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When Muarim goes to see Tormod, steps slow and cautious and plate of cooked hare in hand, he finds him with company. The little one’s eyes are closed, and Ramia is sitting by his side, zipping up her satchel.
“Muarim, hello.” The cat laguz stands up when she sees him: her tail stands upright, a little curled up, and her sunset hair is pulled up into a bun. “I just changed his bandages and reapplied a vulnerary. He should be able to begin walking again in two days. Don’t worry too much, okay?”
Muarim gives her a nod, but he cannot brighten his expression. Don’t worry ‘too much’, she says; they both know Muarim is a worrier by nurture. He really should not be concerned: Ramia knows most about beorc anatomy out of everyone here, and like them all, her knowledge and skill was engraved into her by pain and misery, one lash at a time. Most importantly, unlike her previous human patients, she cares for Tormod almost as much as him.
So he does not argue. “Dinner is ready,” he tells her instead. “Go get some food. I can handle it from here.”
Ramia examines him for a moment, dark slit-pupil eyes narrowed, but Muarim stares back blankly, not giving her an inch. Eventually, she breaks their stalemate and nods silently, and with one last smile at her patient, she leaves. He should feel relieved, not at her departure, but at the fact that she feels Tormod will be well enough for her to not have to be there.
But the matter is this: the little one is hurt, and Muarim feels as helpless as a newborn.
It’s rare to have something resembling privacy among laguz: they are creatures of community, and if one suffers, then they all do. Rarer still it is for laguz like them: back there, back in polished halls and lush fruit fields and a dank crammed hut lined with straw and disease, there was no space or time to be alone. They survived by helping each other. By lying for each other, stealing for each other. By being supported when they were too weak to hold their weight on their own.
Tormod is not like them. Beasts and hawks are almost purely carnivores, and Tormod is not. Laguz can eat raw meals; Tormod needs his cooked. And his lifespan… no. No, he cannot think of that right now—not ever. Simply imagining it is enough for his lungs to feel airless and for his heart to break. Muarim is not selfish, has never learned how to be, but he knows how to spare himself pain.
“Little one.” Muarim kneels besides his charge. His voice is more a soft rumble than a growl. “Wake up. You need to eat to regain your strength.”
Tormod’s eyes flutter open. “Muarim…” He shivers in the cold desert night despite the worn blanket, and Muarim thus moves to pull it up over his legs and neck. “You brought food?”
The moon’s glow highlights Tormod’s tired face as well as the bandage covering the swelling of his ankle: the edges of the bruise peek out from underneath, standing out even against his tan skin. It’s not a pretty sight, and even now Muarim’s chest tightens at the reminder—but it had been far, far worse.
Muarim sets the food on the ground beside Tormod. “Will this be okay? Do you need me to feed you? Do you want something more liquid?”
“Muarim!” Tormod groans, trying to appear tough yet pouting: a familiar scene if there is one. “I’m not a baby anymore. I can feed myself just fine, thanks.” True to his word, he sits up, holds the plate and eats without issue under Muarim’s guardian gaze.
The little beorc is so strong: he runs, falls, and stands up with new scrapes and scratches and a broad smile. His spirit falters for only a moment before blazing with double the energy, and he can keep up with them more and more every day. He has grown so much from when Muarim first found him, barely a toddler, wrapped up and abandoned, so thin and tiny, weakly crying for help and mercy. Some of the others had then wanted to kill the baby human, knowing nothing from them except cruelty and the free life they would never have: those same people now dote on and tease him and love him like one would their little sibling. Tormod belongs with them no matter what.
But he is so, so fragile. A false step as they run, an abandoned burrow hole, and Muarim cannot get the scene out of his mind, the confusion turned terror at the cub’s throat-raw screams. The dizziness at seeing him clutching at his oddly-bent ankle, skin a patch of red and blue and white. Tormod had felt so light in his arms, far lighter than the weight in Muarim’s chest as he ran and mumbled endless apologies: he’d clung to Muarim’s neck like a fugitive grasps a rope, and their two hearts were both pumping furiously as one. The camp had fallen into uproar the second they returned.
Muarim knows how to care for his own safety; Tormod does not. Tormod knows how to run without a care, and while Muarim is learning, he still does not.
In all the years they have known each other, he has never seen Tormod so despondent. His bites have no enthusiasm, and he does not say a thing until he is finished. The powder in Muarim’s pocket is a heavy reminder, and he opens his mouth—to apologize, to break this unnatural silence, to do anything—but Tormod speaks first.
“I hate this.” Meal done with, the cub flops back down onto his ‘bed’, a wool and feather-stuffed mat. “I just wanna get up now and be with you guys.”
“It will only be two days, little one,” Muarim reminds him as gently as he can manage. He knows how to be careful, how to be aware of the strength behind his every action, but fear is not the same as being gentle. “Follow Ramia’s instructions and you will recover soon.”
Tormod’s healthy foot slides up and down beneath the blanket. “I know, I know. Doc knows best. But what will I do, stuck in bed for two days? I’m gonna waste away!”
“We will keep you company,” Muarim says. “I am sure time will pass before you know it.”
But Tormod is not so happy. Patience has never been his strong suit, and it’s even less so with his frustration. “That’s not the point! I just… It’s so frustrating, being taken out by a hole on the ground! I mean, I can’t be helpless like this if I want—” Tormod’s expression goes slack, and he cuts himself off into silence.
“You want?” Muarim questions. Tormod says nothing, and that worries Muarim even further: he kneels beside him, on hard ground with little grains that dig into his skin. “What do you want, little one?”
“I… Ugh.” Tormod grits his teeth, but relents. He licks at his bottom lip, and doesn’t meet Muarim’s gaze. “You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”
“Never,” Muarim promises. It’s true. Muarim is not one to tease or joke, and he could never extinguish Tormod’s flame. He holds Tormod’s hand, so much smaller than his own; the little one starts and his gaze jerks to their connection, but he does not pull away.
“I want to learn how to fight,” Tormod says, and it’s only due to years of pain that Muarim does not wrench his hand away in surprise. “I have to know how to defend myself. But there aren’t any weapons around here, and I can’t just fight with my body like you guys do…”
For a moment, Muarim is silent: his only outside reaction is a blink, then two—and he then lets out a sigh. “Is that the only reason?”
“...Darn. You got me.” Tormod straightens up as much as he can. There’s a look in his eyes that Muarim doesn’t like. It is passion, it is ferocious belief, it is all Muarim does not have.
He feels something in his gut roll over itself—a bad omen.
But he could never brace himself for what the cub says next. “Okay, here it goes,” he declares, all confidence. “I want to free the other laguz from the Begnion nobles. All of them.”
Muarim takes a breath. He exhales slowly. It does not loosen the pressure beginning to press down from all sides.
The little one is still talking, voice growing in power the more he goes. “There’s still so many others suffering… We’re really lucky to have a home here in the desert. If they could all join us, we could have a city here, free and safe and—”
“No.”
The word slips past Muarim’s lips before he even realizes it, and by then, it’s too late to take it back. But he would not do so either way.
Tormod’s little speech is interrupted, and his forehead crumples into a frown. “‘No’? What do you mean, ‘no’?” he asks. “Muarim—”
“ No, ” Muarim growls. The sound is deep and instinctual; Tormod’s mouth snaps shut, hand pulled back to himself, and he stares with wide eyes. “No, little one, that is—that is too dangerous. You ask for far too much. I forbid it.”
Tormod is not like them. He does not know the pain of a whip and the glee behind every strike. He should never know the agony of flames, the hopeless lethargy of thirst. He will never know such humiliation; Muarim would rather die before he did. And now he says he wants to jump into the beast’s maws? No.
The little one quickly rallies, all settled jaw and fury. “‘Forbid it’? You can’t stop me, Muarim. I’m going, and I don’t care if you like it or not.”
“Then you would die pointlessly,” Muarim snarls. “You know nothing of what we’ve been through. The drivers are trained fighters; as you are now, you would be of no use.”
“But they don’t know how to handle beorc, don’t they?” Tormod asks, fingers clenched into fists. “And that’s exactly why I need to learn how to fight. Don’t you see, Muarim?”
“Then what next?” Muarim’s body feels hot, blood pumping faster and stronger, as if he was back working beneath a merciless sun. “We learn to trust no beorc very quickly. Many of us would kill one the second we had the chance. Even if you could defeat the people in your way, your attempt would prove fruitless.”
A memory unfurls in Muarim’s mind: a little girl breaking into their hut at night, frantic and tearful, hair pulled into pigtails. The master’s youngest daughter. Barely five. She had brandished a key and opened their shackles, and convinced two of them to follow her to freedom. Their bodies were hung for them all to see the very next morning; a trick, a warning. A reminder of their place.
“But I wouldn’t be alone, I’d have you guys,” Tormod says, drawing himself up even further. His face is pale from the exertion, but his eyes burn. “That’d be all the proof they’d need, right? That we mean what we promise?”
“...Little one—Tormod.” Muarim’s fingers are curled as if they were claws, and he presses them tightly into his palms. “You are asking us to return to the source of our nightmares. We agonized and bled and died, and barely managed to escape. And now you want us to go back.”
Muarim is angry. He is disgusted. But there is something beneath those emotions, something that scratches at the surface and screams to be heard.
Tormod’s expression does not waver. “I know.”
“Then you understand the selfishness of your desire.”
“Yeah, I do. It’s really selfish of me. But I don’t care.” Tormod’s chin is held high, and his tone is angry yet even. He is more serious than Muarim has ever seen him. “I’ll practice and learn with whatever weapon I can get, and when I’m good enough, I’ll go rescue everyone.”
“Even if it meant marching alone? Even if it meant leaving all of us behind forever?”
“...Yeah. Even if it came to that.” The words are like flames, inflicting oozing wounds in Muarim’s heart, but Tormod continues before he can even open his mouth. “But I’ve got a question now, Muarim, so be honest with me: are you fine with leaving the other laguz as they are?”
Muarim’s breath hitches, he swallows visibly, and moonlit shadows shift on Tormod’s face: the little one knows he has hit a target. He presses on.
“I don’t think you are. I don’t think you’re okay with leaving others to be hurt like you have. Because I know you, and you never really show it, but you always care so much for everyone.” Tormod takes in a breath, slightly shaky; his passion shifts, quiets, but never quite vanishes. “You care so much for me too, always following and fussing and all that—and it’s annoying sometimes, sure, but it’s also part of why…” He glances away, just one second, and his lip wobbles. “It’s part of why I love you.”
“Little one…” Muarim cannot look away, cannot stop his stomach from fluttering or his tail from twitching. Tormod’s ferocious anger has melted back into him; in its place is an earnestness in those crimson eyes that makes Muarim’s heart throb from simply watching, like a stab between the ribs. “I…”
Tormod’s eyes are glistening now, but this is no human’s emotional ploy: his chokes through his words and he sniffles, and he means it all. “I want to fight to help, Muarim. I’m tired of always helplessly staring at someone’s back whenever there’s trouble. I want every single slave to be freed, and I want to protect everyone I care about. I want a peaceful world where we can all be safe. That’s what I’ve learned from you.” His voice breaks. “We both want the same thing, I know it, and I’ll try anyways, but I can’t do it without you. We can protect each other, like I’ve always wanted, and we can help so many people. So… please stay with me, Muarim.”
Tormod is not like Muarim. Tormod dreams of beautiful, impossible things, and Muarim keeps him tied to the ground while doing his best to fulfill them. Tormod grins and runs ahead without looking, too rash for his own good, and Muarim chides and praises and advises. Tormod pulls Muarim forward, and Muarim holds Tormod back.
Without Muarim, Tormod would have died all those years ago. Without Tormod… where would Muarim be? His band of former slaves would have not lasted to this day, not without Tormod as a glue and his well-being as an objective. And what would happen to him alone? He would have died eventually, of thirst or hunger—or worse, he would have been captured and returned. A fate worse than death.
There’s only one possibility, then. They both need each other, and this simple realization, this exhausting, gut-punching realization—it spurs Muarim into action.
“I will. I want…” The pronunciation is unfamiliar to his tongue; it is so hard for Muarim to be selfish. His voice falters. “Little one, I—”
This time it’s Tormod that takes Muarim’s hand on his own. He squeezes it tight. “You can do this, Muarim. You can do anything.”
Muarim nods, slowly yet surely, and lets himself be overtaken by the cub’s passion; he loathes feeling so vulnerable around Tormod when he’s meant to be his protector, but he must try, for him if nothing else. “I want… a world with no more laguz in chains. I want a world where none have to bear any scars. I want a world where you can be happy, little one.”
Tormod sniffs; a tear begins to roll down his cheek, tracing a new path. “I want that too, Muarim. But I have to be able to battle for that. Whenever the catchers come by, and I have to hide while watching you fight—I can’t be helpless like that again.”
“You do understand we will be forever concerned about you whenever we fight,” Muarim murmurs. He is barely able to speak around the ball of something in his throat. "And if you get injured like this... or worse... we will blame ourselves."
“That’s fine,” Tormod says; he is openly crying now, but still he speaks through mucus and emotion. “Because I’m always concerned about you whenever you fight, and you still step up anyways, so I gotta do the same. I’m done with just defending ourselves. We have to take action.”
Muarim takes in air. He collects all the fear, all the anger, all the turmoil. Then he exhales, and lets it all vanish into the night sky.
For those who couldn’t escape with them, for those who tried and were murdered for their desperation, for those who couldn’t gather the courage to try, and for those comrades he has right now, whose well-being he wishes for above all else… yes. He must at least try.
It’s strange to forsake safety for the sake of safety, but that’s another lesson he has learned from the little one.
“Yes, we do,” he says. Tormod’s eyes sharply cut to him. “You’re right, little one. We must aid all the laguz still in captivity. It’s only right. We can ask the others what they think tomorrow. And even if no other agrees, I promise you, I will be next to you no matter what happens.”
The cub’s mouth opens just slightly. “Oh. That’s… good,” he says, and then he deflates, all muscles relaxing at once. “That’s good. I’m… I’m glad. Really.”
“Mmm.”
And that’s that.
There’s a lull, and the energy and tension dissipates from Muarim’s body with every breath. He watches Tormod as he watches the sky, eyes starting to fall shut, tears starting to dry out, and he feels that familiar pleased-warm-sad-satisfied emotion wash over him, the same one that comes whenever the little one runs further every day or when he makes the other laguz forget their worries and laugh and smile. Pride, some could call it. A guardian’s, a protector’s, a caretaker’s. And if he is fully honest with himself, he could also call it the pride of a—
“Hey. Muarim.”
“Yes, little one?”
“...”
“...”
“...Could we sleep together? Like we used to?”
It is the beorc norm to sleep alone in separate rooms. Tormod’s privacy is something that they have given him as per his right. A smile grows on Muarim’s face anyway: it is slow and tired, but it is genuine.
“Of course,” he says, joy spreading through his chest, and the way his arms encircle Tormod, the kiss he lays on his little one’s hair, their shared breathing as they fall asleep in old ruins beneath darkness and stars—it is all as gentle as can be.
Two days later, after yet another skirmish, Muarim presents the little one with a weapon: a fire magic tome. Magic is all laguz’s worst enemy, the product of so many tragedies, but nobody protests: it is fitting, in a way, for the laguz’s worst enemy to be wielded by the one beorc they all cherish. Ramia catches his eye, and whatever she must see in Muarim's own softens her expression into smooth joy.
After the silent shock, Tormod pretends he rubs his eyes due to the sand, and that his sniffling is due to a cold, but he nevertheless hugs Muarim as tightly as he can; he can now stand, but he must still regain functional mobility in the following week. “Thank you,” he whispers, “thank you.” Muarim’s returning embrace envelops his little one entirely, keeping him steady, and his purr is loud enough to vibrate both their bodies.
The little one first calls fire to his palm not long after that, so determined he is to never feel so helpless again, so determined is he to protect all those he loves, and the rest is history.