A Tale of Two Mercenaries

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Her entire body is still as he lifts her into the saddle. She grabs the saddle horn for balance, adjusting her legs before she is secure on the horse's back. Arean picked her up as if she weighed nothing more than a feather, even with his heavy armor and general bulk. She spares a glance at him as he jumps into the saddle of his own horse. Why is this man so different than the others? Even with his upbringing, she knows noble men can be rotten and snobby and entitled. The rare times she has done work for those noble houses still strong after the sickness, she has despised it. The women were high and mighty only with their demands and the men sought to pay her in ways other than gold, something she did not stand for. Now, she simply refuses to do jobs for them unless the contract states gold, not a romp in a man's bed.

Arean is motivated by the same thing she is, but most men would have left her in the dust for the opportunity for that much gold, death or not. He's... honorable, she realizes in that moment, a rare trait in the wake of the sickness. It doesn't bother her, even if she believes it should. The thought almost spurs her to be nice to him, since he has done nothing but treat her that way since he first met her.

She moves Legs forward to follow Arean, pulling out the maps as she does. She lets the gelding strut along, though his gait changes with the mud, jarring her side with each uneven step. She tries not to grimace as she glances at the lines along the map. Ranir had told them to meet him in Capsin, a small town that was used for restocking supplies. There is no ruling council or even a fair amount of nobles in such a hovel. Capsin is its own country in its own right, for no one spares two glances at the rotted wooden homes or the state of the people. The successful ones are horse masters and merchants. It's a one stop shop. Zaira has only resided in such a place once, chasing down one of her quarries. He thought he could hide among the lesser peasants, but Zaira knew better than that. She hadn't minded the area, but now, drawn from her memory, she shudders at the thought. Capsin could have only gotten worse since then.

And now there is a mage there.

Zaira sighs, rolling up the map. She has been so engrossed in her study that she has not noticed the passage of time. Arean's voice makes her look around, at him, and then at the small buildings of Capsin hardly looming at them, even in the growing dark. "I don't want to spend that much time here," she says, her voice adopting something dark, like she is reliving a memory. Despite her injury, she trots Legs toward the city, but then veers off into the shadows of a lumber camp nearby. Trusting the citizens of Capsin with two fine horses to look after is throwing away your perfectly good steed to be wrangled into buying another one. "I don't trust this place or the people in it."
 
"Why does Ranir want us to stop here?" Arean ponders aloud as they march towards the lumber camp. The crest of the hill gently lowers itself for them to move effortlessly into the shadows and away from the dirt road that had appeared a few miles back. It won't be the last time that Arean and Zaria travel to such unwelcome places. Zaria is entitled to her feelings and Arean commends her for sharing them with him but unknown to him is her experience of this place. He holds himself as a proud warrior who gives people a chance to prove themselves worthy as his ally. But starting an argument over such a silly concept, trusting those you don't know, is hardly worth Arean's time.

"Have you been here before, Zaria?" He asks as they unpack their bags in a safe spot by the dip before the land collapses downwards into the riverbed where a small stream flows northwards. She seems to know what she is doing and the knight's better judgment is halted when she answers him. Capsin is not a familiar place to him but he is lucky, and rather thankful, to have Zaria's experience here. "Would you rather stay outside of the city walls?" His eyes pan over to the small, log fortification that they consider their sturdy security. The knight, coming from a place of stone and steel, has to laugh at such a barbaric tactic for defenses. It has its perks, he must admit, the ends of the sticks sharpened as they jut out of the ground at any opponents who might be coming near. "Ranir, I am sure, can and will be able to find us keeping camp on the outskirts."

Arean means the words that he speaks, his memory not failing him. The Mage had simply appeared out of what seemed to be thin air the last time they had met without Zaria's presence. One moment the bench had been clear and the next, filled with his expensive clothing and hardy weight. "But then again, we really don't know the first thing about this Mage," he lets out a small sigh, "We could be marching to our graves for all we know and he is just relaxing in some palace with his riches. Whatever he is after, it must be of value to hire two hands to retrieve it. It unsettles me that he thinks two will be enough to fight a dragon with…" at this point, Arean is mumbling to himself loud enough so that Zaria can hear but reserved so that his voice doesn't carry over the hills to any peeping ears.
 
"I don't know," she replies, but she says nothing more than that. Once they find their location, a holed out area defended by nothing more than mere sticks, she takes it upon herself to get off of Legs. It's much more painful than she anticipates, and she lands heavily on her feet. Withholding the grunt of pain, Zaira's hood flips down as she sifts through her packs for more dried meat. She pauses as Arean asks his question, and it's enough to make her stop completely and think.

"...Yes," she says to both questions, but it's said in such a way that either encourages or dissuades her partner from asking further. She does not know which she hopes he does. But then he begins to speak, or rather, mutter, for his words are not aimed at her. She glances at him, realizing that he was uttering the same doubts she had the other night. He is a capable fighter, but if he rethinks their mission, her injuries and her time with Arean would have been for nothing.

For some reason that she cannot figure out, the thought wiggles its way into her mind and sits like a rock. A very bothersome rock. Has she really started to feel something, even mere friendship, for this man? No, she refuses to think that way. She whips back, anger lining her features. Her face is to Legs's saddle, so Arean cannot see her. With a deliberate sigh, she tries to clear her expression and answer him. "You said yourself that we could do this if we work together. I have not come back here for this to be nothing. I don't like this place, and I don't like the people in it even more. It's...." Her voice is raising, and she bites back the rest of her sentence. Vehement words come from her, someone who generally stayed quiet on her emotions, and it's almost strange to see.

"I arrived here chasing someone some time ago. There is no ruling counsel in this place." Not that there were ruling counsels in most of the cities, but Zaira didn't say that. "They have no sense of honor. I lost a good deal of arrows because children stole them to sell. If a horse master sees a beast he likes, he'll hire men to lead it away, and then rope its previous owner into buying a new animal. They're... deplorable. Little more than bandits, I'd wager. I don't know if it's worsened since I've been here."

It's the most she's said since their talk, and even then, she'd been exhausted during their chat, making it more of a one-sided conversation. Dark eyes search the ground as she finishes her story before she deliberately turns back, hands fiddling with Legs's reins.
 
Her words do discourage Arean from speaking more. All he wanted was a simple continuation to the conversation that they had last night. But it seems that Zaria has other plans. Breathing in, he unpacks his blanket once more. One thing he is thankful for is that the sky has stopped raining and their clothes will finally have a chance to dry in tomorrows hopeful sun. So the words in his head take their toll, spinning around and around as he keeps his mouth shut. The bad breath stuck in the back of his throat sticking there and growing as he keeps his mouth shut. His chapped lips open to speak but his thoughts are far too stretched out to be spoken.

It isn't until now that Arean realizes how tired he actually is. Zaria slept, curled up like a cat before the fire, while Arean had to slap himself awake every five minutes. Now the haze comes back to him, the weight of his armor dragging him downwards. Eyelids droop, the reddened eyes underneath them wanting to see the black of the lids and nothing more so that his brain may sleep quietly. But then Zaria starts to speak, her mouth oddly soothing to the thumping of his heart in his brain. Every single time he closes them, another wave of warm comfort rushes over, like a soothing spirit that caresses his entire body. Now he is in the position that Zaria was in last night, a constant battle to stay awake and active for whatever troubles might arise.

"There are no ruling counsel's in many towns and cities across this continent, Zaria," Arean reminds her gently, not wanting to take sides, that much evident in his voice. "But a sense of dishonor towards others for the gain of yourself is never acceptable…" his words, hardly holding the strength it usually does, pauses as he gapes open his mouth and draws in the air until his lungs collect the most amount of air they can. His brain is nearly given up but there is plenty of more work to be done. Firewood must be collected, something that he must do for Zaria should not wonder around with her wounded sides. "And what are we, if not bandits of a gentler nature?" comes his gentle tone, a serious notion behind his slow breathing.

In his mind, they are nearly one in the same. A bandit kills ruthlessly for treasure no matter the cost while a mercenary takes jobs, for pay, that take people's lives too. Not all the time, but the colder hearted mercenaries will do anything as long as they can live in luxurious temples surrounded by strong men and curved woman. Just the thought makes his chest tingle. A woman's touch. Is that thought that pins itself to the board of his imagination, those eyes shutting once more as he faces the small run towards the stream. A shadowy figure appears before his eyelids and slowly it transforms into the lustrous shape of a woman. Then he snaps open his eyes, breath catching in his throat. What he had seen next was Zaria's face. Her eyes have pierced him as sharply as her arrows do their enemies. It must just be his tiredness. That's it. Nothing else.

Clearing his throat, Arean turns back towards Zaria, the world starting to spin ever so gently underneath his feet. The tall knight sways gently for a moment but his pride plants his feet securely on the ground. The last thing he needs is to make a fool of himself by collapsing in front of Zaria. In a rush, he thinks of something to say, something to do, that will disperse his mind from thinking about the woman in front of him. "I should collect some firewood.," but he is quick to correct himself, a hand coming up and stopping her from joining him, "I'm going to collect some firewood. Stay with the horses."
 
Zaira doesn't like being corrected, but she knows he's not meaning to do so so he can prove he's right. When he makes the point that they are little more than bandits themselves, her body threatens to whip around. She is not like those who raided her home or who beat her mother. She captures criminals to be executed, nothing more. She grips the saddle tightly until she forces herself to calm down. When she turns back to Arean, she finds he's staring off into the distance at something she cannot see. Perhaps he's so tired he's imagining things, or maybe she needs to pay more attention to her surroundings. However, when there is no alert that men are coming for them and he turns back to her with a wobble in his step. He is quick to straighten himself, but she does not miss the motion.

She has a mind to deny him, but he doesn't want her to. Her gaze flattens at his words, but then he is gone, presumably to do exactly what he said he would do. With a sigh, Zaira turns, watching Legs as he peers at her. "What?" she asks the horse, as if he's going to answer her. He gives a snort, and she can't help but give him a smile in return. Digging into her saddle bags, she finds the slight bar of soap, one of her few luxuries. She decides to take advantage of the nearby stream, finding she is terribly dirty from just about every element they've come across.

Taking small steps, Zaira makes her way to the gushing and flowing water, watching it burble over the muddy bank. With slow motions, she rids herself of her clothing, hanging it over a branch. She glances to make sure Arean or anyone else is around before she looks down at her side. It had swelled, but it seems less severe now. She takes more small steps into the water, finding the level reaches up to her waist. It's a deep, swirling stream, but she is strong enough to fight against the current. Letting down her hair, she lets the locks get wet before applying a small amount of the sweet and sharp smelling soap. Grime falls away from her hair and fingers, and soon, over the rest of her body. She is careful not to press too hard on her injuries for she knows she'll release some kind of noise if she does. Once she finds herself cleaner than before, she washes away the soap from her hair and face and steps away from the stream. She finds herself dressing slower than she undressed, but it doesn't matter. She braids her hair tightly off to the side and dons her cloak again.

It is much darker than before as she moves back to their small camp, putting away her small amount of supplies back into the saddlebag. Forehead still damp, she rests it on Legs's neck and sighs. She wonders why she even bothers doing this. It seems like too much work to her.
 
Arean is sure to take his time when he moves out to retrieve the firewood. His body cannot handle such an exercise, a soft ringing growing loudly in his ears. Never-the-less, the warrior doesn't stop moving. They picked a pleasant clearing in a lick of trees along the river. The rest that used to shower this land have been cut down to make room for the town behind them. The small cove that they have found will do them justice for they can still sleep on grassy ground but with nature's tent beside them. A wall of dirt cutting sharply into the earth. Arean glances back only once through his journey away from camp, not seeing Zaria from his line of sight but just figuring she is behind her horse as she usually does. Thinking nothing of it, he collects the smallest pieces of wood first and thin twigs that have fallen from these narrow trees. Once carrying a decently sized bundle, Arean makes his way back to camp.

It's when he steps out into the small clearing by the wind of the stream that he sees a… familiar shape dancing by the glittering water. The sun has picked a most opportune moment to shine through the clouds, a reminder that rain is still to come. At least, for Arean it is. For as soon as he clears those last few trees, Zaria is still washing in the clean, cold, water of the river. His mouth drops without him realizing, his body rooting itself to the ground with sticks and kindling pressed to his armored chest. Oh dear… is all he can think of, remembering that very silhouette just a few minutes prior to him leaving camp. If he didn't have as much sense, he would have kept staring at the way her hair tickles every curve of her shoulders. How magnificent it looks, the bareness of a woman surrounded by the crisp trickle of spring water. But he mustn't stare. He can't. But more importantly, he shouldn't as a gentleman. But his face flushes a deep crimson from ear to ear, a tickle trickling down his throat.

Having to pull his eyes off of her washing herself is like pulling a rock up a hill. It happens slowly but eventually it's done. Luckily for him, Zaria had her back turned. Arean pulls in a deep breath, swinging around and blinking sharply. His chest feels as though its being crushed by the sticks that he holds. "Oh shit," he reminds himself to breathe and puts down the pile of sticks to go and grab larger ones. Throughout his whole second journey, he can't get that mental image out of his head, the shimmer of her reflection in the water, the disappearing of her form underneath the cool rush. He collects the rest and slowly, slowly, makes his way back to camp to assure he doesn't step in at the wrong moment.

"You're wet?" he asks when he returns, thinking about the words he just said and the images in his head. Get it together. Comes the voice of his mind, a quiet wind blowing in their direction to cool him off. "I…" he mumbles, his voice croaking gently, "I, just, um, your hair is wet. Did you…" his thumb jams in the direction of the river. He rubs his eyes, "Can you light a fire?" Then in all of his armor, he collapses by the sharp incline covered by strings of deep green grass. "I'm just going to lie down… for a … moment." He closes his eyes, ears still listening. If Zaria is lucky, he will talk for a little more then drift off to sleep.
 
Zaira turned as he arrived, babbling something about her hair. However, it didn't matter, for he simply falls on the ground in an armored heap. Zaira hardly has time to register that he's asked for a fire. She pulls a flint and steel from her pack, kneeling down beside the pile of wood and kindling Arean has found. She has to rearrange everything, for the poor man has just dropped them in his attempt to stay awake. She strikes the two tools together, shaving off just a sliver of steel and sparking it against the wood. As it begins to flare up, she gently blows and sets a few twigs on top of the little fire. Soon, she has a small flame that steadily burns.

Instead of standing, Zaira crawls to Arean's side on her hands and knees. She notices how dirty he is, but he smells oddly good to her nose. Maybe it is the outdoorsy scent, only acquired when one does their own work, unlike the nobles in other places. Sitting down beside him, she reaches over, removing her partner's helmet with a quick motion. He appears to be asleep, but she hopes exhaustion has taken him beyond that so he does not question why she is taking off his armor. It cannot be comfortable to sleep in, and Arean has not slept for an entire day, even on top of fighting and killing bandits.

"You are stupid," she says, working on untying one of the straps holding his chest armor together. "You're not invincible. I could have handled getting some firewood." She knows it's because of her injury, but in that moment, it is not paining her, so she presses forward, thinking him to be asleep. "Being strong and not sleeping won't help us against this dragon." While she speaks, she pulls off the shoulder and arm guards from his right side, setting it down beside his helmet. "So don't be stupid anymore." Zaira finishes the straps on his chest armor, but there's no way to get it off without shifting him around. She moves to his other side to remove those arm guards before she simply perches at his side, knees curled to her chest, ignoring the stretching pain in her side. Someone has to keep watch over the tired knight, and since she's the only one around, not to mention his partner, Zaira takes the task upon herself.
 
In the long moments where Zaria takes off his armor, Arean's eyes have practically rolled back into his head with such fatigue. As soon as he hit the ground, his armor and the leather underneath it poking at him in odd ways, he closes his mind and drifts off into the dream world. The slate of his mind is wiped clean of any worry or other thoughts that had tormented him just moments prior to sleep. Yet, Arean is content with it in the oddest sort of way. Every fiber of muscle relaxes in his body, the beat of his heart thumping him to sleep. But through his deep state of mind, Arean still hears what is going on around him. His mind just doesn't connect what is happening with the real world. It's simply just another voice to accompany the music he hears in his head of a stringed cello-like instrument with strings and a bow.

He might be stupid but he believes that his stupidity saved their lives. His mind answers back to the comfort of his own mind, only breath escaping his body only for more to be pulled back in. He is out like a light. Zaria, if she wanted to, could leave him here by the wood fortified town. But he has an odd sense of value in her. There is an honor of her own which he finds more commendable. She could rob him, sell his things, and never be seen by Arean again. But why doesn't she? His faulty touch of her cheek that one night had been such a mistake that Arean's subconscious practically assumes that's what she would do as a sort of revenge. There is nothing worse than a girl's revenge. At least that is what Arean thinks for they don't just attack the body, they split the fibers of emotion into shreds.

Yet she compliments him, even if she didn't mean to. You're not invincible… Being strong and not sleeping won't help us against this dragon. Even though others might take that as a dismissal of his heroic actions as those that are stupid, Arean thinks quite differently. For her to bring that up in the first place, wouldn't she have to think that he had some sort of talent? She is the one, after all, who used the word at all. He wants to tell her something with his voice but he cannot unglue himself from the state that he is currently in. Sleep is a personal high that not even the rich want to awaken from. You can be anyone, anything, in a dream that reality just crushes. His head just gently rocks in one direction than another for he is happy to be dreaming, his mind needing the break.

The armor is heavy, the plates strapped together by leather belts. But no matter their weight, Zaria strips them from his body as if they were peeling off his very skin. But Arean doesn't know that is what is happening. Breathing becomes easier once his breastplate is loosened, the curling tightness of his chest allowing for expansion yet again. Zaria will find chain mail underneath those plates, a fortress of iron ringed teeth guarding his body from wild strikes of steel. It's a puzzle to free this man from his plate confines but Zaria will be able to do so. If and when she flips him over, he simply grunts, his breath moving the dirt away from his mouth. Something inaudible sounds from his lips then, the ground hearing it in full but even Zaria's ears only catching the jumbled statement half full.
 
Zaira watches the fire in silence, outside of Arean's heavier breathing, and she knows it signifies sleep. She takes that time to finish working on the straps of his armor, managing to heft off part of it before she realizes she has to move him over. She wiggles her hands underneath him, pushing up to roll him long enough to slide the other heavy plate armor out from underneath him. The tasks pains her, but she says or does nothing to suggest it. If she wakes Arean, he would most likely feel compelled to stay awake and keep watch. That sort of honor will get him killed one day, but for now, she can respect it.

She hears him mumble into the dirt, but she credits his inaudible babbling to his dreams. She lets him lay on his back again, pushing the plate armor away. With her motions, she notices a few locks of his dirty and blonde hair have latched themselves onto his forehead. With a light graze of her fingers, she swipes the hair away without really realizing what she has done. When she does, her hand recoils and she goes back to her curled up state. She does not want to do something so intimate like touching. Or maybe she does. "No," she whispers to herself out loud, "I do not."

The fire suddenly roars up, startling her. Out of the flames pops Ranir, brushing smoke from his clothes. He is completely unharmed, though if Zaira didn't know any better, she might have said the fire singed what little hair is combed over his head. He's still dressed in the same robes, but there is no doubt they've been cleaned and pressed properly. He fiddles with his heavy gold chain around his neck, shaking Zaira from her thoughts. She gets over her fright and glares at him. She remembers her bow is unstrung still, but around the mage, she feels that she needs a weapon. Standing, she rips Arean's falchion from his side, gripping the hilt so tight it hurts her arm. "It's late," she says. "I don't know if you noticed what time it was."

"Miss Hale, I may arrive when I want. You two are, after all, under a contract with me."

"We signed no paper stating that."

"A contract that must be invisibly honored." Zaira rolls her eyes and steps forward, her height, at least over his short stature, intimidating. However, Ranir does not back down from her. Instead, he glances past her at the sleeping knight with half of his armor remaining. A smile plays on his pudgy lips. "Were you planning something with Master Ibanell?" It's clear he enjoys the cherry-red color that paints her cheeks, and Zaira shakes her head.

"No," she snaps, bringing the falchion up toward him. "He needed help."

"Is the man-hating Zaira Hale growing soft?" Zaira wants to stab him, and her arm trembles as she fights the urge to act on her impulse. Ranir holds up a hand with a childish giggle. "I jest, Miss Hale. I understand your position. I've only come to bring you something." He digs into the folds of his robes, as many as there were given the fat rolls on his stomach, and he pulls out a vial of a liquid so black it sucks the light from the fire as it swirls. "It's poison," he continues, seeing Zaira's cautious, yet curious look. "It is known as Skinwaste, a magic poison, meaning it has no cure. It paralyzes anything before it eats away at skin and bone. It's made for killing that which is immortal."

"You mean the dragon."

"Precisely, my dear," Zaira's glare is reinforced with the term of endearment, but she does not interrupt, "and if you're quick about shooting or slashing at him, it won't take the entire bottle. Keeping it is in your best interest. You could use it on anything you like." There's just the slightest glance at Arean, something Zaira almost misses. She turns to look at her partner, and when she looks back, Ranir is gone. Only the dying flame signals his departure.

Had he meant she could use it on Arean if she so desired? It did mean that she would get all of the gold after the dragon was dead. The thought was almost tempting.

Zaira dropped the falchion to the ground with a loud clang and she followed it quickly. She hardly killed. If her survival depended on it, she would do so, but in cold blood? Was she capable of such a thing? A glance back at Arean confirmed that answer as a negative. She could not take his life unless he was threatening to take hers. She moves to sit beside him again, clutching the vial of Skinwaste so tight her knuckles pale. Was Ranir trying to turn her against Arean? That didn't make sense, and Ranir didn't know either of them prior to their mission, so it would be impossible for the mage to have a vendetta against the knight or herself.

She sighs, balancing her chin on her knee. Against her will, a tear slides down her cheek. Killing Arean would be killing the man who saved her life, whether she wants to admit it or not. "Thank you," she says to him, even though she's unsure if he's heard anything at all.
 
When the morning extends its hello to the world, the birds the first ones to answer with their bustling little chirps as they flutter around to gather food for their young and for themselves. The town's bells do not ring for, if they still exist, they are cracked and covered under caving roofs and debris. It's not long before Arean, a well rested man who normally grows quite grumpy until he has something to eat, wakes up from his long slumber. Instead of suddenly standing up like a fool would, his head rushing so that he would lose his footing, Arean closes his eyes again. His chest is lighter than he remembers, his arms a string of the same fabric. But he just figures that how the body should feel after a restful night. All he remembers is… well, perhaps he shouldn't think about Zaria in that way. His eyelids tighten until he figures the only way to cure the image flashing across them is to actually wake up.

When he moves his arms, the familiar sound of tight leather straps stretching and the soft clank of the armored plates do not sound. Upon looking down, he sees the dirty fabric of his shirt. No armor. No weapon. Suddenly, before looking around, he starts to panic. The heart inside his chest leaps in aggravation. Someone stole his armor! Some little thief who -- But upon turning his body to the left and right quite frantically, his mind picks out the small shreds of armor that are littered to his side. The screaming voice inside of his head mellows down to a soft murmur. He doesn't remember taking them off. He wouldn't have for safety reasons. Then who?

His question is answered before he can ask it all for his sharp eyes land on the sleeping form of Zaria who is laying by his kneecaps. It's an odd situation, to see her so close and yet know in the back of his mind that she might as well hate him. No. Hate is such a strong word. Dislike? Distrust? Oh his mind slings through a whole bunch of options before he simply lets it go. It doesn't matter what she might think of him. All that matters is his actions towards her. If she fails to counter his kindness with her own, then so be it. Arean isn't going to change for her and she, he presumes, isn't going to do the same for the likes of him. The smile curves at his lips again when the glitter of the sun catches on the battered plate. She had taken his armor off even when her injury. She deserves a good, fresh, breakfast for what she has done. Even, he adds to himself internally, if she put them at risk by taking off his second skin.

"Very kind of you, Zaria," he looks to her blanket-less form, the leather still clinging to her body as her hair did in the rain, "Silly, but kind." Upon hoisting himself up to his feet is when he sees that his Falchion sword is not anywhere near where he had been sleeping. Instead, it's in Zaria's hands, fingers lacing together over the hilt. Whatever had happened while he was asleep, Arean feels no need to worry. His blade is clean of blood both old and new. "Needed something to keep you safe, hm?" he whispers to himself, before starting to remove the armor on his legs. Thankfully, Zaria knew where to stop when it came to undressing him. His cheeks redden at the prospect but he takes no time in recovering so that he can focus on setting himself free.

As Zaria did the day before, Arean now wades his way into the cold water so that he might clean off the blood, dirt, and sweat that have clung to his body for two days and counting. The clear water washes it away with the help of some scrubbing but Arean, by the end, feels as though he is a new man entirely.
 
Zaira doesn't remember when she fell asleep. It was sometime after she wiped her tears away and contemplated throwing the vial of Skinwaste into the stream. In the end, she clutched it in her hand, rolling the vial in her palm. Now, when she wakes, it is still there. Everything is in order, though there is a certain knight missing. She looks around but sees no sign of him. However, her ears catch the sound of irregular splashing and realizes Arean must be doing what she had done before. Standing up, she feels weight in both hands. She doesn't recall holding the falchion while she slept, but it isn't unsurprising, considering how often she sleeps with her bow beside her.

Her bow. Ranir's unexpected arrival by fire makes her remember it needs to be restrung. Setting the falchion down by the rest of Arean's armor, Zaira pulls the bow frame from the saddle and pockets the Skinwaste in her belt for now. She finds the twine she purchased only a few days ago, thanking her intuition for buying it ahead of time. Tying the string in a knot, she binds it around the top curve of the bow and pulls down hard. Satisfied that it isn't going to snap in her grip, she sits down by the embers that is their fire, laying the bow across her lap. She pulls the string taut enough that it just barely bends the top curve. Binding it on the bottom, she bites the string to snap it before she's able to knot the remaining twine. She stands and gives an experimental yank back. The bow bends and doesn't snap, and the string emits a hearty twang as it's released. The new test is to shoot an arrow and see how far it flies.

Zaira grabs her small quiver and straps it to her thigh, pulling an arrow from the canister and nocking it on the string. However, before she lets go, she peers down to her pocket where the Skinwaste is hidden. Sliding the arrow from the string, she takes the vial, popping the glass lid open. The Skinwaste smells of a thousand corpses that have all bathed in rotting meat and old blood. Zaira knows it's magic, but she does not want to think of how Ranir made it, if the odor is any indication. However, she holds the arrow tip still and puts two drops onto the metal arrowhead. It sizzles as it lands, but it does not eat through the steel. Not wanting to waste time with such a dangerous object, Zaira snaps the lid shut and puts it away before replacing the arrow on the string. Aiming for a tree, the only living thing she wants to kill in that moment, Zaira looses the arrow, watching the deadly missile fly, and she follows it at a run, bow in hand.

The arrow's path takes her across the stream, and while she's aware Arean's washing, she runs and leaps across the narrow body of water. As the arrow thuds into the thick trunk of a dark-colored tree, Zaira skids to a stop. What she sees next makes her gasp and cover her mouth with one hand, but she cannot take her eyes from the horrifying spectacle. The tree's branches shrivel and crack with the same sound as a bone breaking, while the roots thrash, and it reminds Zaira of someone shaking their limbs as they are being choked. The trunk shudders and groans as it bends and breaks. The strangest thing of all is the sudden lack of color in the leaves and bark, as if the Skinwaste is sucking the very soul of the tree. A thin layer of black mist puffs out and coats the tree and it devours the tree where it sits. When the mist dissipates, the only thing signifying there was ever a tree is the dark soil and the few leaves that escaped.

Zaira pulls the vial of the awful poison from her belt again, simply staring into the swirling blackness. There is no way she could ever use this on another person, especially Arean. Regardless of how she feels about the man, she at least respects him enough to know if he's going to die, it should be a warrior's death, defending what he feels is right. Not an assassin's way, and certainly not by her hand. Zaira finds herself out of breath and panting lightly, bow arm trembling as she grips it tight. She yet again contemplates on ridding herself of the poison. Her mind hones in on those thoughts, and she forgets she ever crossed the stream where her handsome and likely naked partner is.
 
If anyone were to miss that specticle, the entire tree being brought down into a heap of charred waste, it would be Arean. Perhaps he is too concentrated in his own thoughts as the layer of sweat and dirt is wiped clean from his skin. Or it's just his sort of luck. He tries to be an observant man but other's around him always see the bigger picture. But when Zaria had released the arrow to slash across the sky like a ligthtening bolt, Arean had been humming to himself. In his blissfull ignorance of his surroundings, the man leans down over the waist high water, he had to search far and wide for such protection from unwanted eyes, and starts to splash himself. Learning that this method is not the best way, he dunks his head under the water right as the branches start to crack. Leaving himself there, his chest growing tight with the lack of new air, he scrubs his body down with his hands. It's the best he can do right now.

As he does this, the limbs crack and the roots thrash but to him, it's a distant murmur under the rushing of the stream water. No matter how cold the water might be, Arean stays under for as long as he can. It feels as if he has stepped into another world, a moving path of water rushing past his entire body. He doesn't open his eyes until his heartbeat rings loudly in his ears and it feel as though he is suffocating. Sitting down on the silt and mud of the riverbed, he hardly recongizes the splashing of water as Zaria runs a few paces over from him. Each beat reminds him that he is alive and he has a purpose in this world. So when he can't take it any longer, he stands again. Blinking rapidly, he attempts to clear the strands of water dripping down from his hair. Large hands move and wipe his face clean as if it were a towel. His hair looks black now, like a clump of thick tenticles surrounding his head.

When he opens his eyes, running his hands through his hair to neatly push the jagged strands back, he does not expect to see Zaria so close. His eyes widen, face immediately feeling as warm as the sun as the blood rushes to his cheeks. "Woah," he nearly gasps, his body dipping further into the water as his mind calculates their distance. "W- what are you d-doing?" Arean stutters, his shock seen in wide eyes and the lack of confidence over his form. For a man with such a strong body, he does not flaunt himself in front of her. The thought never crossed his mind to take any steps closer to her or casually flex his muscles so that she can swoon. Other men might try but not this one. His hands cover himself just in the case where the white of the rushing water might be thin. Too thin.

The next question that flies from his mouth is, "Something? D-did you see something?" He concludes that since she has her bow with her, no arrow notched to the flax string, that she had seen something and fired it. Arean had expected her to sleep further into the morning than she had, his mind all jumbled as he fires off more questions, "Are we? Is... I...." Well, fragments are all that come out of his red cheeks, his shoulders pulling inwards so that the muscles all tense in their own fashion. "W-what are y-you doing? Why!" This is not going well. Arean bends down to kneel in the dirt and grime of the riverbed floor, the water splashing against his back. Small globes of that same liquid trick from his shoulder length hair down and over the knots of muscles that litter his chest, arms, and back.
 
"Why!"

Why had she decided to fire the poisoned arrow? Zaira doesn't know, but Arean's voice startles her into whirling around, another arrow already on the string. When she realizes it's only him, she releases the string. It's then that she notices how very naked he is. It detracts her from her thoughts, dark eyes unwittingly searching what she can see of him. Some part of her appreciates what she finds while the other part forces her to look away. Splashes of pink color her cheeks, and her hands clench into fists. The glass vial of Skinwaste pokes into her palm and she remembers what she did.

Replacing the arrow into the quiver on her thigh, she purposely looks at the ground as she speaks. "Ranir came to visit last night. I... That's why I had your sword. He... gave me this." She shows him the vial of Skinwaste, but she does not release it. In fact, she has a white-knuckled grip on the lid, as if she's afraid it will somehow grow sentient and release itself.

"He called it Skinwaste. A magic poison. He said it's made to kill immortal beings, like the dragon." Her head turns to the side, even though she's already not looking at Arean. "He... told me to keep it, after the dragon was dead. That if I needed to, I...." She bites her lip, finding it hard to continue. She shouldn't feel this strongly about not wanting to kill a man. This man has done nothing to harm her, and he has learned from his mistakes.

There is a long pause, long enough to make the forest still with silence. Finally, Zaira forces herself to keep speaking. "That I could use it on others," she says, her words spilling like a waterfall, too fast and flowing. Her bow arm trembles, and if the frame had been anything but silver, she might have broken it in half.

"He meant you. You were sleeping but... he looked at you and then he left." She can't form the words to say she doesn't want to kill him, that she won't use the Skinwaste on him. Nothing comes from her lips except for her short, light, panting breaths, as if she is still having trouble breathing. Truth be told, she is. The weight of killing someone has never rested on her before. She does not inflict death on her targets, and it is rare when she takes a job where her quarry is wanted dead. And now, with the thought of killing her partner in her head, Zaira cannot tell him that she isn't going to. Her eyes threaten to cry again, but she holds herself steady. When did she turn into such a weak woman? No, she's not weak, just confused.
 
When Arean's sense comes back to him, he takes a few deep, deep, breaths before continuing to speak. Now that the initial shock is over, his heart not letting a single beat go, he relaxes his muscles ever so gently. There is a beauty to his form and the way the sunlight glints off of each water droplet that trickles down to the skin of water around him. "And was that the meeting?" He asks next, legs still firmly planted in the watery waste beneath Zaria's feet. "What I mean to say is do we have to stay here in this forsaken town or can we move onwards? That is, if Ranir said anything to you about that." He swallows, still a bit nervous about what she can see and can't see. He knows in his heart that he shouldn't worry so much but the cold has made him --

Focus! His internal voice screams at him, hands still underneath the water to cover himself. The shade of crimson doesn't leave his cheeks but grow worse the more she looks to him. As much as he tries to pin his shoulders back and be the warrior that she has to know him as, he doesn't find the strength to do so. The water, once relaxing, has now grown immensely cold as to cause shivers down his entire spine. Goosebumps ravage his body and he sinks lower into the water as the wind sweeps across the stream. It's when he actually starts listening to Zaria instead of worrying inside his own head that Arean takes a second to absorb all that she is telling him. His thin brows knit together above his nose and his lips cast downwards in a frown.

"Skinwaste?" he whispers to himself, the name striking so many alike chords in his memory but he cannot fish them out. They are too well hidden for him to find and that fact makes him frown even more. Little does he know, that's not the worst of it either. Zaria then lowers her voice to the point where only air comes out. Short breaths that Arean knows too well. "Use it against what? What Zaria?" he asks, his hand moving against his chest. The pieces of the puzzle seem to click of their own accord before she even finishes her sentence. His fingers pad his chest as he strokes the skin there as if trying to calm his own heart down from such a prospect. Was this the plan all along? Zaria killing him? No wonder she never liked him.

Despite the lack of validity of his thoughts, Arean thinks them true. It's no wonder that she resists friendship with him. They've covered some ground but it's not enough. It will be the only thing left now that Zaria has her orders. But then why does she nearly cry. Arean pushes through the water, taking a step closer then realizing, once again, of his state of nakedness. Immediately he shuffles back on his knees, stroking the water on either side of his body as he keeps his focus on the whitewater overtaking a rock beside his abdomen. With a heavy breath, he shuts his eyes and quietly says, "You must do what you are told, Zaria." With those words said, he cannot bare another moment with her. Suddenly she is as poisonous as the vial in her hand. She never said she wouldn't strike him down with it and right now there is nothing stopping him from thinking she will. Ranir most likely will give his share of the reward to her.

So he moves away to the bank, too distracted to realize that he walks right out of the water. He isn't a sight for sore eyes, that much is true. But as soon as every inch of his bareness is out of the water, he pulls on his bottoms and clothes himself on the shoreline. Not a thought crosses his mind to how much she might have seen, even if it was just his backside, but he feels drunk on his emotions at the moment, too oblivious to care. Looking to the dying fire, his shirt in hand, he dabs his face before itching his wet hair. Turning his body away from camp, the shirtless man walks along the river bed. If Zaria should call him, he won't look back.
 
Zaira is frozen. She knows he's leaving and she cannot make herself move. Ranir had never ordered her to do it, and she wouldn't. So why can't she say that? By the time she glances up, Arean has stepped out of the water and she catches herself staring. But then he immediately redresses and walks away back to their camp. She has ruined what little progress they'd made toward a real, normal friendship. All because she can't say, "I'm not going to kill you."

No, she can't leave it like this. Without Arean, there is no hope of slaying the dragon. There is no chance of having a friend, a male, who doesn't want her dead or other deplorable reasons. With trembling legs and a wince to the pain at her side, she puts the vial of Skinwaste away and slings her bow around her shoulders. With that, she bounds across the stream, catching up to Arean as he moves along the river bed. She slides to a halt in front of him, blocking his progress with a hand on his chest. His skin is bare and cold, but it's been so long since she's touched a man, or another human being for that matter, she almost loses her resolve, for she f.

"Stop, please," she says, chasing away the thoughts. She has to, or she'll never regain what trust he may have put in her. "I... don't want to kill you." There, she said it, all was better, right? No, she has to continue. For all Arean knows, she could be lying. "I don't know why Ranir chose to give me the Skinwaste when he did. In fact, I wanted to kill the bastard when he showed up last night. I... I will admit, the thought of killing you crossed my mind for a second, but I could never go through with it. You don't treat me like an object. You saved my life after the bandit attacked. You've been... a friend, when I have not."

By this time, she's straightened up, making her take a step closer, but her hand still presses lightly to his chest. She finds herself distracted, eyes following the musculed contours of his torso and along his arms. "I don't want to kill you," she repeats, but her voice is much softer as her gaze hits the ground. "I don't kill unless I have to. My targets are only disabled when I wound them. When we killed those bandits, I did so because it was me or them. I normally stay far away so people can't hurt me." Her hand shakes and she brings the other to rest on his torso beside it, her mind not on the implications of her actions. Her mind is also not on the idea that she has admitted far more than she thinks, for staying away applies to her entire life, not just in combat. Getting close means getting hurt, and pushing people away means she can't be harmed.

"I'm sorry." Zaira doesn't apologize lightly, and when she forces herself to finally look up into his face, her eyes are awash with guilt. "Ranir never ordered me to kill you, and I'm not going to. Even if he had, I don't think that I would. Please, Arean, I need you to believe me." Not only is there a slight desperation in her voice, it is also one of the few times she has addresed him by his name. Her fingers dig into his skin slightly before she realizes her nails might be doing damage to his almost-perfect chest, and she pulls her hands away, palms still trembling. She ducks her hands under her elbows as her arms cross so Arean cannot see.
 
The stomping of his own feet on the earth don't block out the pitter patter of Zaria's own as she comes up to his position. In one quick motion, he takes her left shoulder with his right arm and pushes her away as he keeps walking. She has yet to touch his cold skin for he has been hit with a winter's arrow straight in his breastbone. All that he had been trying to make between them shatters. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to befriend her. But now those dreams are as real as his father had been in his life. Never there. She springs up right in front of him again but he gives her the same formula as before, this time shoving her over to his left. "I don't want to hear it, Zaria. You'll kill me anyway so what is the use?" Her actions may not stop him but she throws a ton of bricks on him next with her words. I... don't want to kill you. Arean huffs, unbelieving in them as swiftly as the stream next to them rolls.

"Now you say it? Now!" Arean huffs, trying to sidestep her but she mirrors his every move, a hand moving to warm his chest. "Did you forget to speak before?" he questions in anger, his teeth barring and eyes as dark as the thunderous clouds of the previous days storm. "How about next time you open up with that line instead of saving it in the creases of your lies," Arean tries again to move around Zaria, his eyes avoiding hers at all costs until the thump of her other hand over his heart. The severity of the situation is finally trickling into his mind for she had never been so physical before. It was her hands on his chest, his own fingers keeping well away from her. He finds the tree branches above them and looks up instead of at her, his heart beating against her fingertips.

Her apology ripples through the air, leaving a cold chill down Arean's spine. He would have never in one thousand sunsets believed that a day would come where Zaria, this independent and wild eyed woman, would come to him apologetic. In the cavern of his chest, his heart reminds him that, yes, he is alive and well. His sharp eyes grind against the stone of her words and become dull hues. Ranir never ordered me to kill you, and I'm not going to. Her words are tough but the knight chews them over thoughtfully in his head before finally looking down from the trees to her hands. I stay away from people so that they cannot hurt me. And now she is understood. He knows why she recoils because she has been hurt in the past. That's the only explaination for her actions. It's why she hesitated telling him. But can she really redeem herself?

A sigh leaves his mouth when she says his name. When he looks to her eyes next, they are cast downwards, fingers digging into his skin as if she were trying to cling onto him. She needs him if she will admit it or not. He knows that she does. All she leaves on his chest are depressions that will soon sort themselves out. There is no blood, no scarring to be done. The tenseness of his body drains as if a pipe had been opened up. With his face no longer red, his chest no longer attempting freedom from his cavity, Arean speaks. His voice moves slow through the air, his mind placing together the pieces.

"Fine," he admits dimly, "It will take more than words to gain my trust back but I am confident that you will not use the poison on me. At least, I am hanging on a string of hope that you are telling the truth. But... I need to be assured." Steady fingers move up to her jaw, pushing gently until her gaze meets him. "Again, tell me again that you will not use that vial on me. I'll know if you are lying." In truth, he isn't the best judge when it comes to spotting out liars but he is confident that if he can make Zaria believe he is, then he will win. She will tell him everything. His hands are surprisingly soft from the recent bath he had just taken in the river, the small crevases make them look like dried fruit. But they are gentle, only the fingertips touching much like he did before. It's the only way he can hold her gaze. At least, he thinks so.
 
Zaira visibly flinches at his words and then his hand is on her chin. He maneuvers her face up to his, but his expression is no longer hard. She notes that his hands are softer than before, but it's still his touch and her body tenses and prepares to run. Though her head is up, her eyes are turned away, and it takes a moment to force herself to look back at him. For the first time, she studies his face, noticing his eyes and how much lighter they are compared to her own. Maybe it's because he's spent a life time helping others while she has kept away from the world. Now, he gives her the chance to help herself.

"I... I don't want to use the Skinwaste on you. You have my word." The waver in her voice is not from covering a lie. It's fear. A fear of loss. If Arean walked away from here now, she would lose the promised gold. Most importantly, she would lose one of the few friends she's dared to make in a long time. "As I said, the... thought crossed my mind, but subjecting you to such a death," she points to the hole in the ground where the poisoned tree had been, "isn't what I came here to do. I never set out with that goal in mind, and... that hasn't changed now. Nor will it. My... our... job is to kill the dragon, not each other." She pauses, long enough to look down at the ground again as she gathers her resolve. She doesn't know why Arean is having the effect he has, but she can't question it.

She realizes her desire to not kill him is not enough. "I won't use the poison on you," she says, looking back up at him. There are hints of held back tears in her eyes, something intriguing and uncharacteristic of her. She has spent so long penting up her emotions and now they threaten to spill in front of this man who did nothing to cause them. She bites her lip as she thinks of other things to say. "I... need you." Her entire body seems to uncoil at the statement, as if there had been a great weight upon her shoulders with the unspoken words. Admitting something so personal is finally what makes her move her hand, removing his fingers from her chin.

She needs a moment of space, and her head turns to the side, though it is not enough to hide the tear that slides down her cheek. Her glove absorbs the drop as she swipes her hand across her face, and her breath shudders as it passes through her lips. Her emotions have thoroughly unraveled her when she thought she had them under control. She did for quite a long time, and somehow, Arean has wiggled his way past the angry and standoffish defenses and closer to her heart. She cannot say these things to him, for she does not know how. There is still the very slight doubt that he might harm her, but he has never done anything to show that he might. It's only ever been her displaying the potential to shoot him. The harsh feeling of guilt sweeps over her again, and her hand reaches out, resting on his chest again, like she is reassuring herself that he has not left. "...I'm sorry." It comes out only as a whisper now, her words cracked and broken just like the walls she put around herself.
 
Arean looks dissatisfied when she mentions that he has her word one something as crutial as life and death. Words that are so vague will not help him when the time comes to act. The conflict bubbles inside of Arean to whether or not Zaria is telling him the truth. A liar is someone that he does not deal with well. Cheats, liars, and hippocrates are those who end up at the end of his blade, a dark look daring them to cross him. But then her sweet words keep coming to his ears and he feels his heart settle down into a melodic beat, something that he has not felt in a while. She has comforted him after nearly sending him off the edge. He ponders if she should know what happens to those who cross him but, as she keeps talking, he doesn't feel the need. They are both deadly in their own ways and if someone were to turn them against one another, even Arean could not see a victor in sight. Especially when he still is going to teach her how to use a sword.

He knows that such a prospect, teaching his assassin yet another way to kill him, isn't the best of ideas. But she too said that she would trade her knowledge for his. So with a nod, he accepts her apology as the tears dazzle in her eyes. Such a sight makes his heart drop suddenly into the juices of his stomach. If there is one thing he cannot deal with, this is it. Crying has a certain pull in a direction that Arean doesn't wish to reveal. His mother cried when he had been taken away from her to become a guard. Ever since that day, a woman's tears are like acid to him. Seeing someone in pain, sorrow, and trouble, only tugs at his emotional chords, yanking them free so that, on occasion, he has to stop himself from tearing up as well. He might have the body of an ox, well shaped and strong, but he too feels. He is human, right?

I need you. Then the tears come, a single drop being wiped away, Arean's stomach flipping with worry. He cannot see her cry. She is stronger than this and he must remember that and that only. "I..." he mutters, not knowing what to say. Looking back at the camp from over his shoulder, he finds an excuse in finding more wood. At least, that's what he expects to say when he opens his mouth. Before he can take in another breath, it's stopped by her palm against his chest once more. For a woman who seemed to recoil from even his lightest of motions towards her, she is awfully touchy today. Perhaps it's the subject at hand? Arean ponders but says nothing. I'm sorry. Those words are what make him stay planted to the soft earth beneath their feet. Not even his own commands from his brain can move him.

"If I am going to put my trust in you, Zaria, then you have to put your trust in me." With that said, he takes a giant leap, his own heart seeming to stop for a second as the world buzzes in his ears, "Trust me, this will help." Never before had he been so close to her, his hand settling like a cloud upon her waist so that he is out of her arms way. Slowly, he takes her to his chest, her arm folding against him and the warmth that he provides. It's stronger than ever now, despite the wet droplets causing small bumps to litter every inch of his skin. Even though she has sworn, he still feels defensive towards her and knows that those feelings won't just fade. Little by little, he wraps his arms around her and simply holds her so that she may feel the comfort that he can provide. It doesn't cross his mind that she might freak out, being so close to him in only a span of a few days.

"Just try to clear your mind," he whispers, closing his eyes but only feeling the shocking jumps of his own conscious rattle around up there. It scolds him, rewards him, and wonders about her. Most of all, he wonders about the girl he has pulled into his arms. She is stiff to him but he knows that, just like an ice cube, she will melt with comfort. When that day comes, he will be content. This could last a second, Zaria immediately pushing back, or a few minutes depending on how long it takes her to collect herself.
 
Arean has said nothing, and Zaira fears that he will backtrack and simply leave. Why she has grown attached to him, she does not know. She has pushed at his attempts at friendship and yet he has continued to help her without any real reason. Still, she's unsure of him. He could walk away at any time. He could betray or harm her. And with that, she realizes she has done those exact things to him. She cannot stand betrayal and yet she performs the act even where she stands.

"Trust me, this will help," he says, and she doesn't know what he means until she looks up and notices he's much closer than before. In her broken state, she cannot move from his grip. She can feel his cool breath on her ear, ruffling the small strands of hair floating around her neck. His hand descends to her waist and she's paralyzed. Her hand against his chest balls into a fist, ready to punch him away, but she cannot find her strength. She manages to push him just a fraction of an inch away before she gives up. She lets his arms circle around her, but her muscles do not relax. She revels in the bare warmth of his chest, finding that some part of her missed the heat of someone beside her. Her eyes close and her cheek rests against his heart.

And it is then that she releases the dam of tears, the capsule of emotion she's hidden away for so long. Her body trembles in his embrace like the ground underneath a stampede of horses. Tears rivulet down her face like tiny streams, and she doesn't know when her other arm comes around him to grip his back like he is her last life line in her sea of tears. The anger she has felt over the years toward men, magic, and mistakes made by her wash down to the ground. The sorrow at the loss of her mother as well as what she's seen in the wake of the sickness sweeps across her face like a typhoon. She's unaware that she speaks in between breaths. Her words outline the worst of the times she has been hurt by men, noting the nobles and bar patrons. She talks about mistakes such as becoming too inebriated to think and losing money and arrows because of it, or the rare times she's allowed a quarry to escape under a false sense of innocence on their part. It's clear she's thought long and hard about what she's done without telling another soul.

She doesn't know how long she stands there in the clearing by the stream, baring the rawest side of herself to a man she has only known for a few days. The rare moments of silence are broken by her pained sobs. Each deep and shaking breath mars her bruised side, but she does not find the resolve to leave his arms.

After roughly ten minutes of the poor girl spouting her emotion like an erupting volcano, the lava that is her tears subsides. At some point, her muscles had unwound and almost collapsed against him, but she still stands. The arm in between them twitches as her fingers do what little they can to wipe away the trails of dampness along her face, and she has a difficult time unlatching her fingers from his back. This time, she is able to push out of his embrace, but it is not a rough shove. Her tongue flops uselessly inside of her closed mouth as she inwardly flails for words. "...Thank you," is all she can manage after a few seconds. She knows this does not rebuild the bridge of trust between them, but the beginnings of a new and stronger foundation have been started.
 
((From my phone))

Arean should have foreseen what his actions would spur inside the young woman. She has been pushing everyone away for the longest while, Arean's predictions validated as she soaks his skin with their warmth. When was the last time that a woman had rested her head on his chest and spilled out the depths of her heart to his ears? He can't remember. He tries, his mind stretching all the way back to his childhood. But the path that leads there is dark, a fall from grace nearly costing himself his life. For fear of tearing up, he focuses his thoughts on her words. It's important to listen to her and not the blabbering life of his mind that he has already lived through.

Each sniffle or frantic grasping of breath brings on a new and dangerous part of her life to surface. But even through it all, he knows that she cannot lie now. Once a dam as big as this one had been breached, it will take one hell of a mistake on his part for her to shut him out. Is this newfound friendship to last? Arean hopes so but knows that only time can tell. Even though she might try to push him away at first, his iron grip keeps her right where he wants her. She needs to finish facing these demons for they will, and have started to, chew on her. Any other man would try and stop her but even when the same events are whispered about beneath her sobs, Arean listens. Instead of judging her and telling her how she should feel, he only asks questions that are relevant and further her on the topic she is on. It is a wall that she won't regret breaking open for him.

She rightfully pushes him away with the palm of her hand and that's when his eyes open. The pictures that moved through his mind cease and he only finds hers. But instead of looking her as a lover might, his eyes do not tell her much about the thoughts that rest so close behind them. Instead, his hands remove themselves from her skin and fold over his chest as he speaks.

"You are most welcome," his head bows downwards in a sign of respect. "Because a part of getting to know one another is and are sharing those moments that are so dear to our own hearts." He remembers the vague statements that were made. Zaria talked as if he knew who the people were in her short, choppy stories. In reality, he has no idea. But the time will come he is certain. With that said, he turns around and heads back to camp. She is left to follow him back or stay there.
 
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