Legend of Ransera

Aurin accepted the mouth-to-mouth touch, then nodded his acceptance of Torin's thanks. He laughed carefully, though.

"You sound like a serial killer," he said of Torin's knowledge about bloodstains. He got up. Part of him wanted a drink, but he knew thinner blood meant more bleeding and wouldn't actually help with the pain. There was some willow bark to put in his tea, but it was fine. He was fine. Shuffling over toward the door again, he didn't have his normal feral grace. He didn't want to pull at the stitches, and while he didn't fear pain, he didn't want any more of it than was his due.

He picked up his boots and carried them over to Torin. The left one was only mildly splattered with dry blood, but the toe and top of the right one were crusted with the stuff.

"If you're determined to be useful. Just watch out for the slots in the toe. That's where the blades are hidden." Another hidden blade came from somewhere on his person. This was clean, so he just set it on the table. "He won't be coming for anyone ever again. Best never to turn your back on an enemy, or leave them alive to cause further mischief." There was no passion in his words, merely weariness. He made his choices, did what must be done, and paid the consequences. While Torin busied himself in service, Aurin poured two mugs of tea and ate something. He didn't offer food to Torin, though he did set the second mug beside him. He had already told him to eat whatever he found if he was hungry. It was only ever a matter of walking over to the Cabaret to raid the stores to replenish his own.

He glanced across the room to where his washing water waited in its ewer. He glanced across the room to his bed, where he really wanted to be. But both required too much energy at the moment so he just leaned against the mantle, letting the heat of the hearth seep into him. Watching Torin work, he didn't say anything for a while.

"Sure, kid," he said, almost started by the question after the silence had stretched out. Rarely on what most would consider a normal sleep schedule, he was still weary for being out all night. There had been physical hardship and mental, as well. He realized, though, that if Torin hadn't been there, he would have washed and laid down by now. It was enough of a step allowing someone else to be there while he licked his wounds and recovered from a perilous night. Part of him still didn't want Torin to see how tired he was, how troubled by a close call.

He would be fine on the morrow. At least, he would have wrapped the pain and fear up in something and locked it in some cupboard in his mind so it wouldn't affect him in his daily life. He finished the last of his tea and set the mug on the table, taking a seat while Torin kept busy, pulling off his socks and tossing them in the corner to be dealt with later.

Torin would be gone on the morrow. That is, if he stayed to tend to Aurin, as he was wont to do, he would still leave in the morning even if Aurin wanted him to stay. Not that Aurin wanted him to stay. Aurin didn't need anyone to stay. Torin had done enough already, proven a loyal follower. Best not to complicate things overmuch.

When Torin held out the washcloth, Aurin stared at it for a moment. Weariness was making him stupid. He got up, padded over with his chair in tow, and sat back down close to the washbasin and let him wipe off his face. Perhaps tonight there would be no proper whore's bath. He could be clean enough not to get blood or mud on his bedding, and he could have a proper bath at the Cabaret. He had a knack for timing it so the baths were empty when he went. If called out, he'd say he wouldn't want to tempt his coworkers into unprofessional lusts, but in reality, he kept something sharp nearby even when he was naked and alone.

Perhaps he ought to seek out another rune, one for hurting. A man had to be able to protect himself.

There was one knot that Torin inexpertly touched that caused him almost to whimper, though he choked it back before it was too obvious. Most of his scars were invisible. The intimacy of all this was not lost upon him, though it took a new aspect when Torin knelt and washed his feet. Poor bastard, he thought. Torin was already lost. He wanted to touch his wheat-blond hair, but he didn't. He wanted to touch his ruddy cheek, but he didn't. He wanted to tell him to stay, but he didn't.

He ought to have told him to leave, but he didn't. Torin laid it all out clearly, understanding but not at all.

"I'm so tired, Torin," he said, but even as he demurred, he stood up, thumbs hooking his trousers and tugging them down over his hips. "I won't be any entertainment for you." Leaning on the back of the chair, he carefully tugged on the hem of one trouser leg to start pulling it off. It wasn't anything Torin hadn't seen. It wasn't even sexual, though both his body and mind recognized that Torin was an attractive youth.

Aurin didn't tell him to stay, but he managed to get out of his trousers without tugging too much at his stitches, standing there so he could wash the rest of him. Because why not? It wasn't his fault Torin wasn't smart enough to stay away. He was nice to the kid, told him things he ought to know not to be taken advantage of by people. Fucking people. He didn't tell him to go, but he offered him a means to serve, which he realized was important to the young apprentice.

He was just giving him what he wanted, what he needed. If it helped Aurin get what he needed as well, was that a crime?

It was a strange tension. He was injured, but not critically so. The wound was sewn shut and bandaged. He could feel the bruising when he moved and he was certain it would be morbidly beautiful soon. He was exhausted, and that made it more difficult to keep the demons locked in their cages. He hated weakness, especially his own—perhaps only his own, and the hatred he projected on others was just that: projection. He didn't want to examine himself closely. He would rather bask in that unearned admiration and respect that were always there with Torin. If he was a bad man, at least he was good at it.

Clean enough, he went to sit down on his bed. His hand rested on the nape of Torin's neck as the young man bent to pick up the book he was reading, a treatise in the vein of classical realism. It would not give anyone warm feelings, though perhaps it would chill them, harden them to what the world was like.

"Stay if you like," he said as if it didn't matter to him. It was a luxury, though. He knew Torin would stay and he wouldn't have to ask him to stay. He knew that when he slept, he would feel ever so slightly more relaxed, his senses assuring him that someone trustworthy was on the watch. That locked doors, stone walls, and a burly man stood between him and the terrors outside. At least all he would have to contend with were the terrors inside, but Torin hadn't bothered him about his nightmares. Or perhaps he hadn't noticed. They didn't come every night, but they always could, just waiting for him to slip up, to get sloppy or complacent.

Aurin laid down on his side, pulling the linens up just far enough so they wouldn't get blood on them if he seeped through his bandage. He watched Torin, owl-like. He was starting to see faces in his aura, the flicker of emotions. The weight.

"You can grieve here," he said, words sharp as scalpels, though the sentiment was compassionate enough. Well, if Torin wept, he could weep for Aurin as well. "I won't judge you for it."

Aurin didn't reply with words, but he watched Torin's face contort with emotion. His own didn't change. He didn't offer a compassionate word or gesture; that would have weakened Torin's resolved, forced tears or rage when he wasn't ready for them. He would come to Aurin then, of course, bind himself more firmly to the man who witnessed his inner life. But Aurin could be patient as a spider was patient, feeling the smith's tentative steps upon his well-laid web.

As Torin read, he listened. It was not his first time with this long-form essay, but it was interesting to hear Torin's mind reacting to it with his virgin read. He watched the apprentice's aura flutter like a butterfly after pulling itself free from its chrysalis... He almost laughed at himself, thinking in such poetic terms while beginning to drowse. The book was a good distraction from grief, though; its author seemed devoid of emotion, viewing them merely as foibles to be exploited. It was the way of the world. To be sad about it changed nothing.

A little shiver brought to his attention that he was cold, at least where he was uncovered. A gentle hand touched his bandage and, finding no seepage, he risked pulling the covers up over his shoulder. Settling into his own heat, he let his hand fall upon Torin's knee and then let his eyelids droop. His conscience was not tortured for having killed a man. Had he not, the man would have killed him. Even disabled, he just would have come back later to try again. That was the way the world worked.

Torin was beautiful colors. For a sentient creature, his pattern was remarkably uncomplicated. It was not blank, not without the beauty that internal scars left on the soul, but there was a simplicity about him that was comforting. It was not an act; it was just who he was.