A Tale of Two Mercenaries

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The female finds the fire captivating to her eyes, or maybe she does not wish to look her partner in the eye. She had seen the way he had not glanced at her initially, and she finds herself a foolish girl for dwelling on what his reason for that was. Instead, she thinks about the dragon. It will be her largest target to date, and Ranir had not asked for it to be slain. Only defeated.

Either way, it would prove to be a challenge.

Besides, Arean has a point. Maybe they could convince the dragon to relinquish the Betwixt on its own accord. Zaira doubts that, but it's a possibility, if almost impossible. She knows dragons are possessive creatures, particularly when it comes to shiny objects. While neither of them know how shiny the Betwixt is, Zaira guesses that if such a beast has acquired it, it must be special. A twang of sorrow hits her for the dragon's sake, for his kind do not exist anymore as far as anyone is aware. If they are forced to slay the dragon, they are ending the bestial race for good. Possibly for the better, she muses, as dragons were known to wreak havoc on towns and cities alike.

The thought makes her curl her ankles under her legs in a crossed position, realizing she is missing her bow. The weapon, light flickering along the silver of the frame, rests against the trunk of her sleeping tree, along with her arrows. Standing and turning in one fluid motion, Zaira retrieves the weapon and reclaims her spot.

Sparing another glance at Arean, she notices he doesn't seem to be in as much pain. Still, she doesn't feel right leaving him with the rest of the watch hours. Maybe it is her own slight fear for her safety or her concern for his fresh wound. Regardless of her reasons, she stands and binds the straps of her quiver over her shoulder. She holds the grip of her bow tightly before she turns away.

"You should rest," she says, though it is to the fire and not the knight beside her. "It will be easier to let the remedy do its work while you sleep. I do not mind continuing the watch." She does not say that she hardly slept, even if her break had been roughly a half hour.
 
"Dragons are smart animals and not easily tricked." Arean sighs, counting their odds and not finding the numbers agreeable. "But perhaps with just enough power, and I mean willpower, brainpower," he reflects, attempting to picture what they might be up against, "to kill this beast and ride away with our treasure."

The world around him fills back into his eyes, the fixated look upon the darkness of the trees fading with the flickering light of the flames. He hadn't even realized that his partner had removed herself from her seat to grab her bow. His eyes can't help but peek at her when her back is turned, the knight scolding himself for admiring such curves encased in the cured leather. Arean clears his throat, standing as soon as Zaria makes her way back and starts to strap her quiver to her shoulder. She might think him standing up in protest for his next words are ones that do not scold her but merely suggest what is on his mind. He cannot help but scan the leather plates that cover her body and contour neatly with indented lines for design.

Even if he wishes to comment on her armor, Arean keeps his mouth shut. More pressing matters have risen and he must address them before he allows her to make the mistake of taking his watch. He trusts in her ability to stay up and guard them but it isn't fair to have her only obtain a wink of sleep. He sighs deeply, standing as she does, ignoring her words completely. He reaches down for his shirt and pulls it over his wound, the knots of his muscles seen at the right angles when he moves. For a split moment, he hopes that she will look at him when he speaks to her so that he may have the satisfaction of a woman's gaze upon him once more.

"I insist that you move back to that tree and sleep your fill. May I remind you," his voice is not scolding or rough in any way but honest, "that it will be a fault of mine to sleep my pain away while you suffer through tomorrow's ride. For the sake of our mission, Zaria, I…" he takes a step closer without realizing it, forcing his hand at a dead stop from touching her shoulder, "would prefer that you sleep for the rest of my watch and I will wake you when it's time." Before she can protest, he takes his chances and rounds her, both hands gently resting against her biceps, his hold gentle but comfortably firm, "The only way that we are going to get through this is our ability to work as a team. I can't risk not having the hawk-like eyes of a huntress."

He is referring to her skills he has yet to see, of course. Whether she likes it or not, he reaches up when he compliments her, the side of his thumb running across a small fraction of her jaw. It's then that he smiles, the curiosity of his mind being filled for the time being. He has felt skin that has seen both weather and warfare but still manages to captivate him. But he turns before his mind can play more tricks on him. Arean knows that this strange tightness in his stomach, the tingle in his fingers, are only a physical attraction and nothing more. He cannot and will not act upon it. So he reserves himself to the fire, looking down at the fragments of armor sprawled on the uneven ground before attaching the cold steel to his frame once more.
 
Zaira has turned away but her head snaps back as she hears the rustle of clothing when Arean stands. However, his chest is bare, and her shorter height makes it so her gaze falls onto the muscled torso of her partner. As his arms stretch to reach his shirt, she finds herself staring. It is only a second later that she snaps her thoughts and her gaze clears enough to shift away. The moment is ruined as he speaks, and her dark eyes narrow ever so slightly. She doesn't agree with him.

Her instincts kick in and her boot slides on the dirt, taking her half a step back as he takes a full step forward. It leaves him with enough room for his hands to close around her upper arm in a grip that makes her freeze. Her fingers wind tighter around the grip of her bow, and her muscles tense under his grip. She hears and understands the compliment, but it does not register in her mind. When his thumb just grazes a part of her jaw line, she flinches. She does not, or cannot, stop the trembling of her body in his grip, and the second she feels his hands relax, she is tearing away to quickly walk and climb back up into the tree. She feels safe there, far enough from him to think and dislike his actions. In fact, she makes it well known when she rips an arrow from the quiver to nock it and send it flying into the dirt. The shaft wavers and shakes in the ground, just as her body had done in his grip not mere moments ago.

The night wore on, and when the sun peeked over the horizon and scattered light among the leaves, Zaira dropped down from her perch without a word. Changing into a different set of long leather pants and a sleeveless black top, she puts her long-sleeved vest back on, doing so behind Legs so Arean cannot watch her. Her glances were only at her horse or the ground and not at Arean. She was angry, though whether it was at herself or Arean, one could only guess. As if the sky was agreeing with her displeasure, the clouds opened up with rain, showering them within minutes. Zaira produced a wool cloak, shifting her quiver down to sling around the saddle horn. She tips up the hood to hide her face, and in silence she began to ride. Though Arean is her partner, she makes no attempt to return any conversation. She treats him as if he is not there.

However, it changes when lightning and thunder strike the land, unsettling Legs. She quiets him with a damp hand, but even as the animal slows, he tenses for something, something not related to the depressing weather. The main road on which they travel is open, a sparse advantage over the numbers of bandits. Still, there are hills and blades of tall grass that coat the land, and it is enough to obscure those who would do harm to travelers. Without the sunlight, it is harder to see, though not impossible. Still, Zaira notices movement that isn't from the wind. Just as she pulls an arrow and slams the end against the string, nine bandits leap out, diving for the horses' legs. Legs rears, kicking one man in the face with a flailing hoof. Zaira wheels the animal away, getting into a position to shoot one of the bandits circling a flail above his head. The tip of her arrow thuds into his chest and he barrels over, not to move again. Even as he keels to one side, she is already pushing another arrow onto the string.

Rain stings her eyes as she prepares another shot, but even as she lets the arrow fly, she knows it will not hit its mark. She knows she won't hit Arean, even though she cannot distinguish him from the bandits, as some of their attackers had stray pieces of iron armor attached to their shoulders or torso. However, her missed arrow is enough to knock one man off balance as the arrow tip clips his hand, making him drop his weapon, and Zaira shakes her head to try and free her lashes from the rain. A grip and yank on her leg finds her falling into the mud, landing heavily on her left arm. With a quick cry of pain and a loud swear, Zaira picks up her bow and draws an arrow from her thigh quiver, slamming it into the chest of the man who pulled her from her horse. She notices Legs has run away, a smart course of action for him. Bandits were likely to kill horses so their riders could not get away. Even if the motion carries the majority of her arrows.

Three more men charge toward Zaira, and she nocks an arrow, finding herself surrounded. Her back is to the edge of the road, where a steep ditch would unlikely bring more injuries if she fell into it. Her boots sink into the mud as she stands impossibly still, though there is a waver in her injured arm. As quick as the bandits notice her weakness, Zaira shoots the closest one and whips another across the face with the tip of her bow. The last one catches her around the waist, her bow spinning from her grasp as they hit the ground. The air rushes out from her and she lashes her foot out, kicking the man in the stomach. One of his hands whips against her temple, blackening her vision for a second. His other hand grips her throat, threatening to squeeze the life from her. Zaira strikes his face with her fingernails, the stinging pain making him rear back and giving her a chance to scramble upright. In the rain, she can't find her weapon, and in her moment of searching, the scratched up bandit digs his fingers into her injured arm and lands a punch to the side of her head. This time, she is able to pull one of her few arrows remaining and stick it into his neck, blood mixing with rain as it travels in a red river down her arm. Tearing the arrow from his neck, Zaira pants and coughs, the man's previous choking grip catching up with her body.
 
He wakes up to the sound of rustling leaves, the clouds starting to blotch out the sunlight. But in the areas where the sun breaks through in strong, golden rays, the leaves are almost breathtaking. They twist and turn in the breeze, the light having trouble keeping steady on each curve and crease. Some leaves above him are spade shaped and others remind him of the shape of the trees themselves as they make a rough triangle. But no matter their difference in shape, their colors unite them in a sea of bushy green. The temperature has dropped, or at least the wind tricks them into thinking it has. He is no longer in the sweltering desert lands, his armor serving as a furnace. Instead, he is glad that his mail keeps the heat in and sticking to his body. Those thoughts are what he thinks when they saddle and start their day. Despite the silence between the two riders, Arean figures this day will be as good, if not better, than the previous one.

But his predictions are quickly twisted when the sky opens up her mouth and water pours down upon the two travelers. At the first raindrop felt upon his dry skin, Arean looks upwards with a frown. A sheet of gray might keep them hidden at a distance but he doubts that this safe cover will last when it becomes a close quarters conflict. The young knight's mind is hardly on a surprise attack though for as they ride, passing hill after hill of uneven blades. Instead of focusing on the pathway, his steed having enough knowledge to follow Zaria's horse on Arean's command, he looks outwards. It's not a scanning look but one of appreciation for such beauty in the land. Each hill, he is certain, houses an array of creatures and keeps them well sheltered from this storm. The spots of trees like freckles on the earth's face will provide them with theirs for the time being. But such privileges are gone once they reach the true plains.

Thunder is expected, masking the rushing footsteps of bandits as they come from what seems to be the grass itself. Up they pop, much like a happily watered flower, and soon Arean is no longer thinking of the survival of the animals. It's his own life he has to worry about. Another bolt of hot, white, energy strikes the ground, his horse neighing unhappily in response, kicking up its legs. Arean feels himself teeter in the saddle but he leans forward, balancing the weight as his dear horse rears backwards. "Woah there!" he shouts over the crackle of thunder blanketing the plains, "It's only a bit of--" but the knight cuts himself off there, spotting a green masked figure spring up from the grasses at him. His sabaton comes up and slams him in the face, eyes eagerly looking backwards for any more who might sneak their chances from behind. "Bandits!" he shouts, his voice as strong as the bolts of lightening.

Through the fowl wind that carries his cape and the rain beating against his face, Arean turns the warhorse around so he may find his next target. Within a moments notice, his blade has slashed twice against the bastard sword of their foes. It's all a stolen armory, Arean predicts, eyes jumping from one to the next so that he may count their odds and start to pick off the numbers one by one. But the next few moments are indeed blurry. His heart rate increases, the thumping in his chest soon matching the sharp clatter of steel on steel. Arean swings down from the saddle, ordering the muscled beast to follow Zaria's. One by one, they come at him and he lifts his blade, feeling the ring travel down his arms and into his core. What might fatigue his foes, blow after blow, only energizes him. His swings become more accurate as the fighting draws on, his parries quick and his attacks as sharp as he can be.

Spinning around, he feels the tightness around his blade, another body attached to the end. The man looks at him, not with shock, but with anger. His target screams and lifts his dagger for another blow but Arean only shoves the steel through more flesh. Those blue eyes grow cold as he slides from Arean's blade. He frantically tries to find Zaria's frame, the waving grass and belting rain hardly working in his favor. The hot, sticky sensation of blood spatters across Arean's face. Glancing that way, he notices an arrowhead sticking out of another bandit's neck. It takes no time before the man's clothes are soaked and he drops to the ground. Noticing the glossy figure of green behind Zaria, Arean blinking through the stream of water, he quickly recognizes it as another foe. The man's arm is raised, a stolen scimitar tight in his grasp. Arean finds himself running at the man, a howl to his throat, his blade swinging frantically. But no matter how frantic it might look, his footwork matches his foe, each strike causing him to step, block, and sidestep.

"How many more do we have to pick off?" He asks, spinning around and blocking a blow to his kneecap. The sweat dripping from his brow is easily washed away with the rainwater as they both cause canals down his face. But his foe has skill to him, his work with his weapon being no bandit's frantic slashes. Instead he too is calculating with his blows and Arean finds himself stuck in the dance of death as they wade through higher grass of the valley between two mounds. Each blade tries to stick itself to his armor but every movement bends the flexible strips. Only their blades and feet damage their surroundings.
 
Zaira has only taken a second to catch her breath, because she must find her bow. She is defenseless without it, even though her throat burns and her eyes are swimming with choking tears and rain. As a lightning bolt streaks across the sky and thunder claps, she sees a brief glint buried in the mud. It must be her bow, or one of her arrows. Either way, she has to have it. However, her joy at finding her weapon is short-lived, because a massive man of bulk and height barrels out of the bushes and swings a warhammer down, aiming for her head. Zaira scrambles out the way, but her cloak is caught underneath his foot. She is jerked backward, and the head of the hammer spatters mud onto her face and side as it crashes into the ground. She notes that he's covered in heavy armor, and she sees no holes or gaps where his helmet meets his chest armor, or any other weak point.

With quick fingers, Zaira unties her cloak as the man prepares another strike at her. Her fingers bury into the mud until she grasps something hard and steel. Hoping to whatever gods exist that it is indeed her bow, Zaira pops it up to find it's a short sword. Realizing that it's meant to be paired with another, she looks, only to dive away again as the man smashes the hammer in her direction. He's quick to recover, unlike last time, and Zaira finds herself in a close-quarters combat with this man. There is no finesse spouting from their weapons, the bandit because he doesn't care, and Zaira because she doesn't know how to wield her new weapon. Her dodges and parries are messy, and the blade wobbles each time she blocks a shot. Her boots shuck and stick in the mud with each unbalanced step, and she is once again reaching the steep side of the road. Two more steps and her back will be twisted when she falls.

Her only advantage is that she's smaller and faster. Taking a risk more massive than her target, Zaira dives between the man's legs, the gap wide as he holds a stance worthy of his weapon. She flails her sword arm, stabbing at the weakest point she can find: the slit where his knee bends. She feels the blade bite into flesh and a howl escapes her quarry. He falls to one knee, blood streaming down his armor. She fights the mud to stand upright, reaching and tearing the helm from his head. They simultaneously swing, Zaira aiming for the man's neck and the man aiming for Zaira's stomach. The pole of the warhammer smacks her in the side as the short sword slices into the man's throat, spraying blood as she rips the weapon away ungracefully.

She drops the weapon as her knees hit the ground, and she grips her side. She cannot say if he cracked a rib, but she knows bruises are forming even as she thinks of them. Through the rain, she can see Arean just a few yards away, grappling his weapon with the last bandit. She stands, nearly falling in the process, and she searches their surroundings, doing her best to make sure no other surprise bandits are going to show their faces.
 
The years and years of continuous training silently seep into Arean's brain. With each cutting stroke, he finds himself parrying quicker and faster despite the belting rain opening up the blackened clouds. Even the sun doesn't show its face, not for a second. Death is not something that even the cosmos wishes to witness. It's the gods and goddesses among them that cheer and chant for a sacrifice or offering. At least, that's what some people think. Those thoughts are not in Arean's mind as he rushes at his next opponent as the gray cloaked bandit makes his way through the slush of mud and broken grasses to where Zaria is attempting to keep her life. But before the man can lift his dagger to Zaria's back, Arean's blade is shoved through him and his breathing slows.

He takes no time to lower his sword so that it rests against his thigh, eyes scanning through the sheet of gray for another bandit. They are not honorable men but who is in this world anymore. The good men have been robbed, beaten, and tortured, or a combination of the three resulting in death. But the slosh of mud takes Arean's attention away from Zaria, his gut reaction to help her dimmed as his own life is now at risk. The man comes at him with two blades, each equally balanced. Even in the restricted light, they shine like the propellers of an airplane. It's a straight signal of intimidation, his opponent trying to make him feel as though he has lost already. A battle is both physical and mental. When you give a blow, you are opening yourself up to take one and if the enemy has a gateway, he or she will ride through it till dawn.

Mistakes are easily made when the fatigue starts to burrow itself into the back of the skull. Arean blinks through the wind and the rain, the quick slashes that his cloaked competition making both their capes flap and swirl in the wind. Soon even their shadows are circling one another and even a great warrior like Arean's muscles are starting to feel the stinging strain of battle. A heat has warmed the furnace of his armor, each parry sending tingles up his arms. The man strikes him with half the force but double the speed, making Arean struggle to keep well timed blocks. So he relies in his ability to sidestep his opponent, the man's eyes as dark as the sky above them. There is no dignity in escape for these men fight until death takes them. Arean strikes, looking for a high wound, his breath spilling from his throat.

The man's swords whip to one side, attempting to strike at Arean's arm and side. Dropping to one knee, Arean's tall, double folded, steel stops the swift motions in its wake like a wall against the sea. From his new angle, looking up at the man from beyond his armored skin, he is quick to strike at a spot the man cannot guard well. His ankles. Arean brings the sword back around his waist and lets out a sharp battle cry, hacking away at the man's lower leg. Immediately he yelps in pain, the few nicks and scratches of Arean's other attempts hardly making him wince. The key in battle is not to let the enemy see your pain. But the man falls to the ground, Arean standing over him to deliver a clean downwards stab to the throat.

He had lost count at five kills, not knowing how many more Zaria had taken care of. Pulling his tipped blade from the man's throat, the thick crimson blood dripping downwards, he holds it relaxed at his side. He knows that Zaria can take care of herself in battle. At least that's what he thought but his eyes prove him wrong when he searches for her form, seeing Zaria's body lunge forward and nearly dropping to the ground. "Zaria!" He calls across the way, his voice blackened out by another clap of thunder. The lightening bolt had illuminated his plate armor but he had been too busy to notice. "Here, lean on my armor," he commands, giving her no room for rejection. His arm wraps around her waist, blade readily gripped in his right arm. "Where have the horses gone? Did you see which way they ran?"
 
Cold rain pelts her skin, and it sends shivers running up and down her body. She only manages to take one step before she clutches her side, not daring to peel away the soaking leather yet. She hears Arean, but whatever he says is blocked out by the booming thunder. Through wet lashes, she sees him sweep up to her, catching her around the good side of her waist. Instinct coils in her stomach and one arm pushes at his shoulder armor weakly. "No, let--" Her voice is halted by the warmth seeping through the steel. The fight had worked him up and his armor reflects that. Such a clash of temperature, and the fired up metal beneath her, Zaira cannot help but simply sag against the man, her feet struggling to hold her up as her arm not holding her side hooks into one of the straps holding his armor together. She must appear the weak and helpless damsel, despite every urge inside of her willing her to fight Arean's grip and move on her own.

She registers his question, and her head perks up. Daring to let go of her injured side, she points to the west, down the road where they came from. "That... that way," she breathes, though her voice is unnaturally quiet. Zaira doesn't bother repeating herself. Her motion is enough. However, as soon as she does so, her dark eyes dart back to the muddy ground. Lightning is flashing often enough and she can see the glints of her arrow tips and the grip of her bow. She doesn't know how, but she wrenches herself from Arean long enough to stumble to her knees in front of her weapon. Lifting the curves from the mud attempting to claim her bow, she finds the string snapped and a dent in the silver frame. Still, it can be used, and she quickly knots the frayed strings together so she can loop the bow around her shoulders with some pained effort. There are several arrows in a clump near her, having fallen from her quiver to stay. Letting the rain wash away the mud as she picks them up, she pushes them back into their place while shifting the quiver around her opposite shoulder so she won't lose them again. She only recovers sixteen of her twenty-four original arrows, plus one in the neck of the man she shot, but she cannot dwell on such a thing. They have to move.

Legs and Arean's steed whinny from a distance, huddled under a patch of trees, a not so safe position given the severity of the storm. Hefting herself to her feet, Zaira holds her side again and looks to her partner. After such a fight, and Arean having sustained little to no injury, she has some more respect for him. She does not forgive him for last night's intimate touch, but she feels that she can accept his help. "I... cannot walk without assistance." It is obvious that the statement is tough for her to admit, even though her wounds and fatigue are visible.
 
Arean looks up to the sky when Zaria cradles herself quite unwillingly against his side, hand gripping the leather strap as if it were her lifeline. The pellets of water barrage his face like machine gun bullets that hold no harm to them. He used to love the rain as a child. No matter what his parents would say, Arean was always the first one to exit the safety of the house and the last one to come back in after the fun was had. Now as the protruding chin of his looks upwards, his shoulder length locks now soaked and sticking to his neck and face, his mind thinks of a different thoughts than having fun. Survival can hardly be halted when both mankind and the elements wish for life to bow its numbers. There is no time for playing on the muddy cobble streets and watching as the rain hits each and every puddle.

When she lunges from his grip, pushing off his armored chest so that she may stumble to her bow, Arean finds his upper torso following her. His entire upper body cranes in her direction, wanting to re-grab her before she falls but his legs, the smart ones, stay stationary. His eyes widen, the weight of her body leaving his pleasantly lighter. It's not easy carrying someone else along with hammered sheets of plate. "Zaria, what are you doing!" he gasps in shock when she hits the ground, his own side doing nothing more but stinging gently at the tension of his quick, wobbly, motions. But he finds his answer when she crawls to her bow and lifts it from the dirt and grime. Watery drops of mud drip from her armor and bow, shimmering in the bolts of lightening that challenge these two.

"We can't travel in this," he shouts to her over the boom of thunder, the dents of his armor catching the remains of another bolt of lightening, "the winds are only growing stronger and the horses will not be able to ride well with the clattering of thunder." Water drips around the circumference of his face, collecting in tiny drops at his chin and splashing down on his breastplate to join the other falling drops from the sky. "Do you agree?" Its a simple question, Arean giving his own estimations of the storm, the clouds stretching like black smog over the sky. He hoists her back to where she settled the first time, his armor not exactly the most comfortable framing to her form. At least he is offering his support. "Plus," he adds, looking at her head unwillingly swing from side to side as they trudge through the ankle deep mud, "You need to set your mind straight and recuperate from this fight."

For the rest of the time making their way to camp, Arean doesn't speak unless Zaria asks him a question. Normally he would find this path of behavior awkward, a tightness in his throat and an itch for wanting to talk but never getting the chance. But this time, his mind is fluttering around the world with other thoughts. How much time can they spend out in this area before another group of bandits come looking for their fallen brothers and sisters? He glances down at her as they reach the thin canopy of protection where the horses are whining. "Here," he whispers, kneeling down at the base of the nearest tree so that she may press her back to the loyal trunk, "Rest here." His tone is not commanding but rigid, knowing that no matter how much she wants to move and be active, they will have to wait until the storm passes or breaks until they can move onwards.
 
For once, Zaira doesn't fight his touch. Gripping his armor again, she tries to keep pace with him, limping with his longer strides. Her body shivers, but at the very least, the cold numbs her pain. She is hardly aware that her head trickles blood from the earlier punch or that her bow arm aches with bruises or that her neck is dark with finger marks from the man who had choked her. She is only sure that she was struggling to breathe. She coughs several times, but she does her best to keep them quiet. With every weakening inch toward her horse, Zaira curses herself for allowing her body to take such a battering. The odds had been against them both, but Arean had been much stronger, and it shows in their wounds, or his lack thereof.

She keeps her mouth shut until he helps her lean against a tree. She winces away from him, and she hears him, but she listens to him. She doesn't want to, but she's too weak to do anything. All she can do is unfasten her quiver and unstring the bow. The broken twine falls to the ground, but she doesn't care. Her hand strokes the curves of her weapon up and down, making sure she doesn't find any more dents. She wants to fix it, but the spare twine is in Legs' pack, and the horse is too frightened to move.

Her wet hair clings to her face, the high ponytail partially fallen from their battle. She's covered in mud, and she peels away her freezing gloves, unable to stop the trembling in her fingers. She admits only to herself that she misses the warmth of Arean's armor, though she knows it would become cool the longer they are out of battle. Her thoughts are scattered as a spasm of pain makes her dizzy and she tilts her head back in an effort to make her world stop spinning. Arean has a point: she has to recover before they can move on.

Not for the last time, Zaira curses her lack of close combat, for she wouldn't appear a damsel in distress if she had known how to wield the sword.
 
Zaria's hair stays slapped against her face, the wet strands staying there until moved. Arean, regaining his feet from his kneeling position to deposit her against the tree, considers brushing the cold strands from her face. But, in an instant, he remembers the last time his fingers dared, for some unknown reason, to touch her. No. He could not and will not allow himself to make two mistakes over the course of their first day or two together. She had recoiled from his touch, her eyes just daring him to try it again. Physical contact is out of the question unless it's necessary for saving her life. Now is not the time to be foolish.He still has the urge to take care of her and make sure she is safe. That might not be what Zaria wants but, for the sake of the mission, he will need to.

The rainfall keeps falling upon them, splashing against his armor in a small symphony of: tink, tink, tink. But his heart sinks as he looks to the grassy brush of the muddy floor. What she needs is a fire, something to keep her warm, and a shelter from the elements. Such privileges are not found out in these lands though. The wood is all soaked and the ground is slippery so the world mixes a concoction of disaster against the two mercenaries. His hot breath rolls from his mouth as he slowly makes his way to his own steed. The warhorse huffs, his heart seeming to beat in his wide eyes. But they have been together for so long that the dark mare allows Arean to touch him with scaled fingers of his plate gloves. "There, there," he attempts to soothe the beast, scratching his muzzle, "You're safe. We are all safe. Just please tell me that I packed those blankets from the inn."

He had thought about using his cape as a blanket for Zaria, the crimson red now discolored and the insignia blotted with mud and blood. But as little warmth as it might give her, it will have to be their last resort. She needs warmth or else she will catch a cold. He has not come away from the battle unscathed but the perks about a second, armored skin, is that even the strongest blows might only leave a bruise depending on where the strike lands. His tight muscles do not bother him now and his routine training allows them to grow used to such fatigue. The pulse felt in his thighs, chest, and arms, is hardly enough to stop him from taking care of what needs to be done. Even in her disheveled state, he concludes, pulling a small woolen blanket from its coil, she is worth saving.

"Here, this will help you keep warm." Arean proposes, uncoiling the blanket so that it covers his body in a neat square. "Now I can't make a fire," he tells her reluctantly, "I can always try with the wet sticks and twigs I can find around but perhaps the Gods will be kind enough to give us a break from this rain." His dark eyes look up towards the splotches cut in the canopy above them, droplets of rain pelting his face through this false protection. "Is there anything else you require?"
 
She curls her knees to her chest, ignoring the laboring and burning pain of her side or her arm. She stifles her cries, but the winces she cannot stop. She closes her eyes and turns her head away, listening to the rain smack the ground. Drops glitter and fall from the tree branches above her, the water seeping through her already soaked clothing. She listens to Arean soothe his horse, and the agitation wavering from the mare seems to cease. Legs splashes mud with his hooves as he beats the ground, but she does not go to him. She nurses her wounds in silence, hearing the clack, clack of Arean's armor as he moves around. She doesn't care what he's doing, as long as he is not bothering her.

Her thoughts jumble and shift as she feels something warm descend on her body. She attempts to move away until she realizes that it's not his body pressed against her. It's a blanket that does not belong to her horse. Her dark eyes open to a half-lidded stare as she looks up at him. It is his covering on her body, blocking the cold and chasing the numbness from her bones. She shifts around, biting her lip to hide grunts of pain as she attempts to make herself comfortable. Her gaze drops from his face, finding she lingers on thoughts of his body heat again. Stop it, you stupid child of a girl. You don't want him, she reminds herself, and it's enough to make her shake her head.

"N-no," she says, cold making her teeth chatter together. She rubs her arms under the blanket, pulling at it to move over her side. Gingerly, she lifts her shirt all the way on one side, not noticing as the blanket betrays her and slides away. The bruise on her side rears, angry and blackish-blue, in a sporadic pattern, the colors fading around her back and abdomen. She stares at the wound before dropping her shirt and lifting the sleeves of her dominant arm. The bruises are lighter, but they cover the top of her forearm and decorate her elbow. With a heavy sigh, she does her best to burrow back under the blanket and sleep, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion.

"My wounds are... my own f-fault," she spits, though it is not aimed at him. "I... am not... well equipped to d-deal with... short range combat. If... you blame yourself... do... do not."
 
He commends her actions, the sharp stabs of pain he knows that she must be feeling but trying to let her not know it. If she weren't in so much pain and perhaps they were better friends, he might laugh and make a joke about her lack of skill. But these two are hardly there in their relationship. Relationship? Arean huffs at such a word knowing that Zaria, no matter how attractive he might find her, will hardly be that girl in his life. Perhaps it's too late to tell? No. Normally girls blush at his touch and make excuses to touch his arm or "accidentally" bump into him and claim that its a mistake. They are mere acquaintances and that's all that they will ever be. They have a job to do and Arean assumes that once they are done here, they will part ways. Zaria has no interest in him as a friend. Her life is her work.

Although he can respect that sort of confidence in her, he will find it a shame if they never see one another after this. But such is life he assumes, knowing that people have come in and out of his life before. He has never complained then so why should he start doing it now? Just making sure that she is comfortable, at least looking for signs that she is, he nods his head before getting up and moving back over to his own steed. Perhaps it's too early to tell if we will at least be friends. But he can't shake these thoughts of her recoiling away from him. Perhaps he is being too forward but don't girls like that? Just a little bit?

"Well, Zaria," he tells her as he comes back from his horse with some flint and steel in his bare hands. His gloves have been taken off and stored away in his bags, "We are just going to have to change that. Starting when you are well, I am going to teach you how to wield a blade at short range. Believe me, I understand how it feels to get rubbed in the dirt and black and blue." He smiles, reflecting on his own thoughts, memories. She might not be talking to him but he is serious, completely serious, that she should be able to defend herself if the enemy comes too close.

With that, he clears a spot in the brush a few feet away from the tips of her toes and starts to build a fire on the muddy ground. He knows full well that it won't work, how could it in this weather? Yet, he tries to gather some wood, peeling the soaked bark from it and building a little fire. But when he strikes the flint and steel together, a quick flash of orange flashing against his face as the day rolls on into night. But he doesn't give up, his hunched over body blocking most of the rain from hitting his dry-sih twigs, sticks, and the logs that surround the small triangle.

Soon the man becomes rather angry, his back to Zaria's sleeping form. Why can't you just work! He screams at himself, throwing the flint and the steel down in a fit of untapped anger. Before his very eyes, his palm becomes quite warm, a small bolt of fire coming out of him and hitting the sticks. He squats before the crackling fire, his hands held out in front of him for he feels like time has stopped around him. He gulps and blinks, not believing what just happened. The anger flushes from his body and he is left to gape at the crackling flames. H-how? No… no… this is not happening. What? H… Is all he can think of and he is not sure how long he kneels there just staring at his hands, the fire lively right in front of him.
 
Zaira doesn't expect him to answer, but he doesn't blame himself. Part of her feels that he should, but she says nothing. With a deep sigh, she goes back to settling down against the tree. She does so until her good arm is propped under her head and she is resting on her unbruised side. She's far back against the tree, escaping most of the rain. There, she falls into an uneasy sleep. Her mind dwells on her mistakes in the fight, and not on the impressive shots she was able to perform even in the rain. Due to such dreams, she shifts in her sleep, eyes twitching with whatever she sees.

The crackling of a fire wakes her. Blinking, she sits up with some effort, hiding the winces. Digging her fingers into the bark, she manages to stand. With short steps, she shuffles to the fire beside Arean. "You managed to get fire. Impressive," she says. She knows how difficult it is to spark wet twigs, and there was hardly a chance that he'd found completely dry kindling. She sits down beside him, completely unaware of how he'd started the fire. She credits his ability to persevere in the face of adversity.

Zaira pulls the blanket around her shoulders, wrapping herself up in it. "...Were you making a promise? To teach me how to properly wield a sword?" She recalls him mentioning about his poor shot with a bow, and she takes a risk. "In return, I... suppose I could show you how to shoot. If... If you want." She blames her warm cheeks on the fire in front of them, because she finds it irrational to blush at the thought of them teaching one another about their respective weapons.
 
Coming out of his dazed and irrational state of mind, Arean still finds himself staring at his fingers. He flexes them and nothing feels burnt or looks out of the ordinary. Each finger is… normal. Perhaps a bit dirty from the mud and sappy from the twigs he had to collect for this fire. The fire! How brilliant it looks and not even the raindrops can douse the flames. The steam just comes and combines with the smoke from the crackling embers that pop off the hot logs. He hardly notices the shuffle of Zaria's body throughout the night. She shifts and shifts but he keeps his eyes on his hands.

It's not until she manages to stand, an involuntary grunt coming from her when her side flairs up in pain. Jumping slightly when she sits down next to him, his eyes darting right to her face. The smooth curve of her jawline catching his attention. There is a moment where he blankly stares, eyes moving to her lips, his tongue running over his own just to make sure that his are still there. Then he realizes what he is doing and he quickly looks away, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it often without fail after starting the fire. He seems a bit flustered, his voice catching in his throat when she compliments him. Instead of speaking, he clears his throat and nods, giving her a side smile before looking back to his stick pile.

Then she asks her question of whether or not he was serious about what he said. The smile widens gently and he nods once again. "If you want it to be a promise, then consider it as such." He mentions after a long moment, his shoulders shrugging, "You are a master with a bow, truly you are." It's when she returns the offer that he finds the strength to chuckle. A warm feeling spreads over his heart and doesn't stop until his hands and feet are warmed too. If this were his younger self, he would spit words at her that he could teach himself and he didn't need anyone's help in mastering the art of the bow. He has never tried before. That will be interesting when the time comes.

"I would like that very much," his armor clanks as he shifts his spot in the mud and dirt, his legs falling asleep. Now he sits with his legs crossed over one another. His shoulder clanks into her as he moves, his mouth whispering an apology. "and take my word for it," he nods towards the fire, "this fire was not easy to start." He figures that keeping that strange … magic to himself. Magic? Him? No, no, that doesn't make sense. Swallowing down a dry throat, he offers her a canteen of water, "but you needed the warmth so I decided I might as well. The last thing we need is a sick partner."
 
Zaira lets her hands hover near the fire. It feels hotter than most flames. Or maybe she is just too cold to be a good judge of temperature. The open gap between the ends of the blanket whoosh with rainy breezes, causing her to retract her hands and shiver inside her cover. She had not been prepared for such weather, and for the first time, she is... grateful to have Arean around. Warm body or not. The thought makes her look back at him, watching the light dance across his features. She could admit he was ruggedly handsome, even with the unkempt hair and dirt on his cheeks. It didn't help that she has seen what is under his armor, and she hadn't minded the view.

She almost physically shakes her head at the thought, freezing before she could follow through with it. He would have asked what's wrong with her, and she didn't trust her tongue to form words. She drags her eyes back to the fire as he both promises and accepts her offer. She hadn't expected him to, but it's better if he knows all the same. The skill is useful for both hunting game and people.

"When I heal," she says, swiping the canteen and downing half of its contents in two gulps, "I should be able to make a training bow. Mine is perfectly fine to use, but no one understands its draw quite like I do." There is a bit of pride in her voice when she speaks about her weapon. It is true, after all. The silver bow isn't wooden, and it takes a considerable amount of strength to draw it back. She's still unsure of how it works, but she knows it fires arrows quickly and efficiently.
 
He remembers the way she lunged at her weapons, treating them as if they were her stone against the tide. Arean understands her too well for he would be nothing without his weapons. They are a part of him. A popular saying that he has learned throughout the years is that a sword is an extension of his body and he must use it like he waves his hands or swings his arms. Some people criticize him for sharpening his blades every week and keeping them clean and dry. They say that a sword's dirt makes it unique, the grime build up believing to be a story in its own right. But Arean has other faith elsewhere. A clean blade can cut sharper and swing stronger than one that is rusting. He lives by this code and he tells Zaria just that.

The two of them, sitting by the fire, simply talk. What more could he ask for. He tells her about the first time he wielded his two-handed sword, the weight almost unbearable, his fatigue cracking before he could manage two swings. There is a pride in his ability to be changed by his weapons. It's because of his practice, over and over, he has become that man that he is today. Their conversation isn't intimate or anything, just a simple vague passing of memories as fuzzy as they are. Arean makes sure there is absolutely no touching but as the night grows on and more logs have been thrown on the fire, he convinces her to sleep.

He is disappointed to have to stop their conversation but he noticed her eyes closing, her sentences fading away slowly into gibberish. "Just get some sleep, Zaria. We'll speak in the morning." There is a smile and then he turns his attention back to the fire, rubbing his hands as he does so. "And sleep well," he adds quickly before rubbing his eyes as Zaria curls up by the fire for the warmth. He will stay up tonight, all night, to protect them from bandits and perhaps when the sun rises he might wake Zaria up. That should give her enough time to recuperate. Perhaps tomorrow they will get on the road early and reach the city of their destination, well one destination, before heading to the dragons den. Hopefully, just hopefully, they will get it all right.
 
Zaira has forgotten the simple pleasantry that is talking. She becomes flustered as she tells her own story, remembering the bow string making thwaps on her arm and leaving welts in their place. Learning how to make and fletch her own arrows proved to be a challenge, but, like her partner, with time and practice, she mastered the art of her weapon. As the moon makes its passing, she begins to grow tired. She doesn't know if Arean's previous or current wounds are affecting him, but he is not the first thing on her mind.

He tells her to sleep, and, not because she wants to, she listens. She knows he speaks smartly, and there isn't much room to argue with the command. Her legs curl as she rests on her good side, drying and matted hair flopping around her face. Her front is to the fire, and her position has put her head close to Arean's armored leg. For once, maybe because she's too exhausted to care, the closer proximity doesn't faze her. With a deep breath and then a cough, she wraps the blanket around her shoulders tightly, dark brown eyes growing golden as the light bounces from her face.

It doesn't take her long to fall asleep, but when she does, she's right back where she left off. Reliving mistakes is not something she does often, considering how not often she makes mistakes. Having a partner throws her off. Too used to working alone, Zaira knows she has to change her ways so that she and Arean can function as a team, but she doesn't want to. She doesn't put others in danger when she's by herself. Arean can handle himself, and he'd killed the bandits alongside her. The weight of the men she slayed dawned on her in her dreams and of all emotions to rush her then, guilt was the winner. It makes her flip over in the outside world, slamming her injured side into the ground, startling her awake. With a bit-back cry and tears collecting in her eyes, she turns back over to face the fire, hoping that Arean believes her still asleep, for her eyes are still closed and her movements lethargic.

The rest of the night passes smoothly outside of the rain, but it's a welcome reprieve from their fight. The sky is still cloudy and dark when the sun rises, but Zaira does not stir. Her chest hardly moves as she breathes, but she's still there. Her head is burrowed under her arms to stave off the cold, much like a sleeping cat. In the light setting, one can see how muddy she is, even with the rain bath. The tips of her hair are black with dried dirt and blood and her bruised arm is darker than the rest of her dirt-covered skin. The finger marks on her neck have faded somewhat, but it's still evident that she had been choked by the bandit. All around, Arean seemed to have fared much better than she, but she was not quick to admit her pain.
 
She curls up next to him by the fire, the heat growing more intense as the logs are thrown on and eaten up by the flames. He watches them for a while but as the night draws its chill around the two of them, he too huddles in the dirt. There is only one blanket and its on Zaria's body. But she needs it. Arean chuckles internally, thinking for a moment that he should take back what is his. There might be a subtle hardness to him, the resistance to make friends and allies in this new world, but that doesn't mean he is relentless. She will grow colder and sick if she doesn't have the blanket. His wounds, especially the one at his side, is practically all healed, only the pink tissue left to turn bronze once more. His head grows heavy and rolls forward then snaps back up when he tries to turn his attention to the world once more. Protection is necessary and after the bandits attack, well, he can't take any risks.

The morning comes, Arean knowing this because the dark gray sky turns brighter yet the rain still comes down. Perhaps it's not as heavy as it had been previously but Arean will take this as a good sign. Throughout the night, he found that looking at Zaria, the way the fire bounces off her chin and soothes her face, comforted him too. He has someone else to live for even if they don't become good friends. His duty to the world is to protect those who live and breathe the same air as he does. It was a vow he took, one for his Kingdom that he has crossed over into his new life. If there is anyone in trouble, he knows that by the gods who rule these lands, he will do all in his honor to save them. They used to call his people Paladins, bringers of light and justice to Kingdoms throughout the lands, but now he is a simple man with good morals. Or has he been that all along just in a fancy suit of armor?

No matter, he is too busy trying to keep his head up and eyes awake to notice Zaria's painful gasp. He assumes, if he hears her at all in his trans like state, that its something having to do with her dream and not with the actual world. The sound does, however, make his eyes flicker over to her just to reassure himself that his assumptions are correct. His heart eases, the tenseness that has been settling there since nightfall settling. He stands, his mind blowing him nearly to the ground with a whirlwind of swirling balance. Luckily for him, he rounds the fire before nearly collapsing from his own tired and clumsy feet. At least the sound of the clatter of his armor had been hushed, he hopes, and didn't wake her from her slumber.

Breakfast was in order by the time Zaria decided to present herself to the living world. Arean had traveled around their small oasis in the sea of grass to find certain berries that they could munch on as well as the meat from their latest kill at their first camp. "Here you are, Zaria," Arean offers her an assortment of green to blue berries, "Eat up while I just…" his voice cuts short, his mouth opening like a lion as he yawns, "Just give me a few moments to rest up and then we can be… on our way." And true to his word, Arean is allowed to sleep for an hour or so until the instructed time to wake him rolls around. They saddle up their steeds and leave the fire to slowly put itself out. The rain will have no trouble in helping.

"Do you need assistance getting into your saddle?" Arean asks, pulling the strap of his horses girdle before pausing to note her reaction. Physical contact might not be welcomed but for a girl in her state, she might as well take what he is offering whether she likes it or not. "It's only a few hours ride to our first destination. What did Ranir say we needed to do there?" His mind draws a blank and he hopes that Zaria can offer some insight.
 
Zaira does not stir for the rest of the night, and when she finally rises from her death-like sleep, she finds Arean's hand near her. However, he is not offering to help her stand, which she does on her own, though her legs are shaky. With delicate yet calloused fingers, Zaira plucks a handful of the assorted berries, popping two into her mouth. They are both sour and sweet, given the colors. She didn't mind them, and she gives a nod of thanks to Arean before moving to her horse. She looks behind her as his armor clinks and finds that he's fallen asleep near the fire. Had he stayed up all night? Another heavy wave of guilt washed over the female then, hardly noticing as Legs chomps on her remaining berries. She feels spoiled to have slept for so long, even if her dreams didn't allow for restfulness. Arean treats her well, something she does not understand. He's quite unlike any other man she's met before, his goal the same as hers: the gold for their dangerous journey. He may have moved too quickly, but he has not made any attempts to touch her since.

While he is resting, Zaira removes her muddy clothes, hissing quietly as she peels the still damp clothing from her wounds. Dyed black leather pants and shirt are put on, something to absorb what little sunlight might be cracking through the rainy clouds. She realizes that she lost her cloak in the battle, and her spare is thin and tattered at the bottom. However, she makes do with what she has. With some effort, she throws the horse blanket over the back of her animal, but the saddle proves to be difficult. She is strong, but with a debilitating wound on her side, it takes far longer to get the equipment to settle correctly. By the time she has it on the right way, Arean is already up and has his horse saddled.

She has only finished the bridle when Arean offers his help to lift her into the saddle. She closes her mouth as an agitated response grows on her lips. His motives aren't to touch her for his pleasure, and if they were, she would quickly remedy that. But he keeps speaking, and Zaira realizes that he simply wants to leave. They could depart and let the battlefield lie as it was, standing as a testament to those bandits searching for their comrades. He doesn't want to linger, particularly in the bad weather.

And so, against her own solid judgement, she nods. "...Yes," she manages to say, and she finishes strapping the saddle onto Legs. Before Arean can assist her, she pushes the thin hood of her worn cloak around her face. It seems as though she has a difficult time making eye contact with him when he is too close to her. The talking had been different, for she had been able to respond. Now, her weakest area of expertise is being exposed consistently because of him. She doesn't know whether to be scared or angry or both. But she keeps her emotions hidden from him, for he does not need to know what she feels.
 
"You do have all the maps and information we need," Arean reflects, looking to her bag but not daring to go through it as he would someone he is closer linked to. Their chains are growing closer, he can feel it, but they are, and most likely never will be, connected. A mission is a mission after all and when they are done, these two will move their separate ways. In this world of toil, that most likely means that they will never see the likes of one another again. And that thought gets Arean thinking. If he isn't going to be seeing Zaria for the rest of his life, shouldn't he try and push words of compassion and beauty upon her now? He is, after all, a man who has not been close to a woman in many years and the feeling settles a strange taste on the back of his tongue. But he thinks nothing of it and simply moves on, knowing that he must live in the here and the now if he wants to live. Them both to live.

Try as he might to push those affectionate thoughts from his head, his shyness causing his tongue to tighten, he takes a step closer to Zaria and feels the heat swarm underneath his armor. Control yourself. Comes a steady reminder in his mind as he reaches for her. The cloaked face, now stripped with blackness from the grayness, gives him all he needs to know. A simple touch of his hands to her frame will allow her to ascend onto the saddle. It will be quick and easy and done before Arean can take a second breath. He actually holds his breath as his fingers find an anchor underneath her arms and he lifts her up as if she were a child so that she can stretch her bad side over the saddle and not have to jump and lunge into it like they normally do. Luckily for him, the spotted leather of his gloves, the rings of steel covering the back of his hand, wrist, and fingers, stops him from any real contact.

Before Zaria can blink, his hands are removed from her and his own strength being used to hoist himself onto his own saddle. With one look, his eyes holding a mysterious horizon in them, he dawns his helmet. It would seem that after yesterday's battle, Arean is taking no chances. His partner is now injured and even though she can still force herself to shoot through the scorching pain and agony of drawing back the bowstring, Arean knows the best treatment is to avoid such strain. His two handed sword rests on his steed, snug between the bags of provisions Ranir has given them. His fingers, throughout the ride, move down from his reigns to touch the hilt in a simple, caring, gesture. The Falchion sword is slung across his other hip, a deadlier weapon for Arean has the power of the two handed sword as well as the quickness needed to defeat the foxes of his enemies.

Keeping to his policy about not talking until she does, Arean keeps his attention on the galloping hooves of his steed. That is, until their destination comes creeping over the horizon as the sun falls down. "There it is," he breathes in relief for not experiencing another attack. His mind quickly scolds him for not looking at the bodies of the dead and looting them for anything they were worth. But his decision rested on Zaria's health rather than his own wealth or status. No amount of money could satisfy him. "Now," he chuckles, his voice rather chipper for a man who smells like raw musk, dirt, sticky blood, and sweat, "we can finally sleep in comfort." He is, of course, referring to the hay covered cot that they usually are offered in taverns. But perhaps they will get lucky this time and not have to share a room. Or share a bed for that matter.
 
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