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

by **Jess'e** on June 1st, 2013, 4:20 pm

A journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step…

The third day of Summer, 513 AV

The faintest thin ribbon of pale yellow edged one arc of the charcoal vault, which stretched like an overturned bowl above the slave’s head. The lady Syna dallied at the far horizon of this vast inland sea – a dry sea, where the green waves rustled with a papery susurration, and no gulls wheeled through salt laden breezes. Jess’e, sat upon his haunches, knees hugged to his chest, looked northwards, the dawn slowly creeping ever upwards, off to his right, largely unnoted. His eyes were fixed upon the spot where the caravan had vanished, swallowed at last by those green brown swells – though at the moment the grass was simply black against the lighter slate of the sky . They had left, oh…a bell or so earlier, breaking camp before that even, the noise of many men and as many beasts filling the air for miles around. How long did it take for an entire caravan of men and horses and mules and wagons to rise and eat and repack and be gone? Jess’e had never known it to last for what seemed like several lifetimes. Lying prone in the grass, in the inky dark sanctuary that hid his form from the others – the murderers – he had watched the entire night through. The bells had passed with heart breaking slowness, each one seeming like its own separate eternity. How many silent tears had trickled down those rust stained cheeks – each one a crystalline tribute to the loss that threatened to crush him from the inside out? His eyes then glued to the spot where he could just barely make out the silhouette of Ba’Rat’s broken body – or was that just his fevered imagination? Did the longing he felt create the illusion of that which had become the focal point of his crumbling universe? Ba’Rat – dead. Ba’Rat – stabbed and sliced and skewered, blood pouring so fast from every wound, every hole and cut, it was a wonder he could still stand, his sword arms still swinging, ever more futilely. His guards’ bodies littered about him as he roared out his last defiant challenge – that gagged into a death rattle, as the assassins looked on and laughed at his impotence. Over and over and over this image ran on a loop in Jess’e brain, his body numb from lying so motionless, and from shock. His own wounds were not such that his life force was in danger of seeping out of the slave, as his master’s had done, all those hours before. No, the shock lay in the horror of that vile and treacherous attack – the unexpected rain of swords and knives and spears and staffs. The unforgettable, permanent stain of those images that would never leave him, ever.

Watching in the darkness, he had waited, hearing the sounds of the camp as it finally settled back down, content in the heinous deed that had washed the dirt with the blood of a score of good men – good in Jess’e’s eyes, at least. To him – to Ba’Rat – they had been friends, and protectors. Now they were just a scattered collection of corpses. The smell of the freshly killed had brought out the smaller scavengers of the plains, and Jess’e could be glad of one thing only – that the light of the camp fires and the noise of the demons who passed as men that night, kept the animals at bay. For if the vermin had dared to approach his beloved – had dared to trespass on that hallowed corpse and try to tear his flesh with their sharp teeth, then Jess’e would have risen up, and exposed the fact that he yet lived, in order to drive them away. That much he could do for the man who had saved his life. There was nothing else – but that much, he could do.

But in the end, he simply lay there, having no idea what would become of him, once the caravan roused itself in the pre-dawn, and pulled up stakes, and left. His head was pounding from where one of the bastard guardsman’s staff had swung long and hard enough to send him sprawling, right in the first few moments of the attack. Jess’e had been kneeling down, rummaging in a pack for a blanket, listening to the joke that one of their own guards was regaling a few of the others with. He hadn’t even been with Ba’Rat – and for that, he’d never forgive himself – though what an unarmed and untrained wisp of a young man such as himself could have done to stop the bloody tide of Ba’Rat’s fate was highly questionable. When the men of the caravan that had been paid to do this foul deed dropped on them like eagles from the very sky, all Jess’e had time to do was to turn and look, his face aghast, before he got clobbered by that staff. Flying sideways, he had landed face down, arms out flung, and another of the assailants had trompled hurriedly on his hand, in his eagerness to get to the target. Blood was trickling down into his eyes from a hefty gash in his forehead, as he struggled to sit up. Another murderer – seeing him moving, jumped over the already inert form of the guard who’d been telling the joke, whose head was almost severed clean off. Jess’e scrambled to his feet with an amazing speed, and took off at a sprint, hearing another of their own men intercept the one who was in hot pursuit of him. He almost ran right into another of the assassins, swerving at the last minute, a sweeping arc of metal slicing into his back, but not deeply enough to do any significant damage. He ran faster, into the sheltering grass, as the sound of full pitched battle filled his unbelieving ears. Circling back, he thought to come up to his master’s tent from behind and sneak in under the bottom edge and…then what? Well, he didn’t know but he ran on and when he came back close enough to see – well, it was all over, for the most part. A few minutes was all it had taken – and there was Ba’Rat, staggering from the tent, blood pouring from his many wounds, the devils pulling back to taunt him and watch him bleed out. Still swinging. Still cursing. His four arms slowly drooping, and dropping the three swords he had somehow managed to grab up. Falling to his knees, still mumbling, until one of the assassins came up and shoved him down, onto his belly, and placed a final spear quite casually between his shoulder blades.

Pale, and ready to vomit, Jess’e had clamped his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. Instead, he silently empited the contents of his stomach – they had just finished the evening meal – into his hand, letting it dribble through his fingers and onto the ground. He too sank to his trembling knees, for they would no longer hold him upright. Then he heard the words of the men – they knew he was not amongst the dead. They had seen him run off. They laughed – what could you expect from such a worm of a creature? Should they go after him, one asked. No – let him run – let him run as far as he likes. The sea will claim him. It always does. Slowly, the men rummaged and ransacked the fine tent, and each and every one of the bodies. A few they discovered breathed yet. They made sure to fix that problem in short order. Within a half a bell, the area around Ba’Rat’s tent was quiet – deathly so, except for the pounding of Jess’e’s heart in his ears.

He had lain down, in a spot where he could watch, as darkness stole over the campsite, and Leth’s light shone down, giving some illumination to the grisly scene. How badly did Jess’e long to go to his lover’s side, to straighten those tortured limbs and smooth back that silky hair? To bring his body to some semblance of order and peace, that the stealing hand of time would stiffen into a grotesque caricature of that beautiful young man. But…he was scared. Frightened out of his wits – literally. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t act. He just lay there, throughout the night, waiting for the dawn, and the departure of the caravan. They would move onwards, he assumed, still onwards towards Syliras. He’d heard their talk – of how they would spread the sad news, of how Ba’Rat and his men had formed an impromtu hunting party, and met their fate in the jaws of a family of glass beaks. Those who hadn’t been paid to commit the actual murders had still been paid enough to keep their mouths shut. All except the one – that last minute tag along who no-one had really expected to be around for this. At the sound of that name, Jess’e’s ears pricked up, but the one speaking moved off and he could hear no more – and his heart sank even further in his stomach. That was something he hadn’t thought about, amidst all the horror. He could only imagine what they meant to do….

How many tears can fall, before one is simply…dry? With the departure, finally, of the tail end of the mules and wagons, Jess’e had swiped at his bloody, dirty face, the tracks of many, many thousand tears having wiped clean a wide swath through the grime. Slowly, with great caution, he had come forth from his hiding place, creeping to Ba’rat’s corpse, finally to lay beside it and wrap one thin arm over that gored and gory back. How many times in the past four years had he held this young man – his master, his lover, his love. And now…never again. After a while, numb to the core, he had risen and sat beside Ba’rat, looking out over the endless sea of grass, that waved almost higher than his own head, staring off into the distance, towards the north, the caravan, and the now vanished hope of ever leaving this deadly sea alive.

by **Ymir** on June 1st, 2013, 5:48 pm

Come and listen to the song of the

broken .

Ymir’s entire body felt as though a sandstorm had raged in every bone of his now bruised and battered frame. He shifted slightly, trying to regress back into the realm of dreams. The taste of blood on his lips, steely and unnatural, forced his consciousness to begin its awakening. He could feel the blood pump through his veins. Each surge of the life-sustaining liquid sent dull, throbbing pain through his head. His fingers flexed involuntarily as he began to stir from his sleep, sending sharp reminders of his bruised limbs through to his brain. Sleep was to gentle a word for what it really was: a force induced oblivion. As he regained some semblance of his facilities, the night’s memories began to flood his mind in colorful shreds of crimson horror. Ymir tried to blink them away, but the action only caused them to flow faster, stronger. A quiet moan escaped his cracked and bloodied lips as he pushed his face into the cool earth in an attempt to hide from the knowledge of the past he so desperately wanted to escape.

He had been singing and old song for the pleasure of a few of the other caravaners who were setting up camp for the evening while Ba’Rat and his entourage sat at the other end of their camping area. It had happened suddenly, like the snap of a twig beneath the weight of a foot. One moment, the smiling faces of the others, pleased at his performance, were laughing and joking with one another. The next second the cries of the guards sent a bone chilling shiver down Ymir’s spine, cutting his song shot with a startled flat. It was as if Krysus herself had instigated the entire slaughter, rending apart the guards who were foolish enough to stand between her and her mark: Ba’Rat.

Everything happened so quickly, Ymir had little time to process what had happened and how to react. It seemed time had slowed, as if the rush of Tanroa’s river had become nothing but a trickle. His ability to see and understand what was happening was far from impaired, but his body remained still as a statue, unable to move from its rigid position out of fear and confusion. Ba’Rat’s guards were taken by surprise. They died quickly, fast enough that their screams were not given the chance to erupt from their broken bodies before they hit the ground. Those that were able to defend themselves, did so in a desperate manner. Their shouts and screams filled Ymir’s ears like a horrifying, nightmarish ballad of death. So much was happening, he could not focus on a single instance at the beginning. Men were hacked apart left and right by the blades of the raiders. Blood poured from the openings in their dying flesh as many released their pain and agony into the evening air as their final acts. The massacre yielded to only one who stood against them. His arms flew with the fury of the winds expertly fighting off his attackers. His screams were not those of a dying man, but of a proud warrior fighting for his life. He fought with a rage reminiscent of Ivak’s fury, but his wrath was not enough to protect him. They over whelmed him with their numbers, slashing away at him until he was all but defeated. Jokes and laughter once more rose from the campsite, yet they no longer carried the mirth of before, only the cold condescension of hunter over prey.

For the entire affair, Ymir had remained petrified. He and those around him had stood and watched with mouths agape and fists clenched from fear. Not a single person had made any action to help, Ymir included. They had remained where they were, cowards in the face of an atrocity. Some were too frightened, while others… Others cheered. Feelings of disgust and outrage had begun to swell from within him as the spear was shoved into the back of the young Eypharian. The spell lifted as Ymir was once again able to find his voice. “What-“ His throat felt dry, and his voice broke. Gathering up enough air to try once more, Ymir was able to manage a louder, more authoritative tone. “What have they done?” The others had been released by Ymir’s words, blinking away the daze of confusion and surprise. “What have they done?!” Ymir had begun to gather volume and strength as his mind tried to wrap itself around the travesty that had just occurred. As he moved towards the murderers, he felt hands reach out to hold him back, but they were not strong enough in resolve or grip to hold him back. He had run towards the men, tears starting at the corners of his eyes at the insanity of the entire situation. His breath had come in short gasps as the smell of blood rose to meet him on his way to the raiders. He gagged, slowing his pace and covering his mouth as a wave of nausea gripped him. The men had noticed his approach, but had paid little attention, choosing instead to speak among themselves. Ymir had heard one of them speak a familiar name, the one belonging to the young slave Ba’Rat had kept as a pet. Pushing through the overwhelming sense that he was going revisit that morning’s breakfast, Ymir had forced himself into the ring of raiders. His blue eyes burned bright as he glared into the faces of the others around him and prepared to persuade them to leave the man be.
He had planned to defend the young slave, if nothing else he had hoped he might be able to spare the life of one soul that night. The men, however, had had no intention of killing the boy, assuming he would die in the Grass Sea. The argued it was more trouble hunting the waif down than just letting the wild fauna dispose of him. Ymir sank to his knees as the men split up, ransacking the various corpses and the contents of Ba’Rat’s lavish tent, paying him no heed. Tears had begun to flow from his eyes once more as he covered his face to hide from the gory spectacle before him. He had done nothing. He had felt nothing. Now the consequence of his inaction bore down upon him with crushing weight.

Once the men had finished ransacking the dead, they had gathered the other caravaners together and explained the situation to them. Ba’Rat had foolishly decided to gather a small hunting party and head out into the Sea of Grass alone, insisting that only his entourage be allowed to accompany him. The caravan had awaited his return for an entire night, yet when he did not return they took it upon themselves to find him. He was found, of course, dead by the whim of some wild beast Yimr had never heard of. It was a tragic, yet unavoidable hunting accident, they said. Ymir had shuddered when the killers said those words; the irony was not lost upon him. They had then offered money to keep them quiet: eight hundred GMs per person. Eager hands reached out as the promises of silence and ignorance unanimously erupted from the caravaners. All but one accepted the bargain. Ymir had spat in the face of the man handing him the bloodied money, adding that their souls would forever rot for their travesty against Kihala’s gift. That action had been rewarded with a swift strike to the face that sent Ymir hurtling to the ground. “You’re Yee-meer, aren’t you?” These words were quickly followed by a solid boot to Ymir’s stomach, causing him to gasp for air and clutch his now injured abdomen. They had laughed then, wrestling him up from the ground and dragging him away from the others who cast down their eyes in submission. “What should we do with him?” The pain of the first strike was nothing compared to the beating he had received shortly after the man’s question. Each fist and boot found its way his body in a new and increasingly more painful way. His cries eventually faded with his consciousness, leaving him in a dazed state of half-awareness. As he lay upon the ground drifting in and out of sleep, he had felt the rough texture of rope binding his hands and feet together in front of him. The men’s voices began to become distorted by distance and Ymir’s fading mind. As their footsteps faded, the sound of drums took their place, and where there had been their cold, unforgiving laughter, lyres now joined to lull him into quiet rest.

The rope now bit at his wrists and ankles as Ymir struggled against them in a futile attempt to free himself. He ignored the protests of his body as his muscles burned with effort he exerted. The pain of each bruise and cut served only as a reminder of his weakness. He writhed around in the grass for some time before his exhausted mind and body finally gave out, forcing him to lay still upon the cool earth and gaze at the blades of grass directly in front of his face. It was dark still, quite fitting for the contemplative and despairing mood Ymir found himself in. The darkness was not complete, however, for a sliver of the morning broke the oppressive shroud of the night with its quiet light. This shard grew ever so slightly, like the feelings of helplessness that had sprouted in his heart. There was nothing more he could do now. The slave was long gone, perhaps even dead, and with the morning light would come the scavengers of the Sea whom he was certain would not treat him kindly. This helplessness gave way to a feeling of peace derived from his prayers to Yahal. He had guided him to this point, protected him. He had kept Ymir alive despite the odds, and now? Now it was his turn to repay Yahal with his trust. It was time, and Ymir was ready to accept it.

He closed his eyes, letting the stillness of the morning fill his mind with its quiet. He could almost hear the dying screams of the men who lay lifeless in the grass nearby mingling with the silence to create a muted cacophony that only he could hear. The whole experience reminded Ymir of haunting requiem that found its way into his mind through unbearable silence in the morning aftermath of the slaughter. In the language of the Benshira, the song told the story of a young man who was betrayed by the one he held most dear. A sword shoved through his heart in the middle of the night ended the man’s life; his heart broken with the knowledge that his killer was his own wife. As song played out the tale of betrayal in Ymir's tired mind, the tears started once more down his bruised face. Never once did the voice waiver, each note was charged with the despair and confusion that resonated deep within Ymir’s heart. As the final notes faded into the growing dawn with melancholy echoes, he lay still for a short time before allowing his eyes to once more behold the scene before him. The world was now grey, bathed in the morning of Sea, giving a strange ethereal quality to all it touched. There were the twisted figures of the slain like misshapen statues in a garden of stone. Their pale, sightless eyes stared into the face of Dira as she had come to collect them, their hands clenched and bodies torn. His eyes passed over the body of the fallen Ba’Rat, but were drawn back to it when he realized there was something wrong with the grey mass of arms and blood. There was a figure burrowed between the twisted limbs, a figure that had not taken on the cold stiffness of death. Ymir blinked his eyes several times, trying to assure himself it was no mistake that there sat some distance before him another living person. Had the slave returned? Had he truly loved his master so that he would risk his life to see his decimated corpse? As unbelievable as it seemed, Ymir could think of no one else that would return to the devastation of the camp. He drew his breath, requiring more than usual to call out from his position.

“Jess’e, are you near?”

by **Jess'e** on June 1st, 2013, 7:13 pm

The song had sprung from the earth, somewhere behind him, as simple and pure as the growing light off to his right. It seemed to come with that light, weaving a spell of peace and sadness with its lyrical cadences. To the slave, in his state of traumatized shock, it seemed natural – nothing to be questioned or marveled over – and certainly not associated with any human genesis. He might have easily recognized that now familiar voice. But his mind had shut down to the point that even his heart beat was slow, his brain protecting itself by forgoing any real conscious thought or inquiry. He’d been sitting there a good half a bell, and his brain had not – and might not ever – send the necessary signals out to his limbs to move from that spot. So Ymir’s song seeped into his ear and past his brain stem, to his cortex and there it halted, a melancholy backdrop to a night that he simply could not get past. When it finally wound its way to a last lingering note, he still did not react in any normal or predictable way. He just sat, looking north, looking at nothing. Not questioning how Ymir’s song had come to be rendered on the still air of the dismal plain.

Silence fell again, and still he sat, until there came a question, brought to him over the single note of a newly awakening lark, somewhere far out in the grey grass.

”Jess’e, are you near?”

Jess’e blinked and his brain almost refused to consider the possibility. The song had been easier to consign to just some freakish, triggered memory of the Benshira. The language of its verses was recognizable – for Ymir had often sung in the tongue of his homeland – the original tongue of Jess’e’s mother. But the slave knew nothing of that part of the other part of him, and so the haunting melody, untranslatable and thus rendered into a flowing stream of unintelligible sound, had meant little to his tortured mind – had not called to him – or sparked him to action. But to hear his own name being called…

Jess’e stirred, his eyes dropping down to the battered ruin of his master’s face, fixed in the paroxysm of rigor into a gruesome death mask. He half expected those ragged lips to move, to releases that beloved voice once more, and he waited. That one simple question, though, was working its way ever deeper into his brain, wriggling to the frontal lobes, calling him back. Slowly, like a man in a dream, the slave turned his head over his shoulder. Against the tan of his back, a shallow gash of dried rusty crimson stood out like some horrible misplaced grin, dipping down in a ragged arc. But he felt nothing of it. Eyes searching, trying to push past the darkness of the very last moments of the quickly receding night, he looked. Mound after crumpled mound delineated where each of his friends had fallen in their tracks. One, two, three….four and five…his eyes roved, searching. But he saw…nothing.

Finally, that voice reached his cortex, and shook it with a vigorous rattle, willing him to snap out of this fog. He rose, standing on shaky legs, and turning, to look further into the shadows beyond the grisly clearing. Forcing his feet to move, he took a step and then another, moving past the piles of flesh, the smell of decay already permeating the air.

“Ymir?” he said uncertainly, but his voice seemed to strangle in his dry throat, and the sound came out more like a squeak. Walking a bit faster, he tried again. “Ymir? Is that you?” His tone was incredulous, and his mind half suspected that this was some trick being played on it – by itself, in some schizoid self-delusion.

by **Ymir** on June 1st, 2013, 8:05 pm

The distant figure remained inert. Though Syna's hands were slowly pulling back Akajia's dark curtain, Ymir still could not decipher the features of the creature he believed to be Jess'e. Perhaps he had not called loud enough? He drew another breath, but found his voice lost to the overwhelming feelings of uncertainty that spread through him like a disease. The inertia of the distant silhouette was unnatural, so much so it was possible the form was that of a beast and not a man. Were Ymir to call once more, it could very well lead to his demise, yet... If he did not, he would meet certain death at the fangs of the animals of the Sea in his current state. Closing his mouth and letting the air slowly leave his lungs through his nose, he remained silent, allowing himself to watch and wait.

Very slowly, the creature moved ever so slightly. It seemed to scan the bloodstained ground in front of it with careful movements. It noticed something behind it, slowly turning to examine whatever had caught its attention. Once it had attended to whatever was behind it, it began to scan the bodies of the fallen with careful and deliberate motions. Suddenly the young man rose up - for he was certainly a man - and spoke. The strange, fluid movements were broken by some unknown force, returning the humanity Jess'e's appearance had somehow lost. Ymir released a short cry of relief before answering back, starting once more to struggle against his bonds to rustle the grass around him.

"Yes!" Ymir's voice caught in his throat as he suppressed the sobs that had been sparked by the voice of another he thought he might never hear again. His tired and battered mind was currently unable to handle the overpowering strength of his relief. Rather than a smile and laughter, it chose instead to express the feelings through child-like weeping. "I'm here! Jess'e, I thought-" Unable to continue, Ymir swallowed, trying to regain the use of his voice, letting more of his tears splatter onto the earth beneath him. "Oh gods..."

Hearing Jess'e's weak squeak of a reply had been too much. Until that point, everything had been only memories of some terrible nightmare. They had been the gruesome images of some horror story he had witnessed, yet... Somehow he had come to terms with it. He had fictionalized it, turning it into something unreal - traumatic, yes, but otherworldly. The cautious hope that sounded in the young slave's voice was a bolt of lightning through Ymir's entire being. His body shook with sobs as the irrational anguish grew larger as if fueled by his tears.

Never in his life had Ymir imagined he would find himself here, tied like some wild animal in a green, swaying sea of unforgiving death, among the bodies of the brutally murdered. He had been prepared for adventure, for the promise of wonder and beauty, for knowledge and intrigue. What he had found instead was the decaying carcass of hatred, greed, and slaughter. Ymir gasped for air between sobs, trying hard to control himself and stop the seemingly never-ending stream of water from his swollen eyes. It had been better when he had resigned himself to death. Had Dira come for him, Ymir would have bounded into her arms, a sweet release from the terror of the night before. With that sweet promise of liberation from thought, he had been able to control himself, to silently mourn the dead as one who would soon join them.

Now? Now Yahal had protected him from even that, choosing instead to send the young Jess'e as Ymir's savior. The grace of Yahal's actions was not lost upon Ymir, yet he found his lament sprang from his refusal of that gift. Though he knew he could have done little to stop it, his soul felt the burden of each and every life stolen the night before. He was too wretched to continue his song. It should have ended with the cold iron embedded in his heart as had been the fate of the ruined bodies before him.

His weeping slowly ebbed, settling down to a quiet whimper. Ymir pushed his face into the now muddied dirt, pulling in air through clenched teeth. He knew he had to continue, to start once more down the path he had chosen for himself. No matter how hard he pressed his bruised face into the cool, unfeeling earth, he could not escape his survival. He had to live, to remember, to continue the lives those that perished could not. Yet he knew not how to do that in his broken state. He could only pray that with time he would understand, with time he might overcome. Ymir finally lay still, allowing his breathing to return to a normal rate, his face now flat against the ground. "What do we do now..."

by **Jess'e** on June 2nd, 2013, 1:18 am

At the sound of that short cry, that voice, Jess’e’s heart leapt up into his throat, and he choked back an echoing cry as he hurried towards it. He choked back the sound, for he was afraid that if he let it loose, he would be lost in it. To think – Ymir – alive! The gods had some small pity – miniscule and capricious as it might be. The young Benshira was still alive – and still here! That was another minor miracle – one which Jess’e didn’t stop to try to puzzle out. He had no inkling of the role Ymir had played – the stand alone protestor, the unwilling collaborator. But he had heard at least a smidgen of the brief conversation of the assailants, and their very tone had boded nothing good for the dancer. So, as the slave moved towards the spot where even now he could see the wriggling lump on the ground that was the young man with the beautiful voice, he breathed one silent prayer to Kihala, and to Dira, for sparing this one life – and a second one that he would not find Ymir in as bad a shape as he feared he might be. The sounds of Ymir’s sobs reached his ears, and unbidden, tears began to flow anew from red rimmed eyes that had seemed to have already cried themselves dry. Running the last few steps, Jess’e fell to his knees, his hand snaking out to touch…but stayed in their reach at the last moment, afraid of what he might find. Ymir’s face was turned into the very earth, and in the ever increasing light of the dawn, Jess’e could make out the dark blush of bruises all up and down Ymir’s upper arms. His gaze flickered to the young man’s legs, and the tale was the same. Ropes bound his ankles, pulled tight and biting cruel furrows into the Benshira’s skin, and from the way Ymir’s arms were crooked under his chest, Jess’e could easily guess his hands had received the same treatment. Here and there on the dancer’s clothes were dark splotches, charcoal now but Jess’e knew – in the pit of his stomach he knew – in the light of day they would take on a hue of rusty brown – that of dried blood. Sobs wracked that athletic but slightly built body, Ymir’s shoulders shaking with the pent up grief and horror of the night before – and perhaps…pain? For surely, to have bound him thus bespoke that he had been ill used all the way around?

With trembling hand, Jess’e completed the gesture, touching Ymir ever so gently, one light stroke on the other’s hair, his fingertips unavoidably testing for the feel of wet blood. “Ymir,” he soothed, in little more than a hoarse whisper. “Ymir, shhh, it will be alright.” A mindless platitude, but like most of its ilk, well intentioned, if meaningless in substance. It was odd – he’d never touched Ymir before this moment. Despite the looks that had passed between them these weeks of their journey, there had never been even the smallest accidental brushing of arm against arm, no friendly clap on the shoulder, no sitting knee to knee at the cook fire of an evening. His hand trailing to the singer’s back, coming to rest between his sharp shoulder blades, Jess’e leaned forward, his other hand – useless and swollen where the assassin had ground it under his boot heel, moving from its guarded position to clumsily caress the near shoulder, where it ran in a smooth curve into the muscle of Ymir’s bicep. With his head close enough to the Benshira’s so that he could almost whisper in his ear, Jess’e repeated, “Shh, don’t cry - it will be alright,” despite the silent tears that streamed down the slave’s own cheeks.

The shuddering sobs quieted, and then stilled, and a muffled, desolate voice emanated from that downturned face.

”What do we do now…”

It was an excellent question, and though it certainly expanded far beyond the immediate, Jess’e couldn’t think past the very next moment. Swallowing back more tears, he stroked Ymir’s hair once more and said in a low encouraging voice. “We do what we can. That’s all we can do.” It didn’t make much sense, but he meant it with every fiber of his body. Jess’e had not been trained up in the ways of the gods, and truthfully, he set little store by them. What slave ever did? But he had a great deal of faith in fate – it had raised him up, and then cast him down, only to raise him up again – higher, from his point of view. All any man could do was to just keep on going, and wait for the next turn of the wheel. Until then – they’d just…live. If they could.

He gave Ymir a fleeting hug of comfort and sat back on his heels, as he gently tried to push the young dancer over, onto his side, or his back. He was terrified of what he might see. Great gaping holes – deep slashing cuts – a caved in chest – he held his breath. But in fact, though the torn clothing and spots of blood here and there gave proof that Ymir had indeed paid the price for his being a stranger to this wicked plot, what Jess’e saw in the thin light of earliest morning – or to be more precise, what he didn't see, had him releasing that inheld breath with a whoosh of relief. For the first time since he’d looked up from that pack the evening before, only to be smashed in the head, he felt a flutter of true gratitude. Not enough for a smile. But he nodded with some inner sense of satisfaction. At least on the outside, it did not appear that Ymir had incurred any life threatening injuries.

“And the first thing I can do for you is to remove these ropes,” he said, his voice still quiet, and a bit shaky with the relief he felt coursing through his veins. His fingers went to the bindings about Ymir’s wrists, fumbling for a few seconds. But the cord was thin and pulled tight and most viciously secured – they were not the type of knots that were meant to ever be undone. Jess’e’s injured hand was of no use, either, so after only a few futile moments, he looked into Ymir’s poor, battered face – those handsome features now so sadly abused, the brutish blush of angry deep purple and dark blue spreading over cheek and nose and jaw and eye socket. “I’ll have to get a knife,” he said softly, and in a trice, he had risen and was moving back towards the tiny field of corpses.

He didn’t pause to hunt about and explore those gruesome remains. Letting those dead rest in grisly peace, he went straight to the one that he knew would forgive him readily and wholly for the theft he was about to commit. Reaching Ba’Rat’s body, Jess’e steeled himself not to throw his arms about the pathetic remains that had one day before been bursting with life and love and plans and ego. Averting his eyes as much as he could, he reached for the belted sash about the Eypharian’s waist, slipping his good hand inside and fishing out a dagger. It was exceedingly sharp, and exquisitely crafted – and left behind by the scavengers only because they hadn’t known where to look for it. It was a weapon of last resort, but in the end, it had been of no use whatsoever in that full frontal assault. With his fingers wrapped about its jeweled hilt, Jess’e touched the fine silk, now rent in a dozen places, with his swollen hand, and murmured a silent thank you, before trotting back to his fellow survivor.

Upon reaching Ymir, he knelt once more. “Hold still,” he breathed. “It’s very sharp. I don’t want to nick you.” Going right to work on the knots, his eyes fixed on his task, but his mind tried to also focus on a thousand other whirling concerns. Of these, he picked the least important, really, to be thinking about, but the question was one that had him puzzled so he asked it anyway.

“What happened to you? Why did they do this?” He didn’t think to ask ‘where were you’ or ‘why didn’t you help us.’ It wasn’t Ymir’s place – to play hero. He was just another traveler. The spite that had spelled the death of Jess’e’s master and all his guards was not such that it should have brought such mistreatment down upon this stranger. But it had, and Jess’e could not help but wonder - why.

by **Ymir** on June 2nd, 2013, 3:11 am

The warm hands of the once slave had a strangely soothing effect on Ymir as he was gently moved to his back. Cold blue eyes met with the growing bright of the sky as those few tears he had yet to shed dripped down his temples. Jess'e's assurance that all would be well was absurd to the point that Ymir appreciated the sentiment if nothing else. Here he was, lying in the dirt and grovelling before the gods in his despair, as the slave who had lost everything to gain the freedom he did not ask for nor desire did his best to cheer him. Ymir had not lost everything that was known to him. In fact, he had lost nothing but mira. How odd that the one who should have been despairing most was doing everything he could to aid the one who should have been strong. His mind had been too scattered to listen to what Jess'e had said before he had gently moved Ymir onto his back to better examine him in the fast dawning light of the morning. It had been the answer to his bitter question, but he could not remember the exact words.

The next sentence helped remind Ymir of what his unconscious had retained: do what we can. While he was grateful his hands and feet would soon be free, he remained silent, focused upon what he could do. He felt the tug on his wrists as Jess'e's futile attempts to remove them met much the same end as Ymir's struggling. A knife was required, so Jess'e rose to find one, using his gentle, motherly tones as a pacifier to explain what he was doing and reassure Ymir at the same time. As the other man moved away, Ymir cursed under his breath out of frustration and humiliation. Long had he considered himself strong, able, even wise. He had been so arrogant as to assume he was greater than others, but foolish enough not to realize he had done so.

His aching body felt no relief in his new position, but Ymir made no attempt to change how he lay. He had wasted enough time trying to escape from the reality that was. No matter how terrible or unbelievable, it had happened. Wallowing in self-pity was no longer an option for him, for both he and Jess'e would need all the help the other could give if they were to survive their current plight. Ymir shook his head slightly and grit his teeth in defiance at his own thoughts. Not if: when. They were not going to die out in the rolling hills of the waterless ocean. Yahal had protected both of them for a reason. What they faced now was a test, and Ymir had never allowed himself to give up in the face of hardship. This should have been no different.

He turned his head so that he could once more look upon what was now a grave, choosing to focus on the bright pillar of hope among the desolate destruction that lay scattered about him. Ymir blinked back tears as he observed Jess'e retrieve a hidden blade from the corpse of his old master. The light was now present enough he could make out Jess'e's lips moving in silence. He knew not what Jess'e had whispered, but if a young slave had the strength to continue, so did he.

Upon the return of Jess'e with knife in hand, Ymir let his thanks show in his eyes and did as he was told, tensing his muscles slightly to keep from shifting about as he felt the cool metal brush against his skin beginning to remove his bonds. He could see the young man had as many things on his mind as the stars in the night sky, so he merely waited for the first of what he was sure were many questions. It was surprisingly self-less. Another twinge pulled at his heart as he closed his eyes to hide his shame.

Ymir did not lie. It was not that he lacked the ability - though it was certainly said by those that knew him if he did lie, it would be terrible -, he simply found the truth to be more worth his expenditure of breath. So, despite the guilt he felt, Ymir replied in a shaking voice. "I did nothing to help you." He paused slightly, trying to clear his wavering tone. "When they attacked, I stood there with the rest, unwilling to come to your master's aid." Ymir shook his head slightly, so as not to move his arms and receive the cuts he had been so blessed to avoid. He drew in another breath, his bruised ribs protesting at the amount. Letting the air pass out through his mouth, he gathered himself. Now was not the time for tears. It would do neither of them any good, and more than enough had been shed for their entire lifetimes.

"I confronted them once they had accomplished their goal." Ymir's mouth turned up in a grin, but his eyes burned with disgust. "By the time I spoke, there was nothing left to say. They passed by me, as if I were naught but a spirit. lost without voice." Another pause as Ymir drew breath once more. "They gathered us up like a flock of bewildered sheep, too senseless to do anything on our own. We were told a story, some falsehood regarding the events that had just transpired before us." He grit his teeth as the memory of the man's detestable drivel once more replayed in his mind. "The benachag thought to buy us off with money. The others accepted what I could not. My refusal earned me the prize you see before you."

There was no need to go into detail over what happened after that. The sounds of the morning had started some time during his explanation, but he had been unable to hear them over the sound of his voice and thoughts. Now, the cheerful chirps and quiet rustlings seemed to be the alien entities in the Sea. There should have been no happiness here, and the bird's song was an unwelcome reminder that time passed with an indifference to any and all things. His eyes shone bright as he beheld Jess'e for the first time since the night before. Ymir had assumed the young man had been lucky enough to escape unharmed, but that had proved false.

Jess'e carefully cradled his hand close to his chest as he focused his attention upon the obstinate ropes that refused to relinquish their grasp upon Ymir's bruised wrists. Ymir could see other bruises that had begun to form on Jess'e's body where he had made contact with the ground. "When they said you had run off, I had hoped..." He let his eyes fall from the other man to focus on a blade of grass that shivered in the morning breeze. "I had hoped you had escaped unharmed." While Jess'e was in a much better condition than his fallen comrades, Ymir saw only the injuries the other had sustained. "I am..." Sorry? What good would something like that single useless word do for either of them?

Ymir instead raised his eyes once more to meet with Jess'e's. "Thank you. I am indebted to you and your kindness." There was nothing else Ymir could say, so he finally allowed his mouth to shut so that the other might speak. The once grey landscape had begun to take on its full, vibrant beauty of greens and browns and blues. The night had ended and dawn had broken over the black evil of the night like a wave passing over the shore. With it, the past was dragged away out into the sea of time, and a clean, unfurrowed bank left behind. So too did Ymir release his fears and doubts, placing trust in his future. In their future.

by **Jess'e** on June 2nd, 2013, 2:09 pm

Even the keen edge of the little dagger proved only a well balanced match to the stubborn resistance of the woven fibers of the rope. Jess’e’s left hand was, for the most part, useless. The thumb and first two fingers were badly swollen and already deeply stained indigo with the pooled blood under the skin and deep in the tissue, the digits unmovable. When that heavily booted foot had fallen on them, it had caught his hand at an odd angle and with the grinding motion of its owner, had smashed and twisted at the same time. Unknown to Jess’e, but easily something anyone with any modicum of experience of injuries would quickly deduce, they were all three broken, in multiple places. Manipulating anything was impossible. To try to use the hand with any amount of force was excruciating. So as he worked with the dagger held in his right hand – which, perhaps luckily, was his dominant hand – he could only cradle the injured one against his abs, and hope that Ymir was up to the task of providing the resistance to the force of the dagger’s blade in order for him to slice against the rope. Ever so carefully, he wiggled the tip under the outer most strand, for he thought it would work best to pull up to slice through the bonds, instead of trying to hack downwards – which seemed both likely to be futile and risky, as far as cutting into the one he was trying to aid. After a moment of getting the dagger in place, he began to pull outwards, and Ymir, understanding the plan intuitively, resisted his slight sawing motion, as he began to speak, answering Jess’e’s questions.

The tale told was succinct indeed, but each word fell like a hot stone into Jess’e’s chest, weighing him down and smoldering like his very heart had been turned to ashes. As he fought with the mulish binding, so too he fought to hold back the tears that still yet formed. He needed to see, so as not to accidentally flick the tip of the dagger into Ymir’s flesh. He needed to concentrate, to focus his mental energy to aid the physical struggle of blade versus cord. He didn’t dare to look from his task to Ymir – one sight of that battered face would have been the death of his resolve, and he felt he might just curl up in a ball and cry himself to death. Biting his lower lip as he sawed carefully, he kept his eyes pinned to Ymir’s wrists, and it was actually a surprise to feel the first pop, as the rope finally succumbed, the dagger jumping in his hand.

Carefully, he laid the little knife aside, as his fingers plucked at the now severed ends, trying to puzzle out the warp and weft of how the murderers had secured their captive.

“I’m glad you did nothing,” he said, his voice calm now with the resolution that his tears were done, for the moment. Later he could cry. Later, he would cry – oceans and whole universes of tears. He knew this. But right now, he would do his best just to keep moving. “I’m glad your god preserved you, so that I could find you.” His fingers worked, clumsily as there was only the one set. “If you had tried to assist us, you would be like them, now.” He nodded in the direction of his fallen comrades.

He had reached an impasse with the ropes – apparently whoever had done this job had greatly feared that Ymir would somehow loose himself, and had taken extra care to make sure that would not be possible. Jess’e had managed to get some of the cord untwisted, but there was a triple looping at one point that had tightened so, possibly as planned when the one bound struggled, that his fingers were of no use trying to undo it. Picking up the dagger again, he finally felt he could look at Ymir directly. Green-amber eyes searched those brilliant blue ones, the sentiment of his words echoed in their tear sheened depths.

“I’m glad you are alive, Ymir. I thought…I was sure…”

No, it wasn’t possible. Feeling the sting of the tears that once more trickled down his cheeks, Jess’e’s voice tapered off in a choking sound. With a quick shake of his head, his eyes dropped back to Ymir’s wrists, and his unfinished business. With an unconscious gesture, the slave shrugged his one shoulder up and bent his face to wipe the tickling moisture away against the bare, bronzed skin, leaving behind a smear of dirt, tears and a trace of blood on its rounded surface.

Pulling both lips in, compressing them, he meant to get back to his task. But Ymir spoke again, and the simple fact that the dancer had cared was more than enough to break down Jess’e’s resolve. And if that hadn’t been enough – there was the stark fact of what he had done – or really, what he hadn’t done. He had run away. He wasn’t an incredibly strong person, and this nightmare was unlike anything he could have even conceptualized. The back stabbing and treachery of court intrigues back in Ahnatep was like child’s play compared to the sheer heinous brutality of what had transpired here. Oh, he had heard of such goings on from time to time. But that had always been…remote…removed…and not part of his own personal existence. With tears coursing down his face, he shook his head again vehemently. Both hands flew up to cover his face – the one swollen and bruised and the other possessed of a knife that threatened to poke Jess’e’s own eye out if he wasn’t careful.

“I did! I ran away!” he cried out. “I ran away I didn’t go back! I hid in the grass, like a coward! I should have died! I should never have left him. I should have been there with him!” Jess’e’s tone, at first simply anguished, was growing more strident with each passing moment. He had bent over, his face and hands pressed against his knees, his job forgotten. Ymir’s need forgotten.

“Do not thank me! I have done nothing – nothing! I am a worm. They were right not to care – not to follow me. What could I do? A worthless worm like me!”

He was sobbing, full tilt, the roller coaster of emotion now hitting him full force, as slowly his brain was coming back to full functioning. The flat effect was left behind, and now the pent up hysteria, held at bay for so many hours, pushed to the fore. Collapsing onto his side, his face now in the dirt, as Ymir’s had been a short while before, he wrapped his arms about his head, as if he would hide, sobbing uncontrollably. Between the gasping shudders, he repeated over and over, “I let him die. I left him. I let them kill him.”

by **Ymir** on June 2nd, 2013, 4:39 pm

Ymir released a surprised yelp as Jess'e threw his hands up towards his face, knife held tight in his right. With the same unbelievable luck that had kept them so far, the knife did not embed itself into the bronze flesh of the young man. The blade instead rested harmlessly against his cheek, glinting in the morning light. Jess'e's tears were not unprecedented, for they held a sound much like Ymir's had had: a gushing, overflowing of emotions too great to hold any longer. Ymir's hands were not yet free - if anything the ropes around his wrists were tighter - yet watching the young man before him begin to debase himself just as Ymir had done in silence, the bonds were forgotten.

Rolling himself onto his side, Ymir struggled his way over to the fount of tears that had become Jess'e. Each twist and drag felt like an echo of the boots crashing down upon his skin, but Ymir was too engrossed in reaching Jess'e to care. His face was twisted in unconscious pain and focus as he reached the knees of the young man who now compared himself to one of the crawling creatures of the earth. Ymir pushed himself up into a sitting position, his biceps screaming out protests as he did so. Just as Ymir rose did Jess'e fall. Their roles had shifted in an instant, like a coin being flipped by the indifferent hand of Lhex.

Now Ymir gently placed his hands (for to do so with just one was impossible) upon the soft, shaking shoulder as he whispered quiet, soothing words in Shiber. He knew the young man could not understand what he was saying, but he knew not else how to give comfort to one so distraught. His eyes carefully traced the lines of Jess'e's body, following the curves and dips of his structure; the rhythm of his words echoing the rise and fall of Jess'e's body. There was a gash upon the boy's back that had sealed itself once, but had started to give fresh blood when Jess'e had thrown himself upon the ground. It appeared a biting wound, but in his current state Ymir could do little to alleviate that pain. For now, Ymir ignored it, choosing instead to gently pull the knife from the sobbing mess of tears and set it aside where neither of them would cut themselves upon it.

Ymir moved his hands once more to place them upon Jess'e's head, gently stroking his hair like a mother over her crying babe. He did not try to shush Jess'e as a many a woman in his Tent might have done. It was clear the once slave could no longer pretend the world was as it should be. If anyone could understand, it was Ymir who only seconds before had been in much the same state. Instead, as his fingers gently moved through the matted strands of once well-groomed locks, his voice dropped into a low lullaby. The song was one that his father had sung to him many a night. It had little story behind it: a tale of a sheep lost and found, but it carried with it a powerful emotion of loss and love. Bending over the young man, Ymir let his eyes close as a few tears left his lashes. His voice was wavering, lacking the strength with which his father had sung, yet still it carried with it the colors of his heart. It did not last long, as most lullabies were meant for the gentle descent into the world of Nysel to dwell in his company, but in the quiet noises of the morning it seemed to linger like the warm, sweet scent of a fire.

With the final note, Ymir placed his forehead against the dark, still mass of hair where Jess'e had fallen silent. "Then we shall both bear the burden of our inaction." The smell of sweat and stale fear was strong with his face buried in Jess'e's curls, yet Ymir remained with his hands pulled to his stomach, unable to reach out in their currently bound state. "But we shall bear it, not crumble beneath its crushing weight. I for my own sake, and you..." Ymir's breath caught, before he could continue. For the entirety of the journey up until the moment Ba'Rat had been slaughtered, he had neither understood nor agreed with the undying devotion Jess'e had shown his master. Yet here he was, reinforcing that notion, and he could not stop himself for all the world. "You for the sake of the one... you loved."

He pulled back now with a grimace, finally taking heed of his body's protests. Ymir kept himself upright, gazing down upon Jess'e with a sadness that sprang from the depths of his heart. They had been broken, shattered by the horrors of the night. Their bitter pieces had been scattered like grains of sand across the endless, shifting sea of green before them. Somehow they remained. Some miracle had given them the chance to move on, to rebuild. With each breath, Ymir's mind grew clearer, his hopes higher. The weakness that had seemed so absent in the caring actions and words of his companion had finally emerged. That emergence was the final piece Ymir needed to regain his sanity. As Jess'e had helped him, he would return the favor. He would stand strong as he should have from the start to be the pillar he had so desperately needed only a short while before. Jess'e had been kind enough to provide him with such support. Now, Ymir intended to return the favor.

Ymir waited for Jess'e to regain his composure, or what he could gather up and smash together to pass for it. As he waited, he mulled over what Jess'e had said in response to Ymir's story. Jess'e had been glad, thankful even, that Ymir had not run in to fight. What Ymir felt shame over, Jess'e viewed as a blessing. So too did Ymir feel over what Jess'e saw as his own worthlessness and cowardice. He found words began to rise from within him, from the same place he kept and stored the many songs that would pour fourth with such emotion. Once more, he gazed down upon Jess'e with gentle eyes, "I am also glad you live yet, Jess'e. Were you to be as they, still and pale upon the ground, I fear I may have joined you."

He let himself fall back into silence as the birds began to sing their morning songs. The Sea had begun to awaken in its splendor and beauty, oblivious to the two men to lay cradled in its unfeeling embrace. The wind blew gently through the billions of blades that clattered together to create the dry whispers of nature. In the distance, birds took to flight, flitting back and fourth as dark specs against the brightening sky. It was as if the Sea was a stranger to the gore and trauma that lay still and frozen within its verdant waves. Looking out over the vast landscape of the grassy ocean, it was almost believable that nothing had happened, that it had all been some horrific nightmare. But it had happened. It had ingrained itself forever into the minds and memory of the two men who had survived it, and surely it lay heavy upon the hearts of those who had left it behind.

Having nothing left to say and hands still bound, Ymir simply sat there with a look of strength and defiance burning once more. His blue eyes stared into the distance with a challenge sparkling in their glimmer. There would be a time for tears, a time for mourning the tragic loss of life. Now, however, was not that time, not for Ymir.

by **Jess'e** on June 3rd, 2013, 11:37 am

Insensate to the struggles of his abandoned companion, Jess’e let his grief and fear and exhaustion flow like a river, from his heart to his eyes and down into the earth of the great sea. It was not until many moments had passed that he was cognizant of those hands on his shoulders, the soft, sibilant words that eased from Ymir's lips and into his own ears, and the loss of the dagger from his loosened grip. Like a child, he cried still but those unintelligible sounds soothed him even as he sobbed. He felt the caress of those still tightly bound hands on his head, as the tones transitioned into a cadence of song, their rhythm falling into a pattern that seemed to tell of sorrow and comfort, though in truth he had no idea what it all meant. If Ymir cried too, Jess’e wasn’t aware of that, insensate even to whatever warbling or slight stumbles the singer might have made, only hearing the reassurance of the hopeful melody, echoed in the whispered words that he did understand. Yes, they would bear that burden. It was not one that he could shun – not one that he would ever wish to deny. But yes, they must bear up, and move on, somehow. At the naming of the reason that he must do what seemed to be the impossible – the reason that both of them were in this horrible mess (though Jess’e did not see it that way) – the slave gasped, and hiccupped and drew in a deep breath. Yes, for Ba’Rat. There was no thought of taking revenge on the assassins. That wasn’t how Jess’e was built, mentally. But he would go on, and live, if he could, and carry the heat and light of Ba’rat’s love and kindness and greatness with him forever. That he would do for his dead master.

For a long, long moment, Jess’e remained as he had been, prostrate on the cool earth, face down, turned away from the morning light and from Ymir. After a while, Ymir spoke again, and Jess’e listened, and understood. He did not have a god of his own, but he had some small sensation that perhaps this was one of their tests – a blessing amidst the pain, if they would but see it as such. He needed Ymir, and Ymir needed him, if they were to go on living. There was some weaving of their fates at work here, though the slave could not see the entirety of the fabric there were yet creating. With a huge sigh, he gathered his mental energies and pushed himself upright, bearing his weight on his hip and palms for a moment, his face still turned away from the one soul left to him. In a small voice, he finally said, “Then if I was left alive, to be your salvation, so too must you be mine, for I do not think I could have the will to go on if you were not here to be with me.”

Rolling to sit upright, he looked at Ymir, not even really suspecting what it had cost the dancer to wriggle over to him. Jess’e’s expression was sad, still, whereas he could see that his friend’s was etched with a new and fierce determination. The new, bright light of a sun fully risen illuminated that swollen and bruised countenance, but Jess’e could not think of a time when he had looked upon Ymir when the Benshira had seemed as noble in bearing as he did in that tattered state. His hands reached out to gently cradle Ymir’s, still bound together, and he said, “I’ll do my best to bear my burden, and take my strength from you, as long as you are by my side.”

His eyes darted away, to find the dagger, which he took up. It was no small task to wrest the last of the rope from Ymir’s hands, but finally it was accomplished. As the Benshira rubbed life back into his chafed wrists, Jess’e tackled the bindings about his ankles. These had been tied with a little less care as to insuring immobility, and came away more quickly than the others had. Sitting back on his heels, his first task accomplished, Jess’e regarded Ymir for a moment, before leaning forward and impulsively hugging him.

“I’m glad you’re here, though I could wish that somehow you were a thousand miles away somewhere safe and comfortable.” He gave Ymir a little squeeze to emphasize both conflicting emotions.

Leaning back again, he asked, like one who only ever knew how to follow, “What shall I do?”

Already, Jess’e took some small, unrecognized comfort in taking on that familiar role of letting someone else take charge.

by **Ymir** on June 3rd, 2013, 6:06 pm

It was an odd sensation to have such faith placed upon him. Never before had Ymir ever been looked to as a source of strength, and never had he felt the need to be so. Here, among of whispering waves of the rustling sea, Ymir felt a strange and heavy sense of this new kind of responsibility. The weight of his realization was not entirely foreign to the feelings of guilt that still threatened to crush him, yet it was somehow lighter, almost more important and in that importance, bearable. His brow furrowed slightly when Jess'e had gone to retrieve the discarded dagger, as the young man's words danced about in his mind. To Jess'e, those words had seemed appropriate - his true feelings -, but they had carried with them a dependence Ymir was not certain he was able to sustain. While he did indeed feel the strength of his rekindled drive, it was questionable whether it could support the two of them.

His eyes followed the careful movements of Jess'e's hand as he once more cut through the bonds the raiders had left him as their parting gift. Ymir's mouth turned a sad smile as he contemplated their futures. Each had said his own, and both had felt the comfort of the other's words. Ymir, however, found his heart fluttered with worry even as the ropes loosened, and his hands became once more free. Could he be responsible for the life of another? Such a task was something he had rarely considered, as there was always someone to take care of him rather than the opposite. Yahal had thrown more at him than Ymir had ever thought possible in a single night. Jess'e was yet another test, another trial. He had to view the other man as such, or Ymir might lose his nerve.

Watching as Jess'e made his way to the cords that bit tired ankles, Ymir gently massaged feeling back into his hands. He found his hands ached from the lack of blood they had received during his incapacitation, and soon the stinging needles of pain alerted his brain that they were once more joining with the rest of his body in the flow of blood. He felt the rope at last release his trapped ankles as Jess'e sat back upon his heels with a smile of accomplishment set upon his features. Ymir, in turn, sent Jess'e a grimace of a grin as his fingers twitch slightly, sending more painful tingles through his nerves. He began to speak a thank-you but was cut-off when he found Jess'e's arms wrapped around him, and Jess'e's face pressed against his cheek. Taken aback by the sudden display of affection, Ymir tensed reflexively before molding himself to the curve and warmth of the other body.

He understood Jess'e's conflicting emotions all too well. Ymir moved his hands to rest gingerly on Jess'e's lower back to avoid brushing the young man's wound. They would have to deal with that soon, but for the moment, Ymir only returned Jess'e's squeeze with careful pressure of his own. "You steal the words from my heart before they are given chance to find their way to my mind, Jess'e." He moved his hands back, placing them on either side of Jess'e's head and carefully kissed the middle of his forehead. It was a gesture of love that his Tent often employed to give comfort and express gratitude. As Ymir pulled back with a now tired smile, Jess'e did much the same, adding in a question Ymir found he had been unconsciously avoiding the entire time.

What should they do now?

Ymir's brow crinkled as he brought a hand up to cup his chin in thought. Quickly remembering what he had been meaning to do, Ymir gave Jess'e a stern look followed by an accusatory point of his finger. "First, I tend to your back." Pushing himself up off of the ground, Ymir felt slightly lightheaded at the sudden change of his elevation. Blinking back the little stars that blotted his vision, he turned his face from the brilliance of the morning, ignoring the shifting fields of undulating green and the fluttering birdsong of day, choosing instead to make ever increasingly certain steps to place himself behind his now one and only travelling companion. He gently moved his right hand from the top of Jess'e's shoulder down to where his flesh had been separated from itself. Only Ymir's fingertips made contact with Jess'e's skin so as not cause unnecessary discomfort, while he brought his face closer to the lesion to examine it for any signs of infection.

Ymir was certainly not a healer, but he was a member of the Benshira. Having spent the majority of his time with the women of the Tent, he had picked up certain things about how to treat a wound. The first was to stop any bleeding. Fortunately, the laceration seemed to have stopped its crimson flow some time before - only a slight trickle remained from where Jess'e had aggravated it. If the bleeding had stopped when it was exposed to the elements, infection was to be inspected. Sadly, Ymir had never been able to tell the difference from the beginnings of infection from a healthy wound. Even now, the scab that had formed seemed as most scabs do: dark and ugly with a purplish tint of the skin around it. Biting his lower lip, Ymir decided it was best to cover the wound, for even had he been able to decide whether there was infection or not, he lacked the skill to fix it.

He gave Jess'e a reassuring pat on the back after having been silent for so long. "For now, I shall bind your wound. We shall fetch you a healer once we find our way out of this place." With that, Ymir removed his tattered shirt, wincing as he felt his bruised skin relive echoes of the brutality that had created them. The shirt could have been cleaner, that was for certain, but it lacked the cold hand of death that had set in on their fallen companions. Using his teeth and the strength of his arms, Ymir ripped the light fabric into strips before he began to wrap it round Jess'e's chest and back. Once he was finished, he gently tugged at the make-shift bandage to check it would not fall off. It seemed fine, so Ymir leaned back with a wincing sigh, staring up into the now blue sky that was gently peppered with wisps of cloud.

His mind turned now to Jess'e's injured hand. When he had seen it in the brighter light of the day, it had appeared swollen and purple, like the hands of those who found broken bones from the misplacement of the strike of a maul. Ymir tried to remember how those injuries were dealt with, what sort of procedures were used to combat the splintering of frame, but all that came to mind were the splints those afflicted had to wear for good while. Having only the image of what the splints looked like, Ymir worried if he interfered with the hand, he may make it worse. Thus, Ymir decided not to address it should Jess'e remain silent about it. Perhaps it was a cold-hearted decision, but it sprang from worry and compassion. Placing this worry into the back of his mind, Ymir finally dealt with the task he had been avoiding.

"Now..." The words seemed to fall from Ymir's mouth like another sigh carrying with them both regret and resignation. "We must gather what we can." Ymir found he could not describe the grisly process of looting the dead in any more of a fashion than he had. While repulsive, it was their only change of increasing their chances of survival before they set off into the deceptively dangerous waves of the green sea. Ymir lingered for moment. He let his eyes close as he raised his face to the sun. Syna's gentle hand ran smoothly over his face and around his now exposed chest and abdomen. The warmth was soothing, almost enough to push back the horror of what he was about to do.

Rising now, Ymir put a hand on Jess'e's shoulder as the young man had started towards the corpses with a look Ymir knew all too well after their nightmarish experience. "Should the pain be too great, I look with no shame upon your early retirement from this endeavor." His own blue eyes wavered slightly before he let them fall to the ground whereupon the wretched bodies of the murdered lay stiff and cold in the brilliance of the sun's warm greeting. Ymir allowed himself a final shudder before making his way towards to the first.