Treat with Kindness
Author's Notes: Set in Enchanter's End Game and somewhat like the first chapter, Zakath is a bit of a bastard in this one. Actually quite a lot, so be wary and be aware that there are some implications that are rather, ah, heartless and/or mature audiences only. On the other hand, Durnik rather strong-minded and pessimestic about things, in general, so one could just see it as paranoia. Really.
Disclaimer: The Belgariad/Mallorean and it's characters/locations do not belong to me. The quote that Durnik mangles also is based on a much better mind that I currently have.
"You can easily judge the character of others by how they treat those who can do nothing for them or to them." Malcolm Forbes
The light is dim and the tent seems even more gloomier than before.
It is night outside and a tent does not allow fireplaces that always, somehow, manage to brighten the corners of the room in a way candles never do. A dark haired woman, her hair trailing around her remarkable face, stands to one side of a certain tent, away from two sleeping child-like figures, although only one could truly be considered a child, the other almost half-way grown. Pure stubbornness keeps her on her feet, though she is aware, almost uncomfortably, that it is not a steady foundation; that she is terribly, for the first time in such a long time, weak. She dismisses her thoughts. She must not doubt herself, must not show the fear that gnaws deep in her soul, a strong and insidious vine that could easily take control if she gave up even the smallest inch of ground.
The man next to her gives a small, unwanted gasp as she probes her fingers too strongly over his strong jaw. A faint frown on an otherwise calm mien and the briefest darkening of azure eyes show her deeper emotions to his trials while her face is a mask of studied concentration and indifference.
For the most part she is partly annoyed at Durnik for getting hurt in the first place and mostly annoyed at the soldiers for hurting him in such a rough manner that was not entirely called for. There is also something other than irritation, some other deeper emotion that swells up at the sight at the impressively black and blue bruises rising up around his jaw and abdomen. It is an emotion she shies away from because she is afraid of it, because she had it once and lost it, because she doesn't know what it might do to her if she acknowledges it.
"Some rest is the best action, there doesn't seem to be anything broken, eventually the swelling will go down. If we had some ice it would go faster but I don't think there will be any permanent damage," Polgara says at last, wishing just for a little bit more energy to heal the bruises and can't summon even that much of a spark. It makes her feel oddly helpless.
Durnik grunts agreeably as he pulls his tunic on, covering his muscular chest, a benefit from his line of work. His large calloused fingers, a flaw from that same work, skim over the cotton fibers, as if they are trying to imagine something else underneath them before they drop to his side.
Polgara watches the tanned skin disappear dispassionately, "You know, you wouldn't have had any pain if you had just agreed to go with them in the first place."
"You know I couldn't do that Mistress Pol," his voice is professionally mild but there is a catch to it, "Unlike you, I don't put my entire trust in the prophecies. Besides I couldn't just let them take Errand, Ce'Nedra and….and, I mean, just Errand and Ce'Nedra."
She pauses at his slip, as if he was about to say something else but then decided against it.
His eyes are nearly black, but it must be from the little light because she can't think of any other reason why they are nearly obsidian bright. She can't think that there is some other reason for it. She just can't, not with The Battle coming so soon.
He brings up a hand to her face, touching ever so gently that she leans into it slightly without being totally aware of her actions, "You're very pale."
Her legs can't hold her up for much longer and she wants to believe it's just from her weariness. When she speaks, it comes out whispery, "I need…to rest, for a while."
Understanding is in his eyes. Reluctantly it seems to her, though that might just be her fatigued imagination, he brings his hand away, "I think we both need to sleep."
"Just remember to take the medicine and don't do anything strenuous for a while until the bruises heal completely," she scolds as she turns to the bed, missing the indulgent smile on his face.
When she turns back, he looks earnestly at her, the fairly silly grin on his face wiped clean, "I will."
His reward is one of the most beautiful sites in the world, in his humble opinion of course. Polgara, the Sorceress, the daughter of Belgarath, beloved of the god Aldur, smiles. Her eyes, an almost dark maroon color make her entire face light up from within. A slight shine of white teeth can be seen peeking from soft, smiling lips, making her look young and innocent. She is beautiful. And it's not just her smile, but the way she is looking at him while she is doing at, as if it is a personal gift only to him. A thought he holds on to, no matter how false it might be. It is not just because she is physically flawless, but there is something in her smile, in her bright eyes, in the light that is around her entire body. Something great and terrible that makes his heart squeeze and the world tremble and he can't breathe. Then the smile wavers into an exhausted frown. The dark rings around her eyes seem even worse than a few minutes ago, and there are lines where there shouldn't, a weariness that weighs her entire body down that no one deserves to shoulder.
She curls into the cot that awaits her, though collapses is a better word, hugging herself into a tight ball. Almost instantly, her breath slows and becomes deeper. She has fallen asleep.
Durnik turns away abruptly, making his own way to his bed. He ought to figure out a way to escape, or some plan to keep them all safe. That is what he plans on doing as he crawls into his pallet, the child Errand only a few feet away, Ce'Nedra's copper curls near Polgara. But as he drifts to sleep, almost against his will, Polgara's beautiful smile is locked in his mind, playing over and over again.
A soft throat clearing brings his thoughts into consciousness and a loud voice asking for his attention jerks it away from dreamland. The tent is practically pitch-black but someone is caring a lantern that brightens the shadows around him. He quickly moves up, "Is something wrong? Are we moving?"
The Mallorean soldier closest to his feet responds with another loud throat clearing, "Goodman Durnik, the Emperor, Kal 'Zakath, requests your presence for some conversation."
He mispronounces his name and his accent confuses the message, but Durnik understands the gist of it quickly enough. He frowns, "Can you tell the Emperor that I refuse his request? It's the middle of night and some people would like to sleep."
"Kal 'Zakath would be highly disappointed."
Durnik wants to say just what the Emperor 'Zakath could do with his disappointment but then a second soldier moved over to peer at Errand's curled form. The retort dies on his lips as reality, along with certain facts, reasserted themselves in his mind. If he was by himself, he would have fought the soldiers and done everything in his power to make their lives miserable. But he is not by himself. There are others around him that he needed to put first, who would suffer if he tried to a noble martyr. Dear companions who could be easily, horribly hurt. He refuses to think specifically of the smile that still plays on his mind.
"Give me a moment to get dressed."
He feels grumpy and short-tempered when he appears in front of 'Zakath. While a part of him is impressed with the cordialness of his soldiers and the elegance of 'Zakath's pavilion, as impressive as the first time he laid eyes on it, he is too worried to care. 'Zakath has a reason to talk to him. A reason Durnik thought about as he dressed and most of the reasons he could think of were not cheering in the slightest.
The soldiers around him bow as they come into the Emperor's presence. Durnik follows jerkily.
He does not like royalty, does not feel comfortable around them. All that wealth and power and attitude that those of high, "noble" birth contain set him on edge, uncertain of his own status, of his own self-worth. He tries not to think about a pair of bright blue eyes and dark, dark hair and what he represents to her.
"Ah, Goodman, I'm glad you decided to come," 'Zakath greets him, "Please sit. The rest of you, leave us for the moment."
Durnik sits in one of the inlaid chairs, delightfully comfortable and cushy. It is, he would guess if he had a desire to think so, supposed to set him on ease. Instead it makes him feel worse. All this elegance, this beauty and comfort, reminds him that he did not grow up in this sort of atmosphere, around these sorts of things.
He refuses, though, to play the game of intimidation. He will not be ashamed of what he is. An honest blacksmith and that was not something he would ever be ashamed of.
'Zakath is looking at him with his usual dead expression, as if something in him is broken, "Would you like something to eat or drink?"
"No, thank you. I'm not thirsty."
"I have a nice red wine."
"It's rather late."
He appears to be surprised by that observation, "Why, yes. I suppose it is. I had forgotten."
Durnik can't resist raising his eyebrows but he refrains from commenting, barely, "May I ask why you got me out of my bed?"
"Can't an emperor ask a guest his company any time?"
"This hardly," he thinks about his choice of his words and decides to throw caution to the wind, "a decent hour for men to keep."
"Are you calling me indecent?" there is amusement in 'Zakath's voice, though his eyes barely flicker.
'And if I am?' he wants to say. He wants to go up to the Emperor and demand, demand, that his friends be set free. There is even a small part that wants to punch him in the face to show he felt about the situation, about being trapped and caught, about Polgara looking half-dead, about a whole mess that he should have considered. What he does, instead because his good manners rule him over everything else, is give a tight grin back, "You do have to agree that is rather late even under polite circumstances."
"I don't usually notice," the amusement in his tone grows.
Durnik resists, again, the temptation to smack him in the face.
The Emperor looks like he is about to retort, something biting, cold and calculating. It is clearly on the tip of his tongue to say something that 'Zakath knows will put Durnik in his place. Something unkind about servants and their betters.
A servant suddenly appears in the corner of the Emperor' eye before he can use his cutting reply, bring about a quick demoralizing strike. He turns to stare at the servant, a very young Dalasian, the threat of death upon his lips. He does not like interruptions.
Durnik follows the gaze to an uncertain, fearful servant.
The servant's slanted brown eyes dart from Durnik to 'Zakath, back and forth, as he speaks, "Your general has found a prisoner your Majesty. He's a Murgo."
"Bring him in."
He gulps visibly, his prominent Adam's apple bobs. Durnik starts feeling uneasy, wondering if he had been set up for something, but the servant appears too nervous. He looks young, as young as Garion. Something stabs in his heart thinking about Garion and he tries to suppress it, concentrating on the servant's hands as they clench and unclench in nervousness. Dancer's hands, fragile and slender, not yet seen a day's hard work. Elegant hands for gentleman. Not like his hands, rough and worn from smithing, metal is unforgiving. Not like the Emperor's hands, carefully manicured and clean, carefully inspected and tended by servants, gentleman's hands.
"As you wish sire," he bows and scrapes, almost licking the floor, before leaving.
Neither Durnik nor 'Zakath continue their conversation, keeping to their own thoughts, until the soldiers can be heard. Their armor clinks and clanks as they move closer to the tent. It makes Durnik wince a little, making him jar his teeth. His jaw aches as the noise gets louder, although it might just be his eardrums.
He looks darkly at the column of Malloreans, wondering if they were ones that hit him. Their faces don't look familiar, dark-haired and lean, but he doesn't have a clear memory of what those that hit him looked like in the first place.
They make a five star form, on in front, two to the side of the prisoner and two in back of him. They tower over the prisoner in the middle, close enough to thwart a good look at his face. Durnik can only see small feet in worn sandals.
"Kal 'Zakath," the leading officer rumbles in his accented voice, "we found this soldier trying to get through the lines."
Surreptitiously, he catches 'Zakath's expression shift briefly, the first sign of emotion he had shown since he had been bought in front of him. It is not a comforting facial change.
The officer moves aside to reveal the prisoner.
Durnik is captivated by the sight before him. He is a bedraggled looking youth, dirty and bloody. His dark hair is unkempt, and, for a Murgo, he looks scrawny and under-fed. The clothes that hang on him are tattered, frayed around the edges as if they had been sewed once too often, an occasional odd-colored thread appearing next to the dusty gray of his tunic and rust-colored pants far too short for him.
He is also very young. The scars on his face are barely scabbed over; they seem to flare in the light painfully. Whatever arrogance that seemed to be inbred in all Murgos has dissipated into a sort of pathetic sullenness that is almost as frayed as his clothes. Durnik is strongly reminded of Garion at that age, when they had been wandering around searching for the Orb, when their lives had taken a sudden drop out of normalcy. For at that age, he had been sullen and uncertain of his place in life, caught in a position where he was overwhelmed by a power he had not understanding, could not control. It was the time when Durnik was just beginning to realize how far he had traveled and how high those he was traveling witgh.
"Well, Murgo? What shall we do with you?" 'Zakath speaks softly, as if they are having a pleasant conversation over what wine they should drink at dinner. But even Durnik, in his short time in his Majesty's presence, knows that there is a threat of the unspeakable in his mild, disturbing mild, tones.
The Murgo, the boy really, zooms in at him sharply. Everyone in the tent can see him gulp visibly, as realization sets in and he begins to tremble. He manages to control himself but only by the barest of margins, as he instantly lowers his eyes, clenching his manacled hands that shook hard enough to cause the metal to rattle.
"Tell me, Murgo. Do you know what the penalty is for a Mallorean to find a Murgo wandering around the Emperor's tents?" he pauses, "It is death."
The boy jerks at that, staring frozenly at him. His brown eyes widen almost comically. Durnik does not laugh.
"The question is, what should I do with you?" ''Zakath muses, "I could crucify you, but there aren't any trees nearby. I could have you beheaded but that always leaves too much blood on the floor and stains in the carpet. Perhaps I can just have you whipped down to the very inch of your life then toss you to your savage king, so that he might give you his blessing before death and into the afterlife. Which one would you like?"
The boy darts his eyes around, seeking an escape. Whatever courage that had managed to keep him standing has left him by the cold implacability of his fate and he struggles uselessly in the iron grip of the soldiers on his arms, muttering something under his breath. It could be prayer or a plea, or he could just be begging for mercy.
It makes Durnik sick in his stomach.
"Ah but you still like to live, don't you? Still believe in the hope that life brings, that in the end I will be bought to justice for the cruelty you have suffered," ''Zakath's smile is quite cold, "you're wrong. There will be no sentencing for me, only you, and in the end, everyone dies, now or later. And by the time I die, you'll have been a rotten corpse that will now longer care if I have died well or painfully. There is no justice in the world, only power and its high time you were taught that."
The boy quivers beneath his words and his harsh view of reality, close to breaking down into tears.
"I am going to leave," Durnik says suddenly, rudely.
He hasn't the desire, or the heart (and quite frankly, he knows he'd fight even when he's too sore and too limited to do anything more than make a fuss) to see atrocities happen before his eyes just for the Emperor's pleasure. He will not watch a boy break in front of his eyes. He refuses to watch helplessly. It is not good manners, any part of what's before him.
"I have not asked you to be dismissed, Goodman."
Two of the guards shift over to him but he doesn't move another step. The same whispery mildness is back, the ice disappearing into blandness. It sends shivers down his spine. He turns around abruptly, knowing this is a game. A game he finds sickening. "I refuse to stay here and watch you amuse yourself with this child, your Majesty. It's indecent."
"This is twice now you have called me indecent in a roundabout way, Goodman," he seems to consider, "perhaps you should be the one who gets to decide this Murgo's fate instead."
Durnik stares at him, unable to comprehend the burden that has been placed on him.
'Zakath grins at him that has no amusement in it, "Certainly a decent man like yourself can choose the cleanest death, for all Murgos found by Malloreans have to die. It is war after all."
Durnik looks at the boy, silent but close to bursting. He is looking back and forth between them, not sure of the game going on before, only knowing his small and meaningless life is on the line. It makes him sad rather then angry at the boy's ignorance.
"Certainly you will not show mercy to a Murgo. All people in the West hate Murgos, especially those closest to the Alorns. Was it not the Murgos that hurt you and your friends? When they hunted you down like animals? What right do they have to be treated as human beings when they don't even treat others as humans? There is not a decent one among them and you know it. You know there is nothing good about them, nothing that can be redeemed. What should one more death be one your hands?"
'Zakath's quiet voice made its way insidiously into his brain. He struggles against the dark thoughts, the obvious stank of bitterness and anger, trying to rise above it. He searches for some way to get out of the choice before him, to leave before someone is irretrievably harmed, not just himself but for the boy as well. Polgara would never be able to look at him again, knowing he had caused the death of a child. Even if it was a Murgo. Even if it was part of a race of men he had killed, watched die in horrible ways, killed with his own hands knowing they would kill him in return.
This sullen, shivering thing before him, though, is barely a Murgo, barely a man. Even if he was a man, Durnik can not judge a man's fate. Not in front of 'Zakath anyway. May the Gods forgive him for his choice.
"I do not want him to die. He is the same age of a young man I know, one very close to me and maybe he is a Murgo and has killed many people, some of my own relatives even, or will go on to kill them, but I can not be the judge of that. I am no god to say future actions dictate a person's death."
"I see," 'Zakath looks at him with enigmatic eyes, dark and gloomy, "Captain Belare, take the prisoner to the soldier's tents for imprisonment, there might be a ransom for him. If none comes, put him to work."
"Yes your Majesty."
They drag him away. The boy looks back. Durik wonders if in the end, death would have been a kinder fate than slavery, but he closes his mind to any further thought on the matter. He lets out a breath he did not he had been holding, half-wondering if 'Zakath was going to go back on his word until the child had completely left his sight.
"I presume you were talking about Belgarion when you meant a young man. Is he truly that young?" 'Zakath questions as if they had not been interrupted.
Durnik is learning, painfully, but learning all the same about how the Emperor of Boundless Mallorea thinks. He allows himself to be distracted by the query.
Garion. He is reminded of Garion, something he had been trying hard not think about, trying not to think about the danger the boy who asked inquisitive questions, moving toward the forge a little too closely. But the Murgo, this whole conversation, has bought it all back.
"Tell me what is he like?"
So quiet is the Mallorean's voice, so easy is the question. What is he to say? Garion is sandy-haired almost man with a dark-haired guardian, not his mother or close relative, but with an expression on her face that would put the love of any mother to shame. It hurts him somewhere inside that he will never see that gentle smile, he can't have it, he doesn't deserve it.
'Zakath takes his silence as fear or sullenness, it doesn't matter which, and impatience creeps into his voice, "Well? You've declared yourself to be impulsive and blunt enough, what can you say about Belgarion, Overlord of the West? Certainly you can say something about him after all this time."
"He is a young man, and will grow-might grow up into a good man," if he grows up, if he survives Torak, if survives fighting against a God, "he's brash but he's got a good heart and good manners too."
'Zakath lowers his eyebrows at the obvious snub, "Do you think he will live?"
Durnik can't resist flinching at his tone. Since he had heard about the note, a note that even made him afraid of Polgara's temper, and understood the relevance, he has tried to remain optimistic. Truly he had tried, or at least striven not to think about the fact that Garion was going to fight someone invulnerable, invincible, a god.
"I have to believe he will."
"But do you honestly think he will? He is going up against a god after all?" 'Zakath does not wait for a reply before continuing, "All my Grolims have assured me that it is impossible for a young man, practically a child like the sniveling coward before us earlier, to defeat Kal Torak."
"What would you like me to respond to that? That I want to see my closest friend die, slowly and painfully, only because he was destined to fight in an impossible task? To hell with your Grolims," he sputters out and then quickly looks down. He didn't quite mean to go that far and was surprised at the anger that question aroused.
'Zakath does not take obvious offense. He does not care either way about Grolims, they are power hungry men, just like all men. Grolims, despite their mysticism, he understands, just like he understands his soldiers and his court of fools that dance and pretend to be important with their gowns and frippery.
The fire from the candles flicker in his dark orbs that are his eyes for a moment, the only thing that is bright in his soul and body.
"I see. Tell me about yourself Goodman."
"I'm a blacksmith," he responds after a moment, trying to search for any hidden reason behind the sudden change in conversation. Not that it's likely he would find it. "Or, at least, I was."
"Was?"
"I do whatever Lady Polgara asks me to do."
"I see."
Durnik highly doubts that.
The silence fills up the room as 'Zakath ponders the information. Durnik could fill it, but he really doesn't want to. What he wants it to be away from this man who hid his insanity in a cloak of civility, wearing a mantle of ice and indifference that bothered him far more than any brutality 'Zakath has shown.
"You have traveled with her for a very long time, haven't you?"
"Aye."
"She's quite a character isn't she?"
Something inside Durnik is screaming at his tone, on what exactly he means to say, and he can't seem to get it to shut up. He is afraid and angry and mixed up. And 'Zakath keeps looking at him with dead eyes that don't understand anything he is going through, not in the vaguest sense because he doesn't even know what's going on. And the boy's terrified eyes keep playing in front of him, a constant remainder and now they're talking about Polgara after Garion. This game is too complicated and he feels that he has failed thrice over.
"What do you want your Majesty? You woke me in the middle of the night to talk about Lady Polgara. Fine, I don't care. She is the most magnificent, beautiful, powerful and frightening person you will ever meet. Happy? Have I amused you enough by my honest and decent reactions to what has happened today?"
'Zakath says as he pauses for a deep breath, "Are all men like you?"
"Eh?"
"All men, all commoners," he waves his hand, "like you. Blunt and without any care that I could probably kill you in less than a heartbeat."
"I'm not worried about my death."
There is a sudden heavy silence in the room that makes Durnik almost wish to leave. Almost wish him to fill it up with something. But he, damn the seven gods and the Prophecies, has some pride left. Not a great deal, but enough not to back break eye-contact with the man in front of him, not to fill the silence with pointless words and not move to show his uneasiness.
It is 'Zakath who finally breaks the impasse, "Is that what you're worried about?"
He has a sudden desire to have some of that wine 'Zakath had offered earlier, something to swallow down his growing fear that makes his throat dry, his heart pump at the familiar mildness. "Should I not? We came here under…unusual circumstances and well-,"
"And there are two beautiful women and a boy feminine enough to be overlooked as being male, captured by a savage group of soldiers that could easily use these "unusual circumstances" to their advantage."
"Perhaps not so bluntly," he says after a pause.
"I don't suppose there is anything I can do or say that would make you feel any better?"
"No."
The Emperor blinks, clearly taken aback by his blunt answer.
Durnik doesn't regret it, not after the Murgo incident, not after having to deal with being reminded of Garion's imperilment, of his own inadequacy. He leans into the Emperor's face, on the edge of fine seat that someone better would have enjoyed, "And if you were in my shoes, you wouldn't either. Don't you dare try to reassure me. My loved ones are in danger and nothing you say will make me feel any better."
"I see," his eyes reflect something almost uncertain then they gleam almost brightly, "You know, it is always in an Emperor's best interest to be polite to prisoners."
"Prisoners," he tastes the word and finds it foul, "we are prisoners more than anything else, aren't we?"
"Pawns," 'Zakath corrects, "more pawns than prisoners if you must know."
"Perhaps," Durnik rises, "If you'll excuse me, your Majesty. It is getting late and I should get some rest. Unless there is something else you would like to me about? Anything at all, just ask and I shall try to be as blunt and common as possible."
"Later, perhaps. You are dismissed," he waves his hand magnanimously.
Durnik does not wait a second before he is up and leaving.
'Zakath gives one last repartee as he opens the tent flap, "I will be asking Ce'Nedra to talk to me. I find the conversations with commoners a trifle to blunt for me to be able to handle at such dark hours."
It is a dig at Durnik. If he had been a lesser man, he would have turned around and socked him in the face. Something he had wanted to do since he had woken up in the middle of this dreadful night. His body already reacts to the hidden taunt, tensing up and automatically straightening his shoulder. With a great deal of patience, he lets out his breath and relaxes those muscles that know how to deal with bullies as intimately as they know how to deal with metal, "There is a saying in Sendaria, your Majesty. You can know a great deal about a man by what he does, not to his friends, but to his enemies."
He turns to him, eying the dark-haired man. Yes, he is a commoner, a simple blacksmith, and hopeless fool in love with the most impossible, unreachable figure but he is unwilling to bend or break because of what he is.
'Zakath looks at him and feels a tremor of something and can't describe it exactly. There is something in his eyes, something bright and gleaming almost familiar in his brown orbs. He stands unbroken, unbent.
'Zakath knows he is in love, in love in a position even worse than himself. At least he had her once, a long time ago. Unlike the Goodman who continues to look upon the face of his beloved and, like the stars, be unable to touch her. If he had any pity left in him, he would pity the Goodman. But like most of his other emotions, they have been frozen like the rest of his soul. There are no cracks in his armored soul and he will allow no one to touch it.
"So it is said in Sendaria. Good night Goodman."
"Goodnight, your Majesty."
Polgara comes to his side instantly when he returns to the tent he shared with her and Errand and Ce'Nedra. How she knew he was gone and when he had come back, he felt it best not to ask and does not. They hold each other briefly, almost acknowledging something that has been in front of them for such a long time. Then Polgara slips away, "Are you all right?"
She still looks too fragile, though she must have gotten some sleep for the circles had faded slightly. Durnik wants to touch her, have something that will take this unclean feeling away from him, "I just talked with ''Zakath. He has requested Ce'Nedra's audience for the rest of our imprisonment."
Her eyes darken to a steely gray, "I will not allow-,"
"It's alright. She won't be hurt," at what price he still can not say.
She looks at him, searching for something. True she is no mind reader, finding the nuances of people's thoughts is not quite in her grasp, though it is not too far above a step she could do. She resists the urge to see what troubles his mind, makes him furrow his brow, and slump his shoulders from a weight she can not see.
"You need to rest," she says at last, unable to say more without more knowledge. Open up to me, she pleads and does not want him to. For she would have to do the same in turn and she can't, not yet. Not while the shadow of a dark beau hangs in the air, the unwanted attentions of a god that she might marry to.
"As do you," he does not hear her inner pleas. He sighs instead and touches his temple as if a headache was building up there, "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."
She shuffles to her own cot, feeling much wearier than before. Yet she can not help but remember the cozy embrace she had been in, the strong arms wrapped around for just a minute. Maybe, just maybe, she could imagine those arms around her for just a little longer as she drifts into slumber.
Next: two sorcereres compare nightmares.