A single step... (Ymir/Khida/Khasr)

[Jess'e]

Innocent words indeed – Jess’e’s spontaneous utterances flowed from the heart, with no conscious intention of placing an unlooked for burden onto the shoulders of the young Benshira. He was simply a creature of both his personal being and his upbringing, as most are. The former impelled him to give voice to the profound feeling of relief and gratitude that Ymir’s presence inspired in his soul. The latter compelled him to place himself in the position of follower – one to be ordered about and who would do his best to comply. Jess’e had never lived a moment not being owned, and with all that had passed in the night, he had not even yet realized – that he was a free man! Although Ymir held no claim to him, Jess’e most naturally, and without conscious thought, placed himself at Ymir’s disposal – not really thinking in terms of Ymir being his new master – but unable to conceptualize that there was now…no master. When you deny a person power over themselves – autonomy - their entire life, it can be expected that – once returned to them – they’ll have little idea what to do with it. This was going to take a while – this re-formation in his own mind of just who he was. No longer Ba’rat’s – or any man’s – he would have to become his own man. Not as easily done as said. And in Jess’e subconscious, Ymir’s words – that gentle kiss – were a subtle and barely recognized confirmation that Ymir was accepting of this unexpected and subtle transition of allegiance and duty owed. Jess’e didn’t mean to be dependant. If anything, he would have been shocked to know he was placing further strain upon already taxed resources. He could only do what he knew to do, and that was to try to assist the man in charge. Therefore, even though it went against the grain for his own injury to take center stage, he made only the mildest of protests when Ymir named seeing to it as their first task. His assurance that the wound on his back was nothing and that he was alright were brushed aside by the dancer, who moved about to take a better look at the gash. Jess’e still sat on his heels, and submitted to the inspection, that light touch on his skin sending out tiny ripples of warm reassurance. Not so much that he, and they, would be alright at the end of the day – but that connectivity – the presence of another in this most dire adversity – that was more precious than any act of healing that Ymir could have performed. Jess’e merely nodded when Ymir referenced binding the wound, but he hadn’t realized what the Benshira meant to do. The sound of the ripping material had Jess’e’s head twisting back over his shoulder, to look in shock at the act of destruction of Ymir’s own garment. “Ymir! No!” he protested, turning about and halfway rising. The singer, though, put a restraining hand on his shoulder and would hear none of the former slave’s challenge to the use of own shirt as bandage. Not wishing to annoy Ymir, or frustrate his purpose, and seeing, in some way, the wisdom of not using the gored tatters that graced the already foul smelling carcasses beyond them, Jess’e soon enough was submitting to Ymir’s firm plan. The job was quickly and effectively completed, and Jess’e was glad that Ymir did not turn any similar attention to his hand – only in that he felt his own needs were secondary and that time was better spent concentrating on something other than that. So it was that Jess’e turned with something like alacrity to Ymir’s directive that they gather what they could from the foul remains left to them by the retreating caravan. Jess’e nodded and looked at the grisly field of all too short and completely one sided battle, feeling the bile rise in his throat, and tears once again threatening to well in his eyes. But he was determined to push both aside and do what was required, gruesome as the task might be. To Ymir’s gentle hand on his shoulder, he raised his own to grip lightly at that firm bicep, head turning to look steadily at his friend. “I will do my best. I…I think, knowing them as I did…they would want to be generous with whatever they could gift us, even in death.” Their momentary clasp dissolving as both young men stepped away to begin their grim harvest, Jess’s felt a tremble in his limbs as he walked between two of the corpses. With eyes that almost refused to see the reality of what was at his feet, his mind tried to play a trick on him, telling him these was not his friends of the day before. The flies were already gathering on bodies torn asunder, the light and warmth of morning bringing them forth, along with one bright yellow butterfly that flitted incongruously over one of the bodies before wafting off into the grass. Stooping, Jess’e held his breath, trying not to look at the tortured visage, and making a quick assessment of what had been left by the scavenging assassins. Not much, was his verdict. The rent and stained clothing – some of it held in place by either arrow or the very wounds and twisted limbs themselves – yes, those had been forsaken. But on this first of a dozen or so bodies there were to inspect, he could see no sign of a weapon, which seemed the most utilitarian item he might have procured. At this point, here, lost in the sea of grass, Jess’e was not yet thinking about looking for a purse of any kind. What good was money here? But no doubt, if there had been such booty, the plunderers of the night before would have surely relieved the dead guards of such. They had taken the man’s boots, and belt – it seemed ridiculous to suppose they would have overlooked anything of significance. Already feeling a bit defeated, Jess’e straightened and turned about to inventory the next closest body. It seemed to tell the same tale of pillaging, and he stood between the two for a moment, hesitating. His eyes were drawn to the one about whom the others were scattered, in a ragged and very irregular circle. In the light breeze, the flash of a wisp of torn silk fluttered – a slash of brilliant cyan blue against the verdant stretch of the grass beyond. Gathering up his courage, Jess’e walked resolutely towards his master’s corpse. There wasn’t much that he hoped to accomplish – he was being a bit derelict in his duty to forage for useful leftovers. But his mission was one that surely made sense – to the heart. He wished to say good bye. Reaching Ba’Rat, he looked down upon the lifeless shell of what had been such a vibrant man – a man burning with ambition, and passion and vitality. Virile, fierce, and with a strength of conviction, even if that centered completely around his own self-aggrandizement, the Eypharian had seen the world as his oyster and had the ability to wow at least one lowly born slave boy into believing that he was something fantastic. It wasn’t that Jess’e wasn’t aware that his master had had faults - who better to know his weaknesses and foibles than the one who served him, lived with him, ate and drank with him and slept in his bed? But his arrogance, his vanity, his indiscretions and his blunders in the political arena – all these Jess’e could easily look past to see a man who was destined for greatness. And Jess’e was his favorite – his pet – and for that Jess’e was both eternally surprised and grateful. Ba’Rat had saved his life, and he never really understood why, but he loved him with all his heart for that. Ba’rat could be a very cruel man indeed. But to Jess’e, he had been tolerant – almost indulgent at times, for the slave had been so docile and malleable, and beautiful. Ba’rat was not the type of man to be bent so at to want to destroy his own treasures – few as they were. With him, Jess’e had been…happy. Kneeling down beside this thing that both was and wasn’t Ba’Rat, Jess’e held back the threatening tears, placing a hand gently on the unsullied shoulder. It was stiff yet, with rigor, unyielding in a way that the firm muscles of that familiar curve never had been. Cool too, belying the heat of that fresh and smooth skin that Jess’e had so often felt against his own. Moving his injured hand to wave away the flies that gathered at every tear and rent, Jess’e ignored the pain that shot from hand to wrist to elbow and right up to his shoulder. With his good hand, Jess’e straightened the rumpled garments as best he could, and it was clear to see there was nothing of use left to be stripped from his master’s possessions – not that this had been Jess’e’s intent anyway. The dagger he had tucked in the waistband of his own kilt, which he wore in lieu of trousers. No longer did Ba’Rat’s body lay beyond the entrance of his silken tent – for that was gone, as were most of his belongings that had been therein. The assassins had done a thorough job, it seemed. Slowly, Jess’e bent down and placed his chest to that ghastly ruin, pressing his lips to the still silken hair, whispering a last word of farewell. After a moment, he rose, moving and looking, obviously searching for some one thing or person in particular. It took little time. He moved to the spot where he himself had first been struck in the head, with a staff not unlike the one he bent to pick up, out of the tall grass nearby. The aching in his head was still ever present, but the blood from the gash near his hairline had at least stopped flowing. With his one prize, Jess’e walked to where Ymir was performing the same task as himself, and with similar slim result. Jess’e set the staff down and it somehow became the focal point for all they managed to retrieve, which wasn’t much, once they were done with their morbid task and stood looking down upon their tiny collection.

[Ymir]

Ymir averted his eyes from where his ears heard Jess'e's slight footsteps fall upon the bending blades of the grass. Now was his final chance to wish those he had called "friend" farewell. It seemed only right for Ymir to take his place in the background, silently stooped over the stiffened remains of the once living, breathing men who had died so needlessly. Though he could not remain entirely muted in all his actions, Ymir took great care to keep himself from causing any unnecessary disturbances in the gentle morning sounds of the sea. Pushing the sorrow he found rising in his chest over the quiet but brave words Jess'e had uttered a short moment before, Ymir focused his mind upon the task at hand. His entire body shook slightly from the sheer strain of standing. Every bit of him was so battered and bruised he felt even the most trivial movement in a combination of dull throbbing and sharp pricks. His face twisted into a grimace as he knelt down before the first corpse, placing his weight upon his right knee and the tips of his fingers that kept his balance. Reaching out with his right hand, Ymir gently pat down the prone figure before him. The cool, rigid flesh that met his touch sent shivers down Ymir's spine as his grimace deepened. To lessen his feelings of sacrilege, Ymir uttered a prayer in an almost non-existent whisper. Gaining a bit of momentum now, Yimr ran his fingers over the dead man's pockets and around the areas where his body concealed the earth beneath him. Though the contents of the guard's breeches had yielded nothing but disappointment, there was something lodged between the corpse's upper thigh and the torn earth below. With gentle back and fourth motions, Ymir was able to dislodge the object after a few moments. What was released proved to be a great prize. He had discovered the leather flask of water that each guard had carried with him. Yimr let his lids close as he lifted his face up to Yahal in silent praise. To have been granted such a gift was certainly nothing short of a miracle. The water had only been overlooked due to where it had fallen and, in turn, how the guard's body had hidden it so effectively. Yimr tucked the flask into the tattered waist of his loose fitting pants before bracing himself to rise. The action was just as agonizing as it had been during his descent, but Ymir was now driven by the success of his find. Moving slowly from his first body, Ymir continued on. The next two bodies held nothing but the buzzing flies prone to frequent the gaping wounds of a carcass. The fourth man Ymir examined had a water flask attached to his belt, but the flask itself had burst in the wild violence of the night. He had been able to salvage was was left within the pieces of the flask that could still hold liquid, but it had been less than a sip of the now very precious liquid. The fifth and final victim of the massacre was so badly deformed, Ymir was forced to turn away. He felt the bile rise into his throat, but was able to keep himself from releasing his horror. What lay behind him had once been a man but now resembled the likeness of a broken egg. Whatever brutality had done this, Yimr had little idea. He slowly sank to his knees, his eyes watering at the painful protests of his body. It was all just so much, so unbelievably disgusting that humans possessed such dark and twisted motives to bring about destruction such as this. The morning was now complete, Syna's rays illuminated the world in brilliant hues of greens and browns, yet Ymir was only able to comprehend the dull grey of the world around him. The bird song had little effect on him, as he drew breath to once more withstand the debilitating pain of pushing himself up to stand among the fallen. He grit his teeth as his eyes surveyed everything before him. No. He would no just give up. Turning once more to face the mutilated horror, Ymir clenched his fists and drew near. The smell of blood was overpowering, but it was not strong enough to break the Benshira's will. Gingerly lowered himself next to the bloody mess, moving his fingers over what was left of the body in hopes he would be rewarded with some small bit of help. Despite his resolve, the corpse could not offer what it did not have. Ymir took a moment to run his hands through his hair in both thought and aggravation. It mattered little how badly he wished to find any little thing that might be of use. The water had been gift enough, he knew that, yet still he longed for more. Anything to ease the deadly journey across the deceptively peaceful knolls of the field. He had been unable to find anything to defend the two of them with, though Ymir did take a slight comfort in knowing they had at least a dagger between them. He let his hands fall to his lap. Ymir's reddened eyes could now see the dark purplish blotches that seemed a blight upon his once fair skin. He flexed hi fingers out and curled them in, wincing slightly at the sore feelings that radiated from his wrists. From what he could tell, his worst injuries were of the same variety that now infected him with their throbbing reminders. Each time Ymir had risen and descended, the pain had been somewhat less. Now, as his legs strained to move the rest of his body into the air, the pain was much more bearable. Ymir moved now around the site, his eyes scouring the area in hopes that he might come across something the raiders had overlooked. In total, his perusal of the bloodstained earth allowed him two more empty water skins and the broken blade of a sword. The latter Ymir had picked up with great care so as not to bring any more bodily harm upon himself. The piece was little more than the length of the dagger they had found, but it was a one more weapon they had not had to begin with. He turned to see Jess'e making his way over the carnage with a staff in hand. Good. It was a better weapon that Ymir had been able to find. As the young once-slave placed the staff upon the ground, Ymir followed suit with his own pitiful collection of salvage. The two men stood in silence for a moment, staring down and the measly scraps there were to be their salvation. Ymir placed a hand upon Jess'e's should, his eyes still focused upon their few treasures. "Though few, these are what we have been given to survive upon." His hand gently squeezed the soft skin of Jess'e's shoulder in reassurance. "Just as we have survived this night, so too shall we press on and live." Ymir drew the broken bit of blade out of the grass and wrapped the leather flasks around it before tucking it away. He lifted also the staff and offered it to Jess'e as he had been it's finder. Once that was done, Ymir gazed off into the distance, his eyes slightly squinted against the brilliance of Syna's light. "Let us walk the path our caravan was to follow. Perhaps it will lead to some civilized respite." He then did something he had not done in a very long time. Ymir extended his hand out to Jess'e, clasping his hand to the other. The added comfort of being able to physically understand that they stood there not as two men, but a single body, gave Ymir the courage to take the first step towards the unknown.

[Jess'e]

Measly scraps indeed. Jess’e’s heart sank as he surveyed what little the looters had left behind. The most glaring and salient point was the lack of water. Crossing this dry ocean of grass required a canny knowledge of where to find the few streams that fed into the Bluevein, which was far to the east of their current location. Jess’e tried to recall what the talk had been yesterday, about water and how close or far it lay. The caravan was careful to refill many vessels each time they encountered a water source, for some times it would be many days before the next was reached. Try as he would, though, he could not summon any words that would give him a clue as to what the talk had been. For the most part, his duty had been to attend to his master and he had let others worry about such mundane business. He could wish now he had been more attentive. Ymir’s hand on his shoulder, though, and his encouraging words, brought Jess’e gaze up to that battered face, and a responsive nod of agreement from the slave. His hand came up to wrap long, slender fingers about Ymir’s wrist, clasping it loosely. “Yes, we will try.” Jess’e looked from Ymir to the ‘supplies’ again and added, “Not much, but more than we had ten chimes ago.” His tired and grime besmeared face fell into lines of resignation. Taking back the heavy staff, Jess’e was flooded with the memory of how it had come into his possession, for it was his, and that was how he’d known to look for it in the grass. He’d just set it aside a few minutes before the assault began. Before leaving Ahnatep, Ba’Rat had gifted it to him. It was plain, nothing fancy about it at all, and when Ba’Rat had placed it in his hands, he had looked questioningly at his master, and asked what the purpose of this weapon was – for he had absolutely no skill with it – or any weapon for that matter. Ba’Rat had replied quite casually that, as they were to begin this journey, he thought any man, even Jess’e, should have a walking stick. He’d made some little quip – about a journey of great length beginning with one step – and then had laughed and pulled his favorite into a hearty hug, placing a kiss on his lips and telling him to guard it carefully for it might mean the difference between life and death for them both. Jess’e had laughed too, but in a puzzled way. Still, he had taken his lover’s words to heart, and had taken very good care of the unadorned, undecorated stick of wood, as if it had been made of gold. He was never careless with it and treated it almost as if it was a child, for simply having been a gift from his master – though an odd one – he had treasured it mightily. Ba’Rat’s jest echoed and bounced in Jess’e’s head, as Ymir proposed that they should follow the route of the caravan. It was the most logical thing to do, and should not prove to be so very difficult, for that many men and beasts left an easily discerned trail behind. As long as they didn’t stray off into the grass, they should be only a few bells behind, though they’d have to be careful not to get too close and be spotted. They had no food or water, too, but if they could keep up, they might be able to reach the next stream intact. Where Ymir was now staring ahead, Jess’e’s gaze had turned back for the moment, regarding one last time the lump on the ground that had been the man that had been his universe. But he turned to look at his companion, and readily and gratefully reached to take that offered hand, returning the firm grip as best he could, trying to be strong. Again he nodded. “That seems the best course,” he agreed. Before breaking off that physical pact, drafted from two hands clasping together in mutual need and purpose, he looked at Ymir, his expression more steady now, more…resolute. “Let us take that first step, then. Together.” One final squeeze of confirmation and assurance, and their hands parted. Side by side, they set off in the wake of the caravan.