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Some people claim that the Orcs, by nature of the one who shaped them, are somehow more suited to war than any other race.
Julien thinks this idea is fucking ridiculous. Partly because he’s met Fang’s brother, a man so utterly lacking in the instincts required of a warrior that it’s honestly pathetic, but mostly because if there is anyone who was made for war, it is Julien himself.
He has known it since he was thirteen years old, standing in position listening to the marshall recite the rules of the melee in dull anticipation, the hum of the crowd around them. An older boy standing next to him had nudged him and muttered I’m going to smash your face in, you little noble prick.
To this day he has no idea who the boy was, never bothered to learn his name and would probably not remember it if he had. He only remembers the sound that the bones in the boy’s arm made when they broke, the way he had cried and Julien had simply kept moving, to the next opponent. The glorious chaos of it, blood and sweat and pain, and knowing there is but one rule, in truth. Survive.
He loves war, and war loves him. In battle there is no space for doubt, only decision and action, fast on each other’s heels. To hesitate would be death, so Julien simply does not. All the world narrowed to this, to slash and thrust, taunt and feint, the victor and the dead.
Each time an enemy falls, Julien is made whole, just for a little while, because this is exactly what he was made for.
Sadly, battle cannot last forever. Eventually there must come stillness, and quiet, and all the other things that let the darkness come at him. Were he at home, that is if home still exists, he can always recreate battle on a smaller scale. Training, or fucking, or picking a fight. Anything to give his body something to do.
Eventually he sleeps, although not well. He has not in a while. Not since—
Not in a while, anyway.
His lady and Thaisha are still asleep, when he wakes, on the platform—barely worthy of being called a bed, using cloaks as blankets. The other two, undoubtably outside, guarding the entrance to this hovel. Even that word is generous, as a description of the building they are taking refuge in. A druid’s place, apparently. To provide shelter for travellers heading to the Dvalmar Pass, if the travellers are lost and also not at all fussy.
Which he is not, at least not on his own behalf. He paces the inside of the small structure; there is the room they are using as a bedroom, and a second outside it, with a table for eating and a fireplace they did not light for fear of being tracked. On the wall, someone has scratched a helpful map to guide any lost travellers to nearby settlements. On the table, various others have scrawled names and greetings in various languages.
After he’s circled the room three times, he ducks out the front door. He can hear Vaelus and the boy, perched on the roof, and sticks close to the edge of the wall to avoid being spotted before looping out on a wider patrol path. He is not in the mood for conversation.
Patrol is a familiar task, and calming in its own way. It was one of his first duties, when he joined House Royce against the rebellion. To scout the way without being seen, and supposedly not to tackle enemy forces head on.
He might have broken that rule once or twice, but it turns out that in a war, nobody scolds you for rule-breaking when you win.
There are no enemy forces to be seen, no traces they have been followed in their flight from Dol-Makjar. He tells himself he is not disappointed.
Thaisha catches him at the rear of the building, as he’s circling back. “Where did you go?”
“Patrol.” Not that it is any of her business. He can admit, however grudgingly, that Thaisha Lloy is not an enemy. Is, at least, a friend to his lady. Might even admit, if he had to, that she is sometimes useful. But he is not going to answer to her.
She scowls at him. “Let me rephrase that. Where the fuck did you go and why the fuck did you think it was a good idea to wander off by yourself?”
“Wandering would indicate that I moved without reason or purpose. Given the forces arrayed against us, I think that it would behoove us to take additional precautions.” And by us he means himself.
Thaisha does not seem convinced by this argument. “So tell someone. Tell Vaelus where you’re going, at least. Communication, Julien. It’s that thing you do with your mouth when you’re not making snide little remarks.”
What, is she complaining he’s not playing nice? He steps into her space, deliberate. “Think a lot about what I do with my mouth, Lloy? Keep dreaming.”
He sees the way her body tenses, before she grabs him; he doesn’t expect the vine, hard as metal, that grabs his ankle as he’s about to counter, and his back hits the wall, sending a pleasant shock through his body. He likes Thaisha better when she shows her teeth, it has to be said. “Always has to be a fight with you, doesn’t it?”
He tests her hold, although not seriously, just yet; she won’t hold him for long, and she knows it. Besides, he has other weaponry at his disposal for this fight. “You think you’re any different? Why are you here, Lloy, and not back in Dol-Makjar playing house with Halandil? Could it be nice doesn’t get you going, these days?”
The grip tightens, which tells him it’s a hit. “You keep his name out of your mouth.”
He grins, feeling the siren-song of a good fight drawing near. “Why don’t you make me.” he says, and twists out of her grasp, smirks in exactly the way he knows will piss her off the most. “Come on, wolf-hearted. If you expect me to pay attention, you better make it worth my while.” He’s not sure if she’ll recognise the Sylvan term, and he’s not planning to translate. It’s simply the best descriptor that came to mind. Wolf-hearted is certainly not an insult, but he doesn’t mind if she takes it as one. More fun that way.
When she comes after him again, he’s ready for it. Lets himself fall, when her hands connect, and manages to bring her down with him, turning his body to try to pin her. It’s good, the sweet immediacy of it. The pain when she grabs his hair, and the pressure when she rolls them again, fist still tight in his curls.
“Got your attention yet?”
He arches his hips up, so she can feel exactly how. Sometimes the boundaries between fight and fuck get a little blurred, for him. “In a sense. Planning to keep it? I get bored easily.”
He doesn’t know what he expects in response. For a moment, she only stares at him. Then, suddenly, her attention moves away, and disappointingly, she releases his hair and stands up, turning towards the roof.
A moment later, Vaelus appears over the edge. She looks down over the scene beneath her with apparent calm. “If you’re both up, should we start breakfast?”
“Let’s give Nessa another hour or so.” Thaisha says, and Vaelus nods and disappears again.
The moment is broken. Julien adjusts himself carefully. “Guess we’ll have to finish this discussion another time.”
She looks him over, long and slow. “Now who’s dreaming?” she says, and walks away before he can get the last word in.
Castle Torch should be a refuge, but sleep does not come easily. Another bad night, another early morning. His dreams are haunted by shadows of what might be and has been, remembering standing watching his father fall, helpless to prevent it. A shadow that reached out, from nothing. A shadow around his throat.
Unsettled, perhaps, by knowing he must separate from his lady, even if there is wisdom in the strategy.
By some trick of the light, his shadow stretches long before him in the dim corridor, as if calling him out, towards the Barrowdells. He carefully opens the door that leads to the main palisade, stands in the arch and looks out into the surrounding shadows. This place is suited for defense, is well-guarded, and really it is probably better that he does stay with the rest of them.
But what if it isn’t? the darkness whispers. Go. Look. See.
A hand grips his shoulder the moment he steps forward. “Do we have to put you on a leash?” Thaisha says, and then immediately, before he can say it, “Do not.”
He grins, the shadows immediately dispersing, as Thaisha presents a much more interesting target. “I didn’t say anything. You’re the one impugning my virtue here.”
“What virtue?” she says, dismissively, but her gaze is hot on his skin. “I know your reputation.”
“If my lady Lloy would like to know my reputation a little better, she would only have to ask.” he says, in the tone that previously he’s found very effective on any number of people. Hard to predict if it will make Thaisha Lloy want to fuck him, or slap him. A good fuck would be more fun, but a slap is probably more likely. Either way, the only real way to find out is to keep pushing.
She leans in. It might be intended as intimidating, if there was any room left in him, among the anticipation, for stupid things like fear. “Very confident, aren’t you?”
“You just told me you knew my reputation. Try to keep up.” He meets her half-way, lips just a whisper apart. “Feel free to back out, tell me you’re not interested. Although I didn’t take you for a coward or a liar.”
“Yes, yes, you’re very pretty.” she says dismissively. The tone shouldn’t send a little thrill through him. It shouldn’t. It doesn’t. “And I would love to fuck you stupid, but I think somebody got there before me.”
“Such a sweet talker.” It’s still an admission, or close enough. “And also, astoundingly sure that you’re up to the challenge. Perhaps you’re all talk.”
“Fine words, from the man who never knows when to shut up.”
Too easy an opening to resist. He shrugs. “Well, my lady Lloy keeps teasing me and then not doing anything to otherwise occupy my mouth, so I can hardly be blamed for that one. Perhaps she will see fit to educate me, one of these days.”
For a moment, he thinks this is the day she finally bites, despite all odds. Then she shakes her head. “We head out as soon as they have our supplies ready. Now is not the time.”
Probably sensible, although tell that to the nervous energy twitching through his limbs, wanting an outlet, something to remind him he’s alive. Foolish, like many of his impulses. He pushes the tips of his gauntlet against his other palm, lets it drain away from him. That never holds him for long, but once they’re out the gates, he can give himself over to war and become what he’s meant to be.
Easier that way. Better. He doesn’t know what there is to find out there, but for certain there will be something dangerous to fight.
The return to Castle Torch brings him no joy, even as his bannermen gather around him.
It is a celebration, for those who were returned.
It is a wake, for those who could not be.
Julien presses himself to the wall furthest from the drinks table. If he allows himself to start, he likely will not stop until he blacks out and he doesn’t want to let himself have that tonight.
He cannot allow himself the luxury of forgetfulness, not even for a moment. He must hold them in his mind, each name, each failure sharp as a blade. Even if he were to bleed every Tachonis out onto the sands, would that be enough, for vengeance? Even if he were to inflict every torture the mind of mortal man could concieve upon that wretch Primus and all his kin. Even if he were to devote the rest of his life to this vengeance. Not enough. Never enough.
Occtis has, probably wisely given Julien’s mood, absented himself from the proceedings. Vaelus a silent, calming presence for all that she holds herself apart. The grief that she bears a mirror to his own. Thaisha is amongst the crowd, offering what comfort she can to those who follow her Path.
Childishly, he feels the urge to join them, even though he does not follow her path, and certainly does not deserve to be comforted. Her son is close by her side. Indeed, that one fact is something. Not enough, but something.
A few eyes follow him, as he steps out into the cold night air, but none of them do anything more than nod at him. Vaelus holds his gaze a moment longer than the rest would, but he shakes his head at her and she relents, lets him pass in solitary silence.
The balcony is unguarded, and the cold air that blows in from the Barrowdells is sharp enough to sting. He takes it, mind running across all his failures. If he had stayed at Castle Torch—no, then, what would have become of his lady? Is there truly no path he could have taken to protect them all?
What does it matter, if there is? the darkness whispers. You’re not made for thinking, Julien. You never were. Only for war. The only thing you should be thinking about is how many of the enemy you can slaughter, how much vengeance your body will buy you, before you inevitably join us here in the long cold dark.
Something flashes across his mind. Us? Something about that doesn’t seem right. One of his pockets is still a little heavier than the other; he reaches down to feel the edge of the rock, which has become something of a habit. One side sharp and the other smooth, which seems—about correct, for who it was a gift from.
A harsh noise of metal against stone makes him spin around, rapier half-way drawn before he realises who it is. “Shouldn’t you be with Alogar?”
Thaisha shrugs, leaning slightly against the frame of the doorway. “He’s drinking with his friends. They’ve found something I think might be worse than Yahrgraz.” She’s clearly been indulging, herself, but her eyes are still far too sharp. “Why aren’t you with them?”
“I’m not in the mood for company.” He glares at her, to try and make it clear how unwelcome her instrusion is. “Everyone else took the hint.”
She shakes her head. In another moment, he would think her beautiful, her hair loose, the way her smile curves around her tusks. Her sharp edges and her smooth ones. “Drinking and grieving should never be done alone, Julien. And I doubt it’s a good idea to leave you out here alone with your ghosts.”
He rolls his eyes as she gestures vaguely around him. “Spare me your platitudes and your metaphors, Lloy. You’ll start to sound like that Creed fellow who used to follow me between brothels telling me my heart was full of darkness or some such.”
Surprisingly quick—she musn’t be that drunk, after all, her hand seizes his wrist. Her palm is warm, and one of her fingernails pricks at his skin, just lightly, and some combination of these two surprising sensations is probably why he finds himself holding short of snatching his arm out of her grasp. “Not a metaphor, Julien. I thought you—never mind, just come inside and we’ll go talk to Vaelus. Maybe to our new cleric friend.”
Infuriating, inconsiderate woman. “If I indulge your drunken whims for this short while, will you leave me alone thereafter?”
She wraps him in a hug. He refuses to lean into the warmth of it. For all that she was going on about his warmth out in the Barrowdells, Thaisha is the one who always seems to run pleasantly hot. Probably some druid nonsense she’s not admitting to, which is cheating. “You’re actually sort of cute when you’re pretending you don’t like me, you know.”
“I don’t like you.” he informs her. “Wanting to fuck you only requires eyesight and a pulse. The thought of developing any sort of emotional attachment to you fills me with revulsion.”
Thaisha smirks down at him. “Mmhmm. Keep telling yourself that.” She taps his lip with her free hand. “You admit you do want to fuck me, though.”
Fuck. He did. And worse, he can’t even blame it on what he’s been drinking.