8 - The Eastern Lake #2
“You don’t have to be a lord or a prince to take care of your body or your hair,” he said softly.
“When you lose everything, when everything you own is far away or when people turn against you, all you have left… is yourself. I’m not trying to please anyone, gods no—I hide away in my library to read, always ignoring the knocks on my door.
But my body… it’s the only thing that will stay with me until the end. ”
His own words echoed in his chest, and he nodded, as if to convince himself too.
Cassian, for his part, watched him in silence.
Tariel noticed his eyes following his fingers, the goosebumps running across his skin.
It was strange, almost unsettling. The mercenary’s gaze had softened slightly, as if troubled.
“That’s the first time anyone’s ever said anything like that to me,” he murmured. “I wonder what you’re reading in that library. I’d almost envy you…You’re right, your body is your sanctuary… A sanctuary that smells of honey, anyway.”
Tariel didn’t know whether to take offense or laugh, so he settled for a wry smile.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Without warning, Cassian grabbed him and yanked him into the water with a big splash. The elf let out a high-pitched squeal and popped his head back up, coughing, turning to face him with furrowed brows, his honey-scented soap having slipped from his hands.
“What a brute! Good grief, show some manners! By the stars, my heart’s going to give out with you… H–hey! That’s mine!”
Crossing his arms over his delicately slender chest, the elf pouted.
Yes, he was sulking.
“Have you stooped so low as to steal soap, mercenary? You’ve really hit rock bottom.” Tariel paused before adding, with an exasperated sigh, “And to think I was going to graciously offer you some clothes…”
When the mercenary spoke, his tone was mocking and lighthearted. “I’ll steal them from you. Maybe it’s my turn to smell like honey.”
Tariel was rinsing his hair when Cassian spoke again, now that calm had returned to the lake. “If I decide to go with you, you’ll have to learn how to fight.”
The elf sighed.
“I’m not very strong,” he admitted. “All I have going for me is my flexibility and agility, but I could never take on a man of your stature with my fists or a sword. I’ve told you: without my magic, I’m not much use in a fight.”
To his great surprise, Cassian adopted a serious, almost professorial tone.
“Strength isn’t what makes a fighter,” he declared.
“Knowing how to fight is an art. And it seems to me that you have a knack for the arts, don’t you?
Think of it like a dance: one hand is enough to hold a sword if you know how to keep it balanced.
The same goes for your fists: it’s not the force of the blow, but the point of impact that matters. ”
Tariel listened intently, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
“You’re slender—all the better: the target is smaller. Holding a sword is like holding a part of yourself. Do you let go of a part of yourself? No. With or without power, you are a sword. That’s all there is to it. It’s a dance. A dance of water. It must be fast, sudden.”
No sooner had he finished than the mercenary lunged forward abruptly. Tariel reacted instinctively, stepping aside with a gasp of surprise, but stumbling on the sandy lake bottom.
“Not bad at all for a first try,” Cassian said, looking amused.
The elf crossed his arms, lifting his chin and snorting. “You caught me off guard!”
Although the elf looked indignant, his serious expression returned almost immediately as he continued, more softly, “I’d never thought of combat as an art.
Much less as a dance. In my mind, you fight to hurt, not to look good…
but… you’re not wrong. Maybe I should have listened to my teachers instead of sneaking off to read poetry. ”
A shiver ran down his spine. The water was starting to get cold, as the sun had begun its descent across the sky. He moved slightly closer to the older man, placing his hands on Cassian’s warm chest to warm himself.
And that was the moment his stomach chose to make itself heard, causing the mercenary to chuckle.
“You’re fighting on an empty stomach. Is that courage or foolishness?” he asked with an amused air.
His laugh was soft and smooth, and Tariel liked it a bit too much for his liking.
“We still have some provisions left, but not much. We’ll share the rations in the tent.
I was planning to buy something to eat at the inn, but something…
” The elf shot the mercenary a pointed look, jabbing his index finger slightly into his chest, before smoothing his chest with the flat of his hand as if to apologize.
“…came up. Do you think we’ll find something to eat in the coming days?
A city that isn’t trying to lock us up, sell us, or kill us?
In any case, we’ll have to move on soon if we don’t want the Morgraves hot on our heels… ”
The mercenary shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, as he absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair stuck to his shoulder aside.
“Are you a good hunter?”
“H-hunter?” Tariel grimaced immediately, crossing his arms as if he hoped to ward off the idea through the sheer force of his posture. He’d uttered the word as if it were an insult.
Nope. No, nu-uh.
He’d much rather feed on tree bark, questionable berries, or even soggy moss than kill an innocent creature.
Just the thought of warm blood on his fingers made him gag.
But Cassian was already rolling his eyes, as if he’d expected it.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” he said as he stepped out of the water to dry off quickly.
“I’ll keep hunting until we reach the southern border.
We can’t afford to stay in town too long, let alone restock there.
That would put Morgraves on our trail, and even the humblest resident of these regions would betray us. ”
Cassian then walked away, gesturing for the elf to follow him. Tariel watched him step out of the water and dry off quickly… and was surprised to see Brynjar handing him clean clothes. He felt his heart tighten a little, but couldn’t say why.
Tariel eventually trotted over to follow him, rubbing his arms in an attempt to fight off the cool air. He got dressed in the clothes Brynjar had brought him; the golem’s form was nearby, silent and reassuring.
Once dressed, he hurried back to the mercenary with two modest, vegetarian elven dishes: a sort of soft flatbread topped with sweet roots, berries, and dried herbs. Food that was far more dignified than… plain meat.
He sat down next to him, setting his meal down without touching it.
Cassian, meanwhile, was kneeling in the moss, drawing a map of Ennevia right on the ground. His finger traced the outlines of the kingdoms as he spoke, his voice heavy with tension.
“The neighboring kingdoms lie further south. We must head toward Veylaris, but the Olyar nomads might offer us asylum for a while. They aren’t part of the Alliance of Four.
As long as you’re in the Kingdom of Morgraves, your elven features could be your undoing.
Times are changing. And your kingdom, by failing to act on behalf of the other members of the alliance, has become a target. ”
Tariel frowned. He didn’t understand how the leaders’ mistakes could fall so heavily on ordinary citizens. On him. But the mercenary continued.
“It surprises me, by the way, that your fellow elves let you leave without warning you. The few elves found outside your kingdom have mutilated their ears and bodies so they would no longer be recognized.”
The word struck him right in the gut.
Mutilated.
His eyes widened in panic, and, in an almost childlike gesture, he brought both hands to his ears, checking to make sure they were still there.
Still long. Still perfect.
He inhaled too sharply, and his voice came out a little louder than he’d intended. “I would never do such a thing! I must be dreaming… My body is far too precious… And my ears—do you know how many rings I can put in them? Lots, and I have no intention of parting with them!”
He crossed his arms, sulking, as he sat on the moss, his gaze averted.
It wasn’t misplaced pride. It was anxiety.
A dull, creeping fear that was beginning to gnaw at his stomach.
He began to fidget nervously with his food, without bringing it to his mouth.
His jaw tensed, and he bit the inside of his cheek.
“You have no idea how much hatred people here harbor toward you,” Cassian added, sitting down more heavily, his tone free of cruelty but without indulgence either. “Ever since the elven army refused to help Morgraves… in a way, I can understand them. You should, too.”
Tariel felt a wave of nausea. He hadn’t chosen this. He’d never hurt any innocent person! And yet, everywhere he went, he was hated. Rejected. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball.
“I believe you…” He murmured, his voice tight.
A bitter but understanding smile flitted across the mercenary’s face. He didn’t answer right away. He sat up slightly, staring at the elf with an expression he couldn’t describe, then leaned in, his gaze locked on Tariel’s.
The elf stiffened.
He felt the man’s thumb and index finger gently rest on his ear. The caress along the cartilage was light, almost soothing, but it made him shiver. He remained motionless, eyes wide, staring at that face that was too close, that look he couldn’t understand.
“We’ll need to hide them,” Cassian said in a low voice. “A glamour shouldn’t be too complicated.”
The elf nodded slowly. He had nothing to retort.
Tariel understood. He understood that no one here loved him or wanted him because he was an elf. It was as frustrating as it was painful. He tried to brush it off, but he couldn’t deny that it stung every time, like an invisible needle under his skin.