8 - The Eastern Lake
Cassian
Time seemed to hold its breath as Cassian studied the elf’s features. He saw himself in Tariel—a boy willing to do anything to make his people proud, even if it meant sacrificing himself without even realizing it. The eyes of an idealist, striving for a naive but sincere peace.
That gesture—the soft caress on his pale skin—wasn’t that of a tough mercenary, and Cassian knew it.
He was going to have to cover this elf’s back, whether he wanted to or not.
Because he had felt, all too quickly, a bond forming between them.
A bond he couldn’t afford to entertain because he simply couldn’t stray from his objective.
He wouldn’t.
Cassian sighed and closed his eyes. He wanted to speak, to say something, but changed his mind, choking on his inner turmoil.
His hand rested on his chest, where magic was slowly healing his torn flesh and, in the stillness of the night, sleep eventually overtook him.
Few had slept by his side. Few had seen him plagued by nightmares of the past, glimpses of the hell he went through all those years ago.
Even fewer had seen him wake up, overcome by panic.
He always made sure to distance himself from the group, to slip away before his ghosts got the best of him.
That night, he hadn’t been able to put some distance between himself and the elf—he’d been way too exhausted to think about it.
And it was the cruel image of a blade sinking into flesh, and the warm sensation of blood against his skin, that tore a cry of distress from him. Cassian jolted awake, gasping for breath, lying on the green moss.
He didn’t come to his senses right away.
In that fog, he could still see the dragons’ flames trying in vain to burn their tormentor. A distant voice was calling him—his name, perhaps?—but he didn’t recognize it. Cassian… That wasn’t his name. His name was—
“Cassian, wake up!”
As hands touched his skin, a shiver ran through him. His body stiffened in a sudden defensive reflex, and the touch triggered an uncontrolled reaction: his fingers shot out to grab the person’s throat before he could stop himself.
He had wanted to shout, “Don’t touch me,” but his lips could not form the words.
His bond pulsed with muffled attempts to trigger the Primordial Convergence. In that strange intertwining of their bodies and their fate, Cassian suddenly saw the elf’s face take shape in his mind. A pale face, contorted with fear, eyes wide and lost.
That image that snapped him back to his senses.
Cassian released him with a sharp jerk, gasping for breath, his eyes regaining enough clarity to lock onto Tariel’s fearful gaze. The elf had curled up in a corner of the makeshift mossy tent, trembling like wounded prey as he stared at the mercenary with cold terror in his eyes, breathing heavily.
A silence fell, so heavy that they could hear Brynjar patrolling outside, the sound of the wind, or even the erratic pounding of two heartbeats.
Finally, in a fragile yet firm voice, the elf broke the silence. “Aren’t you going to explain to me what just happened?”
Cassian sat frozen for a moment, his chest still heaving with erratic breaths.
He ran a hand over his eyes, then let out a hoarse sigh.
“It was just a bad dream. It confused me and… I mistook you for someone else. The bond we share… what you’re feeling right now isn’t yours. It’s my anxiety. It’ll fade away.”
He stood up slowly, staggering slightly, still out of breath, before stepping out of their mossy tent, brushing aside a few leaves with a sweep of his hand.
As he sat down heavily a short distance away at the edge of the lake, the mercenary ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes for a moment.
Shivers were still running down his spine. The image of the cowering elf wouldn’t leave him.
I could have killed him.
He knew it with a cold certainty, and he didn’t know how to feel about that.
Tariel
Tariel was confused.
The more time he spent with this mercenary, the more he felt like he was losing his mind—he was experiencing things he’d never felt before…
and he wasn’t talking about his aching muscles.
It was as if his magic had become foreign to him; an unidentifiable power had taken root—no, manifested itself—in his heart.
He, who had spent his entire life perfecting his magic, an art for which he had an exceptional affinity, felt…
helpless. What was this force that bound him to Cassian, and that kept manifesting itself without him being able to do anything about it?
And above all, why couldn’t he recognize this magic?
The elf let out a long sigh. All these troubles were doing nothing but wearing him out, and he needed all his energy more than ever.
Once he’d calmed down, Tariel decided to step out of the tent as well, beckoning Brynjar with a gesture.
“Brynjar, do you still have my change of clothes?”
“Of course, Master. They’re with Elara.”
Elara was a fairy who no longer glowed. Tariel had found her in a traveling merchant’s lantern who intended to sell her to some orcs, who happened to be addicted to fairy dust…
So the elf had bought her and offered her refuge in his sanctuary.
In exchange, Elara—who had a sharp tongue—took care of the elf’s wardrobe; she was an unparalleled seamstress, thanks to her tiny fingers.
“Could you bring me some clean clothes? See if you can find something to cover—”
“I’ll take care of it right away, my Master.”
Brynjar was alarmingly efficient, which allowed Tariel to step toward the pond—or was it a lake?—in front of which the mercenary was kneeling to undress. He knew few modest elves, and he himself was not one of them.
The body was merely a gift of nature, a vessel for the soul and magic, and that was why he, too, stripped naked and slid into the pleasantly lukewarm water.
With his eyes closed, letting the gentle sun soak into his skin, he savored the quiet morning stillness… when a slight ripple nearby made him lift his head.
A bar of beeswax soap was placed in his hand, probably handed to Cassian by Brynjar.
“I could have killed you, you know. You should be more careful,” said Cassian, his voice strangely softer than usual.
Surprised by the mercenary’s words, the elf shot him a sidelong glance that drifted lower than he’d intended, and he quickly looked away, his cheeks flushed.
Was Cassian feeling guilty? That would be a first, after everything he’d put him through these past few weeks. Still…the thought was pleasant.
Tariel, without turning around, simply wet his hair before replying, “You could have. But you didn’t. You were afraid—that one was obvious. If you hadn’t come to your senses… I would have simply used my magic.”
With his back to the mercenary, he hid his true anxiety—he wasn’t all that confident about his chances of winning a fight against Cassian.
Instead, he gently lathered his hair, submerged up to his waist, silently praying that Cassian wouldn’t notice the sweet, honey-like scent wafting from it.
He remembered perfectly well the first insult directed at him and refused to admit Cassian was right.
“Next time, use it before I hurt you.”
Tariel rolled his eyes at that, but didn’t reply, contenting himself with a sigh. Deep down, he knew Cassian was right… but the annoying, self-centered mercenary didn’t need to know that.
The two of them then fell into a silence that could be described as comfortable, lulled by the sounds of the water, the trees swaying gently in the wind, and the birds. The moment was so peaceful that one could almost forget the hordes of Morgraves who were probably still hot on their heels.
In a distant corner of his mind, Tariel was secretly intimidated by the mercenary’s proximity.
As they stood naked, he couldn’t help but notice the difference in their builds.
While he was all curves, slender, almost fragile, Cassian seemed carved from stone.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with tanned skin and a chest crisscrossed with scars…
His body told a story—that of a man who had survived.
The elf, on the other hand, looked more like a painting forgotten in a library. He had never practiced combat or sports, and his musculature only hinted at his natural flexibility.
He found himself studying the other man, lingering for a beat too long. When he finally raised his eyes, blue met green in a flash of shared surprise.
Was Cassian…?
No, of course not. Tariel was an elf, and Cassian had made his contempt for his kind abundantly clear.
The mercenary was the first to recover; he cleared his throat and muttered, “Why would one actively choose to keep their hair this long… It can’t be very practical.”
A silence stretched out. Tariel blinked in surprise, then furrowed his brow.
He then stood up in the water, proudly displaying his hair—which, completely loose, fell to the small of his back—as he continued, “Our hair is our pride, our history. We live with it and take care of it. You should start doing the same.”
The man remained silent, lost in thought, running his fingers through the elf’s white locks.
Tariel shuddered. Ugh, this man… When he wasn’t busy talking like a boor, he was almost… charming.
It was definitely annoying.
“My hair is already long enough as it is,” Cassian murmured eventually. “It suits you better than it does me. And why would I do that? I’m no noble; I don’t need to please anyone.”
The elf looked up at him, his gaze almost defenseless. What he’d said had touched him—but not in the way a compliment does. More like a gentle, unexpected slap.
So Tariel gently took his hand, pulling it away from his hair—where it was still tangled, leaving behind goosebumps—and placed it on his own heart.