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Cid nan Garlond had beautiful hands. Not in a soft and delicate way — there was nothing soft or delicate about Garlond, the man was blunt as a hammer and tough as nails, rough around the edges and a dozen other cliches that somehow coalesced into a surprisingly coherent whole. In a rare moment of honesty, Nero could admit — if only to himself — that he envied that wholeness, the cliches and all. Garlond had been through hell and come out stronger, another cliche though that may be. Damn him.
Nero had shared parts of that hell, and he had… floundered.
He watched Garlond, tinkering away at something or another, like as not something completely trivial and unrelated to the quest for the Crystal Tower. Garlond was like that. He lacked the single-minded focus necessary to ever achieve true greatness. He might be working on something that would literally change the world, and take a break to fix someone’s broken pocket watch.
If there was any justice in the world, Nero could have at least despised the man’s lack of ambition.
If there was any justice in the world…
Nero had spent long years resenting Garlond’s near-legendary status in his native country. That resentment had grown into all-consuming hate, until thoughts of retribution had filled his every waking hour. He had wanted to show the world what Garlond truly was — vastly overrated — but then the man had vanished off the face of the planet. Obviously, being presumed dead had only inflated the legend, turning Garlond into something untouchable by things like slander or truth. The man had betrayed the Empire and yet he had become almost a national hero in his absence.
Nero, of course, had never believed him dead. He had wanted to scour the continent until Garlond was found, to leave no stone unturned. Of course, that had not been possible; his duties to the Empire had denied him the chance of a personal crusade, and as long as Garlond wasn’t coming back, he told himself it didn’t matter if people chose to cling to their delusions. Fact was that Nero was there and Garlond was not, and that should have made the difference in his favour.
“Pass the screwdriver, will you?”
If there was any justice in the world, it would have.
“Unless you’re too busy plotting world domination..?”
Nothing he had done had ever been enough.
“Nero?” The edge of irritation in Garlond’s voice finally broke through to his consciousness and Nero blinked. Garlond was looking at him as though expecting him to say or do something.
“Mind repeating that?”
“Screwdriver,” Garlond said, with exaggerated precision, as though speaking to someone who didn’t quite grasp the finer points of verbal communication. “The smaller one. To your left. Thank you.” With barely a nod in Nero’s general direction, Garlond turned his full attention to the object in his hands again. Not a pocket watch this time, and Nero couldn’t at a glance imagine what it was. Like as not, a device to locate lost puppies or something of the sort.
Cid nan Garlond, genius, living legend, saviour of puppies and other assorted pets. He probably used the Enterprise to rescue coeurl kittens from trees.
The mental image was entertaining enough to make Nero chuckle, which earned him a questioning look from Garlond. “Do share the joke,” Garlond said wryly, wiping his hands on an already oil-stained rag. There never seemed to be dirt under his fingernails.
What an odd detail to notice.
“I doubt you’d find it amusing,” Nero replied. With some effort, he wrenched his eyes away from the other man’s hands and met his eyes with what he hoped passed for dignity. “Is there anything useful I could do?” he asked. It felt odd, asking such a thing; offering help was not a thing he was used to doing, and asking for directions even less so. Garlond seemed to agree, if the ever so slightly incredulous look on his face was any indication. Nero shrugged. “I’m bored. Is there a problem?”
“No,” Garlond said. “No problem. You could always clean those tools that Biggs…” He trailed off, actually laughing out loud. “You should see your face right now,” he said once he was able to speak again. “I guess something useful in your eyes doesn’t include cleaning things, huh?”
“Fine!” Nero snapped.
Garlond looked startled, and that alone might be worth a while of performing menial chores. “You don’t have to,” he began, but Nero cut him off.
“I said fine,” Nero said stiffly. “Point me to these tools.”
At least Garlond was no longer laughing.
Later, finished with the chore and a few other tasks that Garlond had set for him, Nero was trying to wash the motor oil grease off his hands. By all evidence they didn’t have proper chemicals for the purpose, here. Nero harboured no particularly patriotic feelings towards Garlemald, but he did miss some small things that more advanced technology could provide. Finally mostly satisfied with his state of cleanliness, he looked around for a towel — only to have one thrown at him. He caught it and looked in the direction where it had come from, to see Garlond, who appeared to be fighting a mischievous grin.
“So tell me Nero, how does it feel?” Garlond said. “An honest day’s work. It must have been a while.”
Nero shot him a glare. “Ah, shut up.”
Garlond shook his head and sat down on a wooden crate, looking in the direction of the Crystal Tower. Evening was beginning to turn into night, stars above Mor Dhona bright in the clear sky. “You really think you can win my trust and forgiveness, just like that?” he said quietly after a while. “Do you really think all it takes is playing nice for a few days? Offering to help with trivial chores?” An edge of exasperation crept into his voice as he spoke. “Nero, I know you. You don’t do nice. So why don’t you just come out and say what it is you’re really after?”
Nero didn’t have to answer, or even continue the conversation. This was not an interrogation; he was not a prisoner. He could leave. He could wish Garlond good night and exit the situation.
He did no such thing.
“You know me, do you?” He looked around for another seat; not finding one, he sat on the ground instead, also facing towards the Crystal Tower. “Fine, let’s say you do,” he went on when Garlond didn’t bite. He made his tone light, almost flippant. “Your trust… Let’s say working together would be easier if you could eventually come to trust me, but really, it’s not necessary. As for your forgiveness, I don’t see that I need it.”
Garlond gave him a sideways glance. “Is that so?”
Nero nodded. “You’re the one who defected,” he said. “You were the traitor.”
Garlond snorted. “And I suppose your role in van Baelsar’s conquest and that little episode with the Ultima Weapon…”
“It was war, Garlond,” Nero snarled. “I was a soldier. I was following orders.”
“Of course,” Garlond replied. “If that helps you sleep at night.”
Nero had to laugh, the sound coming out more bitter than intended. “I’m not the one here losing sleep over lives lost.”
“No,” Garlond agreed, “you’re not.” He sounded tired, all of a sudden, tired and old.
It should have made Nero angry. The resignation in Garlond’s voice, the implication that he knew and accepted that this was all there was to Nero; not losing sleep over lives lost. The implication that callous disregard of humanity was Nero’s defining trait and Garlond was done trying to change that for the better. That Garlond no longer found it worthy of even anger, merely vague disappointment.
Yet… was he wrong? Was that not largely consistent with how Nero saw himself?
The silence stretched on. Nero considered getting up; the conversation seemed to have run its course. But for some reason he stayed put, and so did Garlond. The Crystal Tower shone like a spire of pure aether in the distance.
“I used to think I wanted you dead,” Nero said when he couldn’t take the silence any longer. Even without looking at the other man, he knew he had Garlond’s undivided attention. “Preferably humiliated first, but mostly I would have settled for dead. It took a fall to make me realise that I didn’t. Not really.”
“And… what do you want now?” Garlond asked.
What did he want? Well, other than to have Garlond shove him against a wall and—
Nero blinked. Where ever did that thought come from? Not that he was going to deny its truthfulness. Just as certainly, however, he was not going to repeat it out loud. Instead he shrugged. “I’m still figuring that part out.”
“Very well,” Garlond said. He laid his hand briefly on Nero’s shoulder; it took all of Nero’s self-control to not place his own over it. Then Garlond stood up. “Way past bed time. Another busy day tomorrow.”
“Not easy being a hero, huh?” Nero remarked, getting up as well.
Garlond actually smiled. “I wouldn’t know about that.” But as he turned to leave, he suddenly hesitated. And turned back. “Look, don’t get me wrong, I still trust you about as far as I can throw you—” That likely wasn’t very far, considering Garlond was roughly a head shorter than Nero, who was not a small man even without his armour. “—but if you’re truly determined to prove me wrong… I’m willing to help. If you’re ready to accept that.”
For once in his life, Nero was rendered speechless. “I don’t—” he began, but couldn’t finish the thought. “What—?”
“I’m just saying that you don’t have to figure everything out alone,” Garlond said. “Alright?” He waited until Nero nodded before turning away again. “Good night, Nero.”