Madmartigan was cold, which he wasn't fond of; and now that Willow had accused him of spouting poetry and confessing his love to Sorsha, of all people, he was also confused, which was even worse than the cold.
"'I love you, Sorsha'?" he repeated incredulously. "I don't love her, she kicked me in the face! I hate her!" The words felt...wrong. Like they came out of the past. Or like they were never true in the first place. "Don't I?"
The past half hour may have been a blur, but the cries announcing the riders from Nockmaar anchored him to the present, to what he didn't doubt was true: if they didn't find a place to hide, and soon, he and his small companions faced certain death.
Possibly at the hands of Bavmorda's warrior princess daughter.
Her hands...hm...
They were remarkably smooth and unscathed, for the hands of a warrior, he had the chance to observe not long afterwards. He stared intently at Sorsha through the slats separating the cellar from the room above. Nobody could deny she was beautiful. He caressed his face, where she had kicked him. It didn't even hurt anymore, really, and what was wrong with him?
What did it matter that she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, and probably the only one he'd ever met who wouldn't cower behind him for protection? She was an enemy. Whether or not he had previously or did currently hate her, he had no doubt of her hatred for him.
So when Airk handed him the knife, and Sorsha came down the stairs with her blade stretched in front of her, Madmartigan had no qualms about taking her hostage.
He only wished he had some sort of plan beyond that. It would have been fine if he were only trying to get himself out of this mess, but he'd never been good with groups. Not much of a point to them; under the ever-growing rule of Bavmorda, the best would disappear on you, and the worst...well. He knew better than most what the worst would do.
Hunkered down below the cottage window, keeping an eye on Sorsha while trying not to keep an eye on Sorsha, he risked a glance around. Airk, stern and earnest as usual. Willow, trying to quiet the baby. Toss in a pair of brownies and a squirrel or a crow or whatever Raziel was going to be next, and they weren't even a group, they were a circus act.
He shook himself mentally. Airk was addressing him, mid-argument with Willow over how hopeless their cause was.
"You always told me you served no one, Madmartigan," Airk said, voice dripping with bitterness. "Since when are you a crusader?"
Strange, feeling insulted over something he would have been proud about years ago. Or just last week.
"He's not gonna help you, peck. He's a worthless thief."
Madmartigan protested the designation. After all, being a thief required a level of planning and professionalism. Small liftings here and there where the need was high and the opportunity right at hand could barely qualify one for the term.
"He's not a thief!" Willow asserted, and Madmartigan was instantly sure that he had been, no more or less than a petty one. "Are you?" the Nelwyn asked, reading his companion's mood, seeing through the bravado as he had from that first meeting at the crossroads.
Not in all the years since letting Airk down had the swordsman held the power to disappoint anyone. He looked to Sorsha, and was astonished to find that she, like Willow, hoped he was more than what he had just been named.
He was even more astonished to realize that he hadn't given up on himself, either.
He drew to his feet, pulling Sorsha with him.
"I serve the Nelwyn, Airk." The one whose heart was twice as big as anybody else's, who could look past a wreck of a man to who he could be.
His friend.
Maybe it was a fool's errand, but he would rather die serving such a man than live serving only himself.
Suddenly, Madmartigan had a plan.