003: HORROR

"I'm not going back in," Corosa growled as the mastersmith yanked him closer by the collar of his shirt.

"I'd like to see you try to stop me," the man hissed back. "Last time I checked, I wasn't the one with a broken arm here."

Corosa slammed the fist of his good hand into the side of the mastersmith's head. The mastersmith did not let go but he did flinch, giving Corosa enough of an opportunity to yank himself away. The effort sent pain jolting back up his injured arm, though, and the mastersmith was back on him in a second.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded. "Do you want to be a crippled gunslinger for the rest of your life?"

"Rather that than go back in," Corosa said, helplessly, with no idea of how to explain. Fear was not something you could put into words.

"What, are the priests groping you or something?"

"It's not the priests." Corosa shook his head to get the rain out of his eyes. He was hooded and cloaked but it seemed like the oceans had decided to up and dump themselves upon Izlude today.

"What is it, then?" The mastersmith began to drag him back towards the city. Corosa swore at him and yanked himself away again, then collapsed against the nearest tree, teeth clenched in pain.

The other man made to come back after him, then stopped and hesitated. It was not obvious as to what he was looking at from under his hood. Not until he opened his mouth.

"You've fucking broke your arm all over again!"

Corosa winced. That wasn't quite true. He had been asleep the whole while, but he thought he hadn't been in Izlude for more than a day and a half. His arm hadn't had time to heal completely. He hadn't re-broken it, he'd simply made the initial injury worse.

The truth was not much better than the mastersmith's accusation.

"You seriously jumped out the damn window?"

Corosa nodded. It was not the smartest decision of his life but the doors had been blocked by the priests. They had not expected him to hurl himself down from two stories up.

"I thought that was just a fucking rumor! Shit, what sort of brainfart gave you that brilliant idea? I didn't drag your ass all the way out of the desert to let you commit suicide!"

Corosa tried to point out that he was still alive, but the pain stopped him from saying anything more.

The mastersmith swore loudly and ripped his cloak off his shoulders, throwing it over Corosa and dashing off back into Izlude before Corosa could do or say anything more.

The lightning had arrived by the time the mastersmith came back, half-leading and half-dragging a priest with him. If either of them said a word, Corosa did not hear. The thunder was too loud.

He watched in a daze as the priest knelt down and picked his arm up. The open wound had not closed; it never had. It had been in the process of closing, but Corosa had torn it open in his mad dash out of Izlude. The injury looked worse than it had on the day he'd first broken it. Far worse.

Judging by the way the priest's mouth was twisted downwards, it seemed as if there was not much to be done about it.

"We need to get you out of the rain," the priest said, giving Corosa a pointed look.

Corosa shook his head, panic rising again. He'd rather they amputate him than take him anywhere near Izlude again.

"You–" The mastersmith stopped himself, but that one word alone held a lifetime's worth of annoyance in it. In a calmer tone of voice he said, "I can set up a tent."

"No," Corosa said, hoarsely.

The mastersmith's patience snapped. He made a fist with one hand as if to hit something. "The hell is the matter with you? You–"

"Quiet. I need to concentrate," the priest said absent-mindedly, still inspecting Corosa's arm.

The mastersmith fell silent and walked away. Corosa could barely see his silhouette, even though he couldn't have been more than five yards away.

"I can't guarantee that you'll keep your arm," the priest said, after an agonizing silence.

"Do what you can." Corosa could deal with the consequences.

The priest gave him a clearly dubious look, but put his hands over the open wound all the same and began to pray, hands glowing. The pain started to fade almost immediately. Corosa gave the priest a closer look; he had had his fair share of dealings with priests, and few were as skillful as this one. But the man looked no different from anyone else.

Corosa heard the squelch of mud and looked up to see that the mastersmith was back.

For the first time, he could see the man's face clearly. Narrowed eyes. Brows knitted together. Mouth set in a scowl. Square jaw and scraggly beard. Blond-brown hair that looked like it had a life of its own.

Corosa nearly yanked himself away from the priest in his surprise. "You…"

"What?" the mastersmith asked, voice sour. "If I look like something right out of Glast Heim, it's because of the rain."

"No." Corosa reached up with his good hand, careful not to disturb the priest's work, and drew his own hood back.

The mastersmith dropped to his knees and almost shoved the priest out of the way in order to get a closer look.

"Fuck. That trip through the desert must've really screwed up my eyes. You. Priest-man." The mastersmith tapped the priest on the shoulder, heedless of the fact that he was still working his magic. The priest spared enough time to look over. His expression was strained.

"Look at us both and tell me what you see," the mastersmith said.

"Twins," the priest answered, and went back to work.

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AN: I swear to god that this is not and will never be incest, or twincest, or selfcest, or anything of the sort.

…Er.

It won't be incest or twincest, anyway.

Thanks for the reviews:D