On the 11th trial of Ymiden during the 718th arc...
Though he couldn't see any details through the warped glass of the little room's window, it didn't stop him from looking out of it. There wasn't much for him to do, bedridden for the next handful of trials or so as he was, and Ziemko had taken to patrolling about the grounds outside, not wanting a repeat of what had happened at their campsite. It left him with very little to do. The healer, Lady Inès Fortoul, or as she preferred merely her given name, simply "Inès", had many books, but they were all written in a language he didn't understand and - by her own admission - were almost entirely dedicated to the many different techniques, tricks, and mysteries of healing.
The woman herself was surprisingly busy, mixing up potions and poultices, bustling into and out of the room Doran was supposed to be resting in to fetch this or that. She occasionally spoke with him, but never for very long nor with much depth. He had discovered, thanks to Ziemko's seemingly arbitrary manner of volunteering information at random that he'd started on the road between Andaris and Venora, his brother had made a point of not telling Inès Doran's name. Thus, she had taken to calling him "boy" and never asked him personal questions beyond how he felt or "Does it hurt when I do this?". He had come to loathe the latter and had made it a habit of making himself as small as he might to avoid her crystal-like gaze.
It worked, more or less, but it didn't help to alleviate his growing restlessness.
His leg had continued to heal - the wound on his back little more than a sore, itching memory -, and he felt much better than he had in trials. The awful herbal concoctions he'd been forced to drink every morning seemed to have permanently stained his sense of taste, to the point where everything - his spit included - felt bitter on his tongue, but it would soon be the fifteenth, and they were still a half trial's ride from Furland. Ziemko had surprised him when he'd said how far he'd forced the horses to go the night they'd been attacked, and though they were, more or less, within the borders of the Rose's duchy, there was still a way to go. One that he couldn't manage until his leg was healed enough it wouldn't tear open along the way.
She assured both of them two more trials, and he'd be able to ride - sidesaddle, as she'd called it. According to her - and her expertise was something Doran trusted, as she'd been the one to treat and dress and maintain care of his wounds for the past tentrial - he was lucky to have avoided infection. She had had to force the arrow all the way through his leg - something that still brought on an involuntary shudder of his shoulders when he thought about it - and spared no praise of Ziemko's choice to allow the thing to remain inside of him. Apparently, had he tried to remove the thin shaft of wood by pulling it out or forcing it through, Doran would have most certainly died from loss of blood.
The thought, which he imagined should have filled him with some sense of panicked morality, had done little more than to cast his brother in all the more flatter of light. He'd saved his life at least twice already. Though Ziemko seemed not to share Doran's undeniably positive perspective, he did appear marginally more relaxed when they spoke with one another. It was clear he was glad to see Doran recovering well, but just as clear was the fact he blamed himself for Doran's condition in the first place. No matter what Doran had said, his brother remained so adamant on that point, he'd decided to drop the subject altogether and simply keep his mouth shut the next time.
Next time.
It was the strangest thing - to so calmly plan for the inevitable moments to come wherein his life would once more be in danger. There was fear there, but it was distant. He could remember the terror he'd felt in the moment, overwhelming and all-powerful, but it was as if he experienced it from behind a wall of glass. He knew he would be horrified, petrified, again when he was in the thick of the terror that would surely descend upon him, but when he thought of the future, it was oddly lacking. Ziemko had said it had something to do with the fact that he hadn't yet gotten used to such things, and he found his brother's words sensible.
Still, he made what use he could of his odd detachment while he was able. Firstly, he'd determined no matter what, if he was hidden he would remain so unless absolutely necessary. Secondly, he'd decided that until Ziemko deemed danger passed, he would assume the worst. And finally, he'd resolved to ask his brother the question he'd been holding onto since he'd regained consciousness. Though he'd not yet had ample time to do so, he'd asked that when the man had time, he'd allow Doran a discussion.
For so long, he'd held life in the highest regard. Death was never something he'd ever imagined to be his to dole out, and he still felt very much the same way. Death was a tragic thing - a waste of thing. He needed to know, for certain, if his brother had indeed slain their assailants. While he suspected such to be the case, to the point where he'd almost been content to assume it true, there was a sort of dismissal in that course of thought. He wanted to know, because he wanted to able to mourn their passing, to accept the guilt of their deaths and his hand in it.
Lily had bade him live. He'd always, always assumed such a wish had been rooted in nothing but light - and still did - yet what was he to do if it were between his own life and those of others who sought to take it from him? He wasn't certain. He knew Lily would have found no pleasure in lives lost because of him, but neither would she have allowed him to accept death without fighting for life. It was a mess of a situation, yet one he'd been mulling over for the past handful of trials; his thoughts were his only companions in the relative boredom of his existence, and even such uncertain and reviled ones had become welcome enough as he'd run out of more pleasant things to contemplate.
Thus, when the door opened to reveal the austere face and staring, hazel eyes of his brother, Doran smiled gently and offered a quiet greeting. "All is well, I hope?"
Ziemko nodded, pulling up one of the stools that stood beside the bed and settled down into it. The scent of his sweat mingled with the spice of the drying herbs that hung from the ceiling, and his face was glazed in a thin sheen of moisture. Though the room itself was relatively cool, Doran could tell from the intensity of the light filtering through the window alone that it must have been quite warm in the direct line of the sun's face. "You wanted to talk?" The words were as much an invitation as a confirmation.
"I did - or, well - I do."
Handing him a cup filled with a pale, yellowish tea that was reminiscent of flowers and a dull, earthy spice, Ziemko sat patiently in wait, eyes fixed on his sibling who took a slow, thoughtful sip from the cup.
"Those men - at the campsite - did you... are they dead?" He'd thought of so many different ways he might phrase the question. They had ranged from horribly simple and blunt to so elaborate and confusing, he'd found himself lost within his own maze-like queries. What he had finally given voice to, of course, was nothing like he thought he'd settled upon.
"Yes." There was no hesitation in Ziemko's voice; no remorse or regret. "They won't be coming back."
Doran wasn't sure what he had expected in terms of Ziemko's reaction, but the knowledge itself was more so an affirmation than anything he didn't already know. Slowly, he nodded, stirring the tea by shifting the cup back and forth in his hand with a slight shift of his wrist. Though redundant, he wanted to be clear, his airy voice little more than a murmur. "And you killed them?"
Again, the answer was immediate. "Yes."
"Mm." He took another sip of tea, shifting his position on the bed. No longer did pain flare up whenever he happened to move his leg, and he was allowed to hobble between his bed and the washroom - though anything more and Inès seemed to appear out of nowhere and force him back to his comfortable but horribly boring prison. "It... bothers me. Does it bother you?" There was no accusation in his voice, only quiet curiosity that in turn drifted in the muddied green of his eyes as he stared at his brother's unmoving face.
"No." Though the admission itself was certainly worthy of a label such as cold or cruel, there was no pleasure in his voice, no indication that - while it did not necessarily concern him to take the life of another - he found no joy in the act. "They would've killed you, and I refused to let that happen." Slowly, he shook his head, eyes set in their fierce, icy blaze. "I'd be... 'bothered' if you died. No one else."
He had known his brother for fewer days than he had fingers, but he didn't doubt the veracity of such a statement. It was difficult to understand how Ziemko was able to think in such a way. Even knowing there was nothing he could have done, Doran felt the weight of guilt upon his heart, knowing the blood on his brother's hands had been put there by his own incompetence. "Can we not... subdue them?"
Though he couldn't see any details through the warped glass of the little room's window, it didn't stop him from looking out of it. There wasn't much for him to do, bedridden for the next handful of trials or so as he was, and Ziemko had taken to patrolling about the grounds outside, not wanting a repeat of what had happened at their campsite. It left him with very little to do. The healer, Lady Inès Fortoul, or as she preferred merely her given name, simply "Inès", had many books, but they were all written in a language he didn't understand and - by her own admission - were almost entirely dedicated to the many different techniques, tricks, and mysteries of healing.
The woman herself was surprisingly busy, mixing up potions and poultices, bustling into and out of the room Doran was supposed to be resting in to fetch this or that. She occasionally spoke with him, but never for very long nor with much depth. He had discovered, thanks to Ziemko's seemingly arbitrary manner of volunteering information at random that he'd started on the road between Andaris and Venora, his brother had made a point of not telling Inès Doran's name. Thus, she had taken to calling him "boy" and never asked him personal questions beyond how he felt or "Does it hurt when I do this?". He had come to loathe the latter and had made it a habit of making himself as small as he might to avoid her crystal-like gaze.
It worked, more or less, but it didn't help to alleviate his growing restlessness.
His leg had continued to heal - the wound on his back little more than a sore, itching memory -, and he felt much better than he had in trials. The awful herbal concoctions he'd been forced to drink every morning seemed to have permanently stained his sense of taste, to the point where everything - his spit included - felt bitter on his tongue, but it would soon be the fifteenth, and they were still a half trial's ride from Furland. Ziemko had surprised him when he'd said how far he'd forced the horses to go the night they'd been attacked, and though they were, more or less, within the borders of the Rose's duchy, there was still a way to go. One that he couldn't manage until his leg was healed enough it wouldn't tear open along the way.
She assured both of them two more trials, and he'd be able to ride - sidesaddle, as she'd called it. According to her - and her expertise was something Doran trusted, as she'd been the one to treat and dress and maintain care of his wounds for the past tentrial - he was lucky to have avoided infection. She had had to force the arrow all the way through his leg - something that still brought on an involuntary shudder of his shoulders when he thought about it - and spared no praise of Ziemko's choice to allow the thing to remain inside of him. Apparently, had he tried to remove the thin shaft of wood by pulling it out or forcing it through, Doran would have most certainly died from loss of blood.
The thought, which he imagined should have filled him with some sense of panicked morality, had done little more than to cast his brother in all the more flatter of light. He'd saved his life at least twice already. Though Ziemko seemed not to share Doran's undeniably positive perspective, he did appear marginally more relaxed when they spoke with one another. It was clear he was glad to see Doran recovering well, but just as clear was the fact he blamed himself for Doran's condition in the first place. No matter what Doran had said, his brother remained so adamant on that point, he'd decided to drop the subject altogether and simply keep his mouth shut the next time.
Next time.
It was the strangest thing - to so calmly plan for the inevitable moments to come wherein his life would once more be in danger. There was fear there, but it was distant. He could remember the terror he'd felt in the moment, overwhelming and all-powerful, but it was as if he experienced it from behind a wall of glass. He knew he would be horrified, petrified, again when he was in the thick of the terror that would surely descend upon him, but when he thought of the future, it was oddly lacking. Ziemko had said it had something to do with the fact that he hadn't yet gotten used to such things, and he found his brother's words sensible.
Still, he made what use he could of his odd detachment while he was able. Firstly, he'd determined no matter what, if he was hidden he would remain so unless absolutely necessary. Secondly, he'd decided that until Ziemko deemed danger passed, he would assume the worst. And finally, he'd resolved to ask his brother the question he'd been holding onto since he'd regained consciousness. Though he'd not yet had ample time to do so, he'd asked that when the man had time, he'd allow Doran a discussion.
For so long, he'd held life in the highest regard. Death was never something he'd ever imagined to be his to dole out, and he still felt very much the same way. Death was a tragic thing - a waste of thing. He needed to know, for certain, if his brother had indeed slain their assailants. While he suspected such to be the case, to the point where he'd almost been content to assume it true, there was a sort of dismissal in that course of thought. He wanted to know, because he wanted to able to mourn their passing, to accept the guilt of their deaths and his hand in it.
Lily had bade him live. He'd always, always assumed such a wish had been rooted in nothing but light - and still did - yet what was he to do if it were between his own life and those of others who sought to take it from him? He wasn't certain. He knew Lily would have found no pleasure in lives lost because of him, but neither would she have allowed him to accept death without fighting for life. It was a mess of a situation, yet one he'd been mulling over for the past handful of trials; his thoughts were his only companions in the relative boredom of his existence, and even such uncertain and reviled ones had become welcome enough as he'd run out of more pleasant things to contemplate.
Thus, when the door opened to reveal the austere face and staring, hazel eyes of his brother, Doran smiled gently and offered a quiet greeting. "All is well, I hope?"
Ziemko nodded, pulling up one of the stools that stood beside the bed and settled down into it. The scent of his sweat mingled with the spice of the drying herbs that hung from the ceiling, and his face was glazed in a thin sheen of moisture. Though the room itself was relatively cool, Doran could tell from the intensity of the light filtering through the window alone that it must have been quite warm in the direct line of the sun's face. "You wanted to talk?" The words were as much an invitation as a confirmation.
"I did - or, well - I do."
Handing him a cup filled with a pale, yellowish tea that was reminiscent of flowers and a dull, earthy spice, Ziemko sat patiently in wait, eyes fixed on his sibling who took a slow, thoughtful sip from the cup.
"Those men - at the campsite - did you... are they dead?" He'd thought of so many different ways he might phrase the question. They had ranged from horribly simple and blunt to so elaborate and confusing, he'd found himself lost within his own maze-like queries. What he had finally given voice to, of course, was nothing like he thought he'd settled upon.
"Yes." There was no hesitation in Ziemko's voice; no remorse or regret. "They won't be coming back."
Doran wasn't sure what he had expected in terms of Ziemko's reaction, but the knowledge itself was more so an affirmation than anything he didn't already know. Slowly, he nodded, stirring the tea by shifting the cup back and forth in his hand with a slight shift of his wrist. Though redundant, he wanted to be clear, his airy voice little more than a murmur. "And you killed them?"
Again, the answer was immediate. "Yes."
"Mm." He took another sip of tea, shifting his position on the bed. No longer did pain flare up whenever he happened to move his leg, and he was allowed to hobble between his bed and the washroom - though anything more and Inès seemed to appear out of nowhere and force him back to his comfortable but horribly boring prison. "It... bothers me. Does it bother you?" There was no accusation in his voice, only quiet curiosity that in turn drifted in the muddied green of his eyes as he stared at his brother's unmoving face.
"No." Though the admission itself was certainly worthy of a label such as cold or cruel, there was no pleasure in his voice, no indication that - while it did not necessarily concern him to take the life of another - he found no joy in the act. "They would've killed you, and I refused to let that happen." Slowly, he shook his head, eyes set in their fierce, icy blaze. "I'd be... 'bothered' if you died. No one else."
He had known his brother for fewer days than he had fingers, but he didn't doubt the veracity of such a statement. It was difficult to understand how Ziemko was able to think in such a way. Even knowing there was nothing he could have done, Doran felt the weight of guilt upon his heart, knowing the blood on his brother's hands had been put there by his own incompetence. "Can we not... subdue them?"
