Chapter Text
Part Two
The sun was everywhere.
A startled white shone blindingly up at them from all around—the ground, the sky, the walls. Not walls, mountains. Either side of them, glittering, the sun smashed across extraordinary, perfect snow. The sky—the sky!—was a soft yellow above and a liquid gold where it stretched all the way to the horizon, dripping down over the dog’s-teeth mountain range across from them. The world opened out below in dazzlingly high exposure like the spread-eagle pages of a pop-out picture book, the ground carving down into deep bottle-green valleys, a bowl scooped out of the mountains and there, in the centre of it all, was Whiterun.
“YAHOO!” J’zargo exclaimed emailishly. Marcurio watched as J’zargo bounded down the sugar-coated steps and into a snowbank, too dizzy with relief to participate in his companion’s exuberant merrymaking. He tipped to the side, letting his shoulder hit a column of stone, and slid to the icy floor.
The sun’s golden apricity washed over him as he sat and stared, molten light melting the crisp air. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything more beautiful. He’d seen sunsets before, and all things considered this one was by no means exceptional—but every night he’d been trapped in the Dwemer’s tomb he’d prayed to anyone who would listen that if ever he saw the sun again, he wouldn’t take it for granted. He took a deep drink from the wind. He watched, amused, as J’zargo threw himself at everything he could; he took handfuls of snow and released them, like doves, into the sky to watch it catch the light and rain down over him, all the while laughing childishly. Marcurio closed his eyes. He was alive.
He didn’t open them even as he felt J’zargo rush back up the stairs and yank him to his feet. The hug was a surprise, though. J’zargo grabbed him with his entire body, both arms wound around his back and lifting him just a breath off of the ground, babbling loudly. He smelled of wet leaves.
“WE HAVE LIVED! AHA!” he cried.
Marcurio—after the initial shock that J’zargo’s indiscriminate appreciation of the world now targeting him—reciprocated uncertainly. He looped an arm back around J’zargo. How long had it been since he’d had a hug? He wasn’t sure anyone had ever been this happy to see him before, and he didn’t know what to make of that. It was… rather pleasant, actually. He was very soft. Marcurio patted him placantingly on the back.
With his arms still around Marcurio, J’zargo pulled back slightly to look at him with a sudden hesitant distaste on his lips. He broke off halfway through his sentence.
“You- eugh. J’zargo would have kissed you, but you smell very bad.”
Marcurio sighed.
“Just put me down.”
J’zargo dropped him. His boots hit the ground with a dull thud. J’zargo, evidently not yet through with him, downgraded Marcurio to a side hug instead and took him about the shoulders to stare proudly into the sunset alongside him.
Whiterun. One of the few cities in Skyrim that either of them would truly deem respectable, violet and hazy in the hold’s great plains with rivers of blue smoke trickling up into the atmosphere. It was far off, a good few hours, but near enough that Marcurio was confident, if they left now, they’d be able to reach it at a reasonable hour. He set off, making for the stairs and feeling J’zargo’s arm flop back down.
“Hey!” J’zargo called out.
“C’mon.” He held tighter onto the straps of his backpack, as light as his supplies had become, glancing only briefly over his shoulder as J’zargo made a half-hearted attempt to follow him. “We need to start moving if we want to stay the night at Whiterun. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like spending another night outside after all of that.”
“Yes, but-” J’zargo clomped down the rest of the stairs back into the snow, shoulders slumped as he let out a long-suffering sigh. “We cannot take a break? We cannot sit down? Slow down! J’zargo is just about ready to keel over—Whiterun is so far away! Eeeh.” He stooped down, gathering a snowball in his paws and throwing it with a grunt of effort. It went wide and crashed into the trunk of a nearby crumpled-up tree, missing Marcurio’s retreating back as he set off resolutely down the side of the mountain, his posture set but his feet uncertain on the unstable rock shelves like an ill-prepared draft horse. J’zargo hung his head. There was still a ways to go yet. Scooping up a second snowball and stowing it behind his back for the ambush he would stage later on in the evening, he picked up his tired limbs and followed, reluctantly, after him.
The walk to Whiterun was quicker than J’zargo had imagined, and the light was not entirely absent from the horizon by the time they had slogged their way up the main road and to the Whiterun gates. They received some strange looks from the guards, and J’zargo couldn’t blame them. Still covered in dried up mud, hair tangled, haggard and hang-dog with their heads sheepishly lowered in front of the doormen like a pair of water-logged draugr. The men didn’t ask very many questions. They were waved through.
J’zargo had never been to Whiterun before. It was the only one of Skyrim’s holds that he’d heard anything good about, and was pleasantly surprised to find it altogether tolerable. He let Marcurio lead the way, being that he seemed more familiar. The main road led upwards at a slow incline, houses bunched neatly to the curb. Flowers baubled up in clusters, thistles and dandelions swaying up against the cobbles, lanterns hung low overhead from store balconies. The people seemed, for the most part, disinterested in him. This was nice. He didn’t appear to be on the pointy end of any racial discrimination here—all the judgy looks seemed aimed at his filthy attire, which he could live with.
He followed Marcurio up to the local tavern: ‘The Bannered Mare,’ as proclaimed by the sign. It was blissfully warm inside and a stark contrast to the miserable little shack they called the inn at Winterhold. Not only was the Bannered Mare warm and large and so wonderfully populated, but J’zargo was very interested to learn from the innkeeper that the tavern had a bathhouse. He hunted through all of his pockets, scoured his bag, and upturned all of his belongings until at last he had accrued enough of his scant remaining septims to purchase himself a room for the night and an appointment with a long, hot bath.
He’d offered to take it with Marcurio, but the man had refused, claiming that he’d have his own afterwards. Prudish Imperial, J’zargo had thought to himself as he sunk his body slowly into the lowered tub, before any further unimpressed thoughts melted dreamily away. A deep, pervasive languour sunk in through his skin, the heat of the water lulling him with a kind of drunken comfort after the sharp, bracing week he’d spent underground. How far must they have walked beneath Nirn’s surface to get all the way to Whiterun? It didn’t matter now. He could feel all the evidence of the journey waning from him, washing out from his fur as he let himself sink even lower, the water’s edge coming up to tickle his chin while he watched, passively, as his tail bobbed limply to the surface and floated there. J’zargo had never had much fondness for this human practice of heated bathhouses (being a Khajiit leaves one typically averse to water-centric hygiene rituals), but the Nords, he decided then, got a pass. If, for some reason, you really must live in Skyrim, you deserve the dignity of a hot bath. Twin Moons, this was nice.
He remained in place, completely still for a while, reminded of a teabag left to stew in a steaming mug, dissolving, before he finally began to clean himself up in earnest. The scrubbing was a hypnotic task, mindlessly watching himself as the mud rose and vanished. That was until he reached his leg.
He sat up properly. He hefted himself back and came to sit at the edge of the metal tub, dripping a puddle of water onto the floor, and took a look at his thigh. Slowly, carefully, he unwrapped the fabric just as he had done before, expecting to see something grisly and dark lurking under it. No such thing presented. Instead, to his confusion, J’zargo found that his wound had… healed. Not fully, but it was healed. Gnarled tree-root scabs marked the black outline of where the Falmer had scored his thigh, unfortunate looking, but completely dry. Monochrome, too. No yellows or greens. Just the black and red of drying, dissipating blood.
Huh.
J’zargo stared at it for a long time, only sinking himself back into the water as someone else came in to start setting up one of the other baths. He continued scrubbing the filth from himself, though now a little more occupied with his thoughts. His wound was infection-free. He thought back to when Marcurio had treated it, down in the abandoned Falmer camp. Warmth through his leg, bright and gold, sparing him from what may well have been a fatal wound if he hadn’t stepped in to clean it.
J’zargo frowned and wrung out his hair. Whatever. It wasn’t like he was going to need him to do it again, after all. J’zargo stepped out of the bath, dried off, and headed back upstairs.
J’zargo found a table to sit at in one of the many corners of the inn, joined after a time by Marcurio. They hardly spoke to one another as they ordered their meal and ate, too famished for conversation, silently absorbed in the piles of warmed bread, cheese, and venison that still sizzled on the plate, fresh from the kitchen. J’zargo ate with his hands, which Marcurio privately found disgusting, but not enough to say anything. They finished, and sat quietly for a time. Eventually, Marcurio broke the silence.
“We need something to drink,” he decided, placing his palm down on the table. Marcurio looked around and then waved down the Redguard woman who’d waited on them earlier, placing an order with her. As she weaved away towards the bar, he continued. “I’ve never cared much for the rubbish they have here in Skyrim, but at the moment I think I’d drink the outhouse water if it was alcoholic.”
Marcurio surprised himself with the degree to which he was allowing his guard down. He hadn’t meant to sound so… friendly. Ew. But after everything, he felt sapped of all his usual snark, and far more disarmed by J’zargo’s easy smile. After all, this was a night of celebration! He could put his past grievances aside. For now. J’zargo didn’t seem to mind the present ease of Marcurio’s attitude either.
“J’zargo hears you.” He snickered. “It is the only thing this one likes about Imperials.”
“What is?”
“The brandy.”
Marcurio hummed. They lapsed back into their previous companionable silence until the woman returned, placing down two mugs of ale and accepting both Marcurio’s thanks and the last reserves of their coin. They both gave their drinks suspicious tandem looks as she left.
“You’d imagine the Nords would be better at making alcohol,” Marcurio commented. J’zargo snorted.
“This one cannot imagine why.” He pulled his drink up to his chest, his claw tracing the mug’s side. “There is nowhere to grow anything in this stupid place.”
“I know. But they’re all alcoholics.”
“They must be tasting something we are not.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Marcurio raised his drink slightly, and J’zargo leaned all the way across the table to touch it to his, grinning. They both pulled from their mugs and grimaced at the taste. It was oily. Neither much wanted to continue after that first sip, but the other option was spending the night sober, which neither would have preferred. Marcurio placed his back on the table and slouched over it, J’zargo nursed it with it held to his chest, looking thoughtfully over the room as patrons tumbled in from the falling night. The din of the tavern rose slowly like a tide, washing in and out of volume and overlapping in the background. It was strange to see so many people at once again. Even the College hadn’t been like this.
“Do they make it better where you come from?” Marcurio felt a little pathetic making such a bid for conversation, but it drew J’zargo’s gaze back to him. The khajiit’s head tipped questioningly to the side.
“Where J’zargo comes from? What makes you think khajiit does not come from here?”
Marcurio flushed a little and waved his hand broadly, trying to wave away his blunder and come up with a way out of his hole without causing further offense.
“Ah- I… well, I assumed. You seem to hate the cold as much as I do. My apologies. What hold do you hail from, then?”
“Orcrest.”
“Orcrest…” he repeated, trailing off. Oh. His expression hardened, though his eyes were not without humour. “So I was right. You’re not from here.”
“No.” He flashed his smile, sharp and blithe as ever. Marcurio rolled his eyes.
“Ugh. You’re still being difficult, then. Fine. Whatever. What was it like?”
“The alcohol?” J’zargo leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he considered. “Ah, it was good. Good enough, anyhow. The only alcohol worth drinking came from Cyrodiil. Valenwood does not produce much on its own, what with the Green Pact, and Elsweyr has much the same problem as Skyrim—nowhere to grow it. J’zargo grew up on Cyrodiilic brandy and little much else.”
“You grew up on it?” he repeated. J’zargo seemed to find no issue with this. “That explains a lot. So you liked Elsweyr?”
“Oh, yes. All of J’zargo’s family is there.”
“Are you going to head back there?”
J’zargo tilted his head again, perplexed.
“What?”
“Well, after this, I mean. Or are you going back to the College?”
“Back to the College, of course,” he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Why?”
“Well, I’m not,” Marcurio said, now finding himself confused at J’zargo’s confusion. J’zargo’s confusion continued.
“What?”
“What?”
They blinked at one another.
“What do you mean, ‘you are not coming back?’” J’zargo echoed back to him. Marcurio averted his eyes, looking down at the nervous, perspiring ale held captive between his fingers, suddenly finding himself feeling defeated, and a little surprised that J’zargo was showing concern for him. He sighed.
“I- I mean just that. I’m going… probably back to Riften, I suppose. Or hells, maybe back home to Cyrodiil. I think this whole experience has soured Skyrim for me once and for all. I’d feel safer with some mountains behind me, that’s for sure. Maybe over to Hammerfell.”
“But- what of Torlan?” J’zargo asked. Marcurio looked up. J'zargo leaned in, looking at him insistently, his ears bent backwards but not yet folded. Marcurio paused to consider his next statement before choosing, ultimately, to screw himself.
“What of her?”
He shouldn’t have said that.
“What of her?” J’zargo said, his voice lowered but hissed. “She is still missing!”
“J’zargo,” Marcurio said, matching his lowered tone, though not the intensity of his displeasure. “You can’t be serious right now.”
“Khajiit does not jest. Torlan, she is still out there.” He waved a hand. “We must continue looking. You were paid to do as much, no?”
“Well- yes, I was,” Marcurio said, at least having the good grace to look guilty.
J’zargo was having a hard time with the face Marcurio was making, feeling himself getting let down by the willingness the man was exhibiting to give up. That was J’zargo’s fault, really. He should have known better than to let Marcurio get his hopes up.
His thoughts, once again, briefly turned to Torlan, sadness pooling into his leaking heart as he did. She’d been the only person attending the College, and therefore all of Skyrim, that he would have ventured to label as his friend. The others had been nice—he had little bad to say about the Nord or the Dunmer he’d shared his classes with—but none had been so warm as Torlan. She’d been kind to everyone. Even Marcurio—in fact, she’d been, it seemed, quite close with him, always by his side whenever she wasn’t dicking around somewhere with J’zargo. The thought that Marcurio would be so ready to abandon her trail had caught J’zargo off guard. Unfortunately, the fool was still talking.
“But she’s gone now,” he was saying. “I’m released from my bonds. We lost them.” He pursed his lips and then leaned in as well. “J’zargo. Truly, be serious with me. She was kidnapped into a blizzard by a Thalmor agent. She’s either in a Thalmor prison, or she’s lying dead in a ditch right now, and either way: there’s nothing we can do.”
J’zargo’s ears folded back and he bared his teeth, his tail flicking.
“You do not know that.”
“I’m quite certain I do.” Marcurio paused, taking a moment to look out at the room, avoiding J’zargo’s admonishing stare. Feigning indifference he added, “And besides. If she was lying about her identity and she’s some Stormcloak spy, then it really isn’t any of my business.”
“Marcurio! How can you speak so cruelly of her? That girl trusted you!”
Marcurio cringed into his shirt. Quieter, knowing the cowardice in his statement, he continued,
“You don’t know for sure. She really might have been a spy.”
J’zargo sat back in his seat and looked at him properly. His jaw was slack, and he tilted his head to appraise Marcurio like he was seeing him properly for the first time. What a piece of shit.
“This one never did like you,” he said, “but for all your faults, J’zargo never did think you would be a Thalmor sympathiser.”
“I- I am not.” This statement landed right where J’zargo had aimed it. Marcurio was certainly looking at him now. “You’re twisting my words.”
“Ah, but you are saying that you would surrender a young girl to the Thalmor for her political beliefs?”
“Oh, that’s not fair! I’m saying I’m of no use to her now.” His jaw tensed, canting himself towards J’zargo again. “Believe me, I despise the Thalmor. More than most, even. But she could be anywhere in Tamriel! You’re wasting your time. It would be useless to try looking for her now.”
“You are giving up.”
“I’m not giving up—that implies there’s a chance. I’m admitting defeat. There’s a difference.”
“You had one job. One job, Marcurio, and that was to protect one single girl—a girl who was paying you an extraordinary amount of money to, what, to sit around? One girl, in the middle of all of the College’s outer defenses. And you let her get kidnapped. Kidnapped! By the Thalmor’s least efficient agent, no less. And you are giving up. You failed her.”
Not in all their fights had J’zargo ever looked this cold. Marcurio knew then that J’zargo really, truly might hate him now. If he’d ever really stopped. But this… this was unfair. Like he was any better, really. Yeah. J’zargo was no better than he was! He leaned in.
“You think I’m not ashamed?” he said, trying his best to keep quiet. “Of course I’m ashamed, damn it. You think I wouldn’t go looking for her if I thought there was anything to go off of? I- I’d go looking for her right now if there was a lead. But I don’t. She’s gone. Fine-” He put his hands up, “-I failed. But what’s done is done. You don’t need to be an asshole to me about it.”
“But there is a lead! We know her name. We know who took her. We know which way they went. You are looking for excuses, no? Excuses, trying to make yourself feel better, trying to make off with her gold to somewhere nice and temperate?”
“Gods damn it, J’zargo! You’re not better than me for- for pretending to be some hero! Go back up to that frozen shithole and sift through the snow all you like, you’re not gonna find her. You’re being stupid!”
People were looking.
“You are being cowardly!”
“I’m being reasonable! Do you know what the Thalmor do to people? Because I do. I know very well what they do.” He paused. “Of course I’m torn up over this. Of course I wish there was something I could do to save her from… whatever it is. But if she’s with them, it’s certainly already happened. I loathe to admit it, but it’s true. Because- because… I mean, come on. Come on. Seriously? You mean to tell me that I’m- what, a bad person for not…” He waved his hands wildly in the air. J’zargo had lounged back in his chair, disgust still souring his features, his arms folded. His tail twitched. “What are you going to do? Huh? If you find them? I mean, are you going to break into the Thalmor embassy? Spend your life on the run? I, for one, won’t. She’s gone. Accept it.”
Marcurio didn’t notice how quiet the tavern had become. A moment simmered, hot air between them.
“You are so full of it. You do not know that. You have not even tried.”
“No, and I’m not going to. I plan on living. J’zargo, do you even realise how completely out of your mind you sound-”
“You coward.”
“You idiot!”
“Hello!”
There were now three people at the table.
Their third was pulling up a cuck chair and folding themselves pleasantly into it, with one hand in his lap, the other holding a parcel, and the expression of one ‘just glad to be invited.’ His interjection had been so unprecedented that the argument was briefly all but forgotten. This man, who was presently and happily making eye contact with reckless abandon, looked strangely cobbled-together—a black monk’s robe swaddled his entire body and he had an absolute travesty of a haircut. Something about him was unplaceably incongruous with the rest of the room. The intensity of his gaze despite the 🙂 on his face, maybe. Neither of them was sure, but both felt it. Neither had any idea why. Or why he was here. Who the hell is this guy?
“Nice to meet you both, boys. My name is Sam Guevenne. A pleasure. You two look lively!” He grinned. He had a smile that reminded you that teeth really were just bones at the end of the day. “I was wondering, how’d you two feel about a little drinking competition?”
The sudden quietude didn’t seem to perturb him. He settled himself in his chair, getting comfortable. J’zargo’s brows drew inward as he stared at him, but said nothing.
“We don’t have anything to bet,” Marcurio said dumbly. It was a stupid thing to say and he cursed himself for it quickly after, (why didn’t I just say “no thank you”? Now I’ve exposed myself as a plebian!), but this only encouraged Sam, who perked up even brighter at this.
“Oh! No, no no. Don’t worry about that. It’s not quite that serious, just a little fun. All on the house.”
Marcurio, on instinct, shot J’zargo a look. An olive branch, capitalising on the reprieve this bizarre individual had carved out of their argument in order to give them this levity, a shared joke—and he succeeded in catching his eye. He was unsure why he did it and regretted it the moment he had. J’zargo met him there, for just a moment, before he brushed away the attempt and reverted his gaze to Sam. It stung. More than Marcurio would have liked admitting.
Sam, meanwhile, was pulling something out from his belt and placing it on the table. A parcel, it seemed. Perhaps that is misleading—while wrapped in brown paper and string, it wasn’t of the proportions or put-together appearance you might expect from one. The paper was scrunched, and it was long and gnarled, like a really huge and octogenarian finger.
“Maybe this will entice you?”
“What…?” Marcurio began to ask. Sam leaned forward, one hand deftly untying the string fastenings up the length of the object with burlesque coyness until the paper bloomed slowly away.
The object was a rose.
A staff, specifically. It was hard to tell precisely what the rose was made from because it so starkly resembled an actual flower cutting, down to the sparkling wound that marked where the plant had been sharply decapitated. Its head fell corpselike against the stained wood of the table. Something about it was off, just the way it was off with Sam. It was emotive, it poured out—the way its petals, so violently saturated, curved out in claws gave the irrational but unshakeable impression that if you were to place your hand near to it, it might bite you. Despite this, neither could bear to look away.
J’zargo’s vision, as he looked at it, began to do the strangest things. A hazy vignette squeezed all the colour away from his periphery and relocated it all to the rose. The rose started to gild itself. Molten, aurorous light haloed itself around the roses’ outline, the way Aetherius would do around the circumference of the moons when stared at for too long, except here with a distinctly more devious and dastardly energy. Marcurio’s senses, too, had been heightened. His hand, gently, came out to brush the vicious thorns scored all up and down the rose’s stem. When he pulled back his hand, his finger had been cut. Most curiously of all, looking down at the fine thread of blood parting the pad of his finger, he found that he didn’t care. He only wanted to go back to looking at the rose. It was beautiful. It smelled of a velvet cushion, perfumed fabric and—while he himself could not have drawn this parallel—of artificial flowers. Sam smiled.
“You like it, boys?” He seemed to know exactly what this staff was doing to the both of them. The pull of its magicka was so strong, the energy so clear and tangible, that it was as though it had taken up a seat and mind of its own beside Sam. “A little something I thought I’d bring over. You know. To raise the stakes. Cost me a pretty penny, it did, but uh…” He gave a surrendering shrug, still pleased with himself. “I don’t mind. Especially since I know I’ll win anyway!” He gave a wheezing, uncomfortable laugh that moved around his chest like the ball in a shaken can of spray paint. His eyes narrowed. “Unless… you’re both cowards…?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
There were three tankards on the table before either of them had considered it. Whatever had been so captivating about the rose before was fading—there was something new to look at. J’zargo glared at Marcurio. Marcurio glared at J’zargo. Sam was saying something convivial and irrelevant that neither heard as they both reached for their previously forgotten drinks.
“Do not look so eager,” J’zargo said.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Marcurio fired back, lifting the tankard to his lips. “I could drink you under the table.”
“J’zargo is not so sure.” He mirrored him, raising the drink and downing a long, fuming draw of it. It ran nails down his throat. His eyes watered, and he fought to keep his eyes dry and the alcohol down. Oh, that was so much worse than he’d remembered.
“I’m not scared of someone afraid to get his own whiskers wet.” Marcurio lowered his drink, wearing a matching expression of poorly-concealed revulsion. “I could drink my own body weight in this and stay standing.”
“Your body weight? This is not saying very much, is it?” Marcurio opened his mouth to retort. J’zargo kept going. “Oh, J’zargo apologises. That was too far. His mother raised him better—J’zargo should know to pick on those his own size.”
“I’m having my doubts that your mother raised you at all.”
“J’zargo’s mother was a greater woman than whatever puffed-up ratbag was unfortunate enough to have had y-”
Marcurio stood up.
“Will you shut up!” He leaned down, voice raised. “You’re an insufferable prick, do you know that? You are such a piece of work! I saved your stupid, worthless life. I don’t know why. You got me lost in a blizzard, and trapped in a cave, and now you’re sitting here belittling my mother? What did I do to deserve being stuck here with you?”
“It was not exactly Khajiit’s idea of a fun night out either,” J’zargo hissed, his nose scrunching. He rose from his seat to meet him, tail lashing behind him and his ears folded flat to his head, his claws unsheathed and gripping the table’s circumference with white-knuckled ferocity. “You cannot pretend Khajiit was at fault for the blizzard—it was your mistake that Torlan ended up in it in the first place! That was yours to prevent, and now you are refusing to even attempt to look for her! You are leaving an innocent girl, under your protection, to the will of the Thalmor. No? Because that is how it looks from here.”
“It’s none of your business what I do.”
He folded his arms, pulling his shoulders back, his eyes looking J’zargo up and down. J’zargo gave a low growl in the back of his throat. His claws relaxed.
“J’zargo should have left you to the mercenaries.” His voice froze over, and he let himself stand up straight as well. He’d been wrong to ever question himself—Marcurio was every bit the callous fool J’zargo had first assumed him to be.
“After everything I did to keep you alive?” Marcurio’s jaw set. “You’re not worth the magicka it cost to heal you.”
Hot, leaden silence fell. Once again in the post-argument clarity, Marcurio became aware that people, the entire room now in fact, were staring at them. J’zargo did not notice. The air hung, stagnant, like settling water. Silent.
“And I’ll drink to that!”
Sam went 😀 and raised his tankard. Petulantly, Marcurio dropped back into his seat with his arms still crossed over his chest. J’zargo lowered himself carefully into his. Both took their drinks, their gazes welded together.
And they began to drink.