.

But the Blood-Adept was still hiding something. Akakios looked down at his wrist where a freshly-healed scar was hidden under his sleeve. Several weeks had passed since he'd actually started working blood-magic, using his own blood. His teacher had explained that it was best to first draw on one's own darker power through the blood, then eventually learn how to steal it along with other dark energies from the living, and to meld that power with that of the nodes, ley-lines and the lesser magics. A sort of cross between the Life-path and the Blood-path was what he was learning. His master had let it slip that those who deviated toward the Blood-path rarely continued their education in the ways of life-path magic, so seduced they were by the new source of easily-gained power. "Fools," the man had declared just the other day. "Impatient with the lust for power, and easily defeated by those better-educated life-pathers. They don't realize that the magic, whether from blood or the leylines, is just a tool, a way to gain more power. And that is why you must be patient, Akakios; one lesson to be mastered at a time." An enigma his master was, to be certain.

Akakios like the power; he liked the way it made him feel. Of course, it had to be the gaining of power he enjoyed; not the craft. That's all he wanted. He certainly wasn't interested in the artistry of the magic, he told himself. Not him.

Even though he enjoyed playing with his shields, constantly reforming and improving them. Even though he liked modifying the spells, surprising his teacher with his innovations. Even though he often wondered if he could invent his own spells.

It had been four years since he'd met his teacher, an immigrant from the east, but it was only recently that he'd been possessed by this need to innovate, to create. He didn't understand it.

Reflexively, he glared at a First-former, causing the child to cower.

He just needed to spread his wings a little. I guess I'll just pilfer one of the Mage's books. He won't mind. And if he does; oh, well.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.

A/N: Here's a little bit of interesting trivia. When I first came up with these characters, way back when, Torren was originally called Toreth. Then some time later I read the recently-released "Joust." And promptly went "Crap! Now I'll have to change his name." But now that I'm (hopefully) motivated to devote the time necessary to work on this fic, I'll be able to finish it before anything else forces me to change other aspects of this story. At least I know that one direction I'm aiming toward is something Lackey said she would never write about (and if you know what I'm talking about, please don't spoil it for the other readers!). But then again, people do change their minds. :-P