The Runaway - Part Two

Hello again, fellow digressors. So you may have noticed that while you've been seeing a bit more of me lately, it's mostly had to do with Jill Williamson's new eBook, 'Darkness Reigns' and how much you need to check it out. Hopefully that's settled well with you, but just in case, I'll post something that's been a long time in coming... 

......Writing music recommendations! 

No, not really. But since I mentioned it, I did purchase a couple of albums of orchestral/trailer music over the past several months, and they're both amazing. The first is 'Magnus' by Audiomachine and the second is 'Classics: Vol. 2' by Two Steps From Hell. I also have 'Classics: Vol. 1' and it is an equally worthy offering, and I would very much like to buy Audiomachine's 'Phenomena'. Here are their lovely album covers for your consideration. 

Y'all who are writers or just like awesome orchestral music to make your brains work better or make your day feel more epic should check it out. There are one or two tracks that aren't my favorites, but considering how many tracks there are in all four put together (ninety, in case you were wondering), for all of them to surpass my expectations would be quite a remarkable feat. Overall, I'm in love with the albums and have found them very useful in making my brain work and getting the inspiration going for me to write. 

Hang on -- you say you were expecting something else from the post's title? What, my music recommendations aren't good enough for you? You don't like epic orchestral scores that get your blood pumping and brain cells firing? 

Well, phooey, then. I guess I'll just get on to the point of my post: A while back (a long while, I'm afraid) some of you voted in a poll regarding which short story/novella I should keep posting on the blog. The choice was between 'Street Rats' (the protagonist being Talsyn Lethar from 'The Merchant's Son') and 'The Runaway' (the protagonist being Jorthen Lavahr from 'The Follower'). And the winner was... 

The Runaway.

Never fear, those who were gunning for 'Street Rats' -- it's entirely possible that one of these nights, I'll get tired of my main projects and, in a fit of rebellion, write another installment in that story and post it here. I can guarantee that my brain will keep plotting it and imagining how I would introduce it to you and explain it on the back cover of the paperback and conduct my author interview on television... 

Wait, I'm getting sidetracked again. You really should warn me when I start doing that. I get little enough done as it is. I haven't even addressed the lovely people who have at some point nominated me for blog awards (Annika at Writer And Proud and Adriana over at The Librarian Files, who are both more faithful bloggers than I am; you should check them both out right now, if you haven't already). I do desperately want to catch up on all that (and also on the stuff my best friend Sierra over at Words on My Page has tagged me for). I just need to track down all the places where they linked me to details about the awards/events, then follow their instructions. Maybe I'll do it all in one big post... The hard part will be in tagging other bloggers; I guess I know a few, but I tend to forget their addresses when it counts. 

Anyways, without further ado, I shall end your long wait (for a continuation of the aforementioned story, that is)... 

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The Runaway - Part Two

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It took four men to haul the stranger into the building, two to catch his horse, and yet another to fetch the base physician, but within the space of half an hour, all was accomplished, and Jorthen stood by as the physician, Geram, bent over a musty cot and examined their runaway's injuries. Jorthen flinched at the sight of some of the burns, but the greying man before him remained stoic and steady as he checked the boy's breathing, his pulse, and, for whatever reason, his teeth. The gangly stranger before him did not stir for any of it. 

Jorthen held his tongue for a few minutes, then cleared his throat. "What do you think?" 

"Eh?" Geram glanced at him, then waved a hand dismissively. "I've only just begun my examination. I have nothing to report as of yet." 

"Nothing?" Jorthen frowned and stepped forward to get a better look. "Can you at least tell how severe his wounds are? Will he live?" 

"I've seen nothing to warrant either a yea or a nay on that subject, Master Lavahr. I'll thank you to wait outside while I examine my patient." 

Jorthen worked his jaw and fought to keep his tone neutral. "He may be injured, but for all we know, he could pose a threat if he woke and didn't understand what was going on or what your intentions were. If need be, I can speak to him in his own language." 

"Don't see how you couldn't keep watch from just outside the door," Geram grumbled, shaking his head. He sighed heavily. "Fine, then. If you must be here, you can at least make yourself useful. I need his tunic removed so I can check for burns in more vital areas than his face and limbs." 

Jorthen nodded. He had assisted physicians in such tasks before, but as Geram used a knife to cut the boy's tunic free from his body, Jorthen's flight instincts threatened to carry him out of the room. Hardly an inch of the boy's body was not bruised, cut, or burned, but his back was the worst. A large portion of the flesh was branded varying shades of red, purple, and even black where something must have struck and charred him. Jorthen glanced away to compose himself, then took a deep breath. "What should I do?" 
"Just get me the burn medicine from over there." Geram nodded towards a shelf on Jorthen's far right where a myriad of bottles sat. 
Jorthen walked over to the shelf and examined the bottles, but the harder he stared at the scrawled words on the labels, the less he was able to read them. He found one that he thought said something like 'Burns' and carried it over to Geram. 
Geram took a look at the bottle and grunted. "Give me that," he said, snatching the bottle from Jorthen. He strode over to the shelf and started searching for the burn medicine himself. 
Jorthen swallowed his frustration, then forgot it entirely as he looked again at the boy, who now lay on his stomach, still unconscious, tortured back exposed. He noticed a set of strange, claw-like scars running parallel to the boy's spine, all of them darker than scars would normally be and shaped as though they were new, though he could see no other sign that they were. He frowned. "Those marks along his spine... Did those come from the fire?" 
"Scars and birthmarks don't concern me," Geram said, pushing past Jorthen with the proper medicine in hand. "Only the wounds that still stand to cause trouble." 
"But these," Jorthen began, then trailed off as he remembered that Geram likely wouldn't listen anyhow. He glanced down at the Shamindo boy again and took a deep breath. "You know, maybe I'll just step outside after all. Call me if you need anything." 
"Go, then," Geram said indifferently, and popped the cork of the medicine bottle without so much as glancing at Jorthen. 
Jorthen hesitated a moment longer, then glimpsed the boy's injuries again and found his motivation to leave renewed. A moment later, he was out in the hallway with the door shut behind him. He nearly collided with a small band of male recruits who tried to peer through the doorway before he shut the door. "Back to your duties," he said. "There's nothing to see here." 
"Is it true they caught a Shamindo spy?" A dark-haired, light-eyed boy at the edge of the group stared wide-eyed at the door as if the injured runaway might leap out at him with his teeth bared. 
Jorthen resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No, it is not true." 
"How do you know?" One of the taller boys crossed his arms defiantly. "You only just found him, didn't you? Everyone knows Shamindo strays aren't to be trusted." 
"There are no spies here," Jorthen said. "Your superior officers will conduct an interrogation as soon as possible, and then we'll decide what to do with him." 
A chorus of protests broke out at his words, and more recruits joined the group either to protest or simply to watch the spectacle. "But how do you know he's not--" 
"Is it safe?" 
"Maybe he's an assassin, here to take out our alchemy instructor." 
"No, he's a horse thief, didn't you hear? He's here to steal our animals." 
"Maybe he's here to steal our secrets." 
"Or our lives." 
Jorthen clapped his hands hard, and the sound echoed through the hall. "That's enough," he shouted. Once the chatter had died down a bit, he scanned the crowd. "The situation is being handled, and I will update any genuinely concerned parties later when I have some actual information to give them. Until then, back to your training, or patrols, or whatever you're scheduled to do at this hour. Go." 
A discontented murmur spread throughout the crowd. but one by one the recruits dispersed and resorted to whispering their suspicions between themselves. 
Any thoughts of returning to his room to retreat from the stress of dealing with people were forgotten now as Jorthen centered himself in front of the door and clasped his hands behind him to keep a lookout. Perhaps none of the recruits meant any harm, but if Geram had been frustrated by one lieutenant captain hanging about while he worked, the fallout from several curious teenagers and twenty-somethings milling about watching him would be nigh on unimaginable. 
Whoever this boy might be, whatever reason brought him here, he deserved treatment from a focused physician, not one who turned away every few seconds to order people to back away. 
Jorthen stood still at the door for a quarter of an hour with little disturbance, and he considered turning back to check on Geram's progress. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and he groaned inwardly. Why could the recruits not mind their own business for a few hours longer? 
But then he recognized the steady strides, measured, calculated, moving at a peculiar but repetitive interval, setting the bearer apart while still marking him as someone who knew exactly where he was going and why. 
Jorthen fixed his gaze on the wall directly across from him and instinctively tipped his chin up a fraction of an inch as a cold, familiar numbness crept into his fingers. 
Atrin Lavahr strode into his line of sight and brought his hands behind his back, icy blue eyes narrowing beneath dark hair carefully styled to fall over the faded scar on the right side of his forehead. "And just where have you been?" 
Jorthen swallowed and glanced off to the side before meeting Atrin's eyes. "Something came up. I had to help." 
"You were expected at a meeting regarding the age of recruitment and whether or not it should be lowered in the near future. It ended twenty minutes ago." 
Had it? Jorthen had no memory of such a meeting on his schedule, but then, the entire day been a blur since he'd woken up that morning with aching limbs and a fog in his head. He nodded once. "I apologize. The situation was... rather urgent." 
Atrin studied him for a long moment, mulling over his excuse. "And that situation is?" 
"A Shamindo boy showed up half-dead on a horse. I had to get him to Geram and ensure that no-one got in the way." 
"You had better concern yourself with more important matters than a thieving foreigner and his ailments, Lieutenant," Atrin said, then sighed and looked down the hall to his right. "I have another meeting to attend. We'll discuss your failure to fulfill your duties later." 
"I may be busy later," Jorthen said. "We still don't know who the boy is or what's to be done with him." 
"Fine, but get that all handled soon so you can get back to the work you're supposed to be doing. Understood?" 
Jorthen nodded. "Understood, sir." 
Without another word, Atrin turned and strode off with his usual gait in the direction he'd chosen. As usual, he did not bother looking back, and Jorthen did not bother trying to bid him farewell. With Atrin's absence, the feeling had begun to return to his fingers, and he found it easier to breathe without aggravating the old pain in his chest. He had been stupid for neglecting his duties without permission, but it might have been equally stupid to attempt to deal with a crowd of officers and dignitaries on a day like today, when neither his mind nor his body seemed willing to work the way they should. 
No sooner had he gotten used to the near silence than he heard a crashing noise behind him, followed by a thud against the door and a raspy voice screaming in Shamindo between hacking coughs. 
Geram's voice called over the chaos, "Lieutenant, you're needed in here!" 
Of course he was needed now. When else? 
Jorthen grabbed for his shakahn, then thought better of it and left the shortsword sheathed. If he was lucky, he would not have to draw it. He gripped the door's handle and ducked defensively as he pushed the door open and entered. A bottle flew past his head and smashed against the doorframe. 
As might have been extrapolated from the sounds he'd heard a moment before, the Shamindo boy had awoken and was less than calm about the situation. 
Jorthen grabbed Geram by the arm and pulled him out the door, then closed it quickly behind them and held it shut. The boy on the other side banged on the wood and tried to pull the door open, but a coughing fit stopped his efforts mere moments after he'd begun trying. 
"He tried to bite me," Geram said indignantly. 
"Come again?" Jorthen said, keeping hold of the door handle just in case. 
"I was tending the boy's wounds, and I'd nearly gotten far enough to come out and call for you, but no sooner than I'd turned around, he woke up and started hurling things at me. When I tried to sit him down again, he lunged at me and showed his teeth. Look what he did to my arm!" 
Jorthen glimpsed a row of scratch marks on Geram's arm, not very deep, but certainly recent. "Do you have any sedatives we could use to subdue him?" 
"Aye, but it'll be a miracle if he hasn't hurled it across the room by now." 
The sounds within no longer consisted of screams or pounding, nor even of bottles crashing against the wall. Instead Jorthen had to press his ear to the door to hear a series of gasps and coughs, along with a rustling sound he couldn't place. 
He glanced at Geram and straightened. "I'm going in there." 
"Suit yourself," Geram grumbled. "I'm going to call for more men to subdue him." 
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Jorthen said, then took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. 
The rustling stopped as he set foot into the room, and he halted. "It's all right," he called in. "I'm not going to hurt you. Do you understand me?" 
No answer came, but the gasping reduced volume to an uneven wheezing punctuated by the occasional light cough, and the rustling resumed. 
It was better than having a bottle thrown at him, he supposed. Jorthen stepped carefully over a pile of glass shards and turned with his arms raised in a peacemaking gesture. "We met earlier. I mean you no harm." 
He spotted the boy in the corner beside the examination cot, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, wild green eyes staring up at Jorthen as their owner continued to gasp for breath. He looked even more defenseless with his tunic gone, and from this angle Jorthen could see marks on his head where either the fire had caught him or something else kept his hair from growing normally. But however harmless he appeared, provoking him could be dangerous, as recent events proved. 
"It's all right," Jorthen repeated, slowly moving his foot to push the door closed. He stepped forward and lowered his hands to his sides. "Take slow, deep breaths, all right? Cough if you need to. There's plenty of air in here." 
The boy's eyes flitted towards the floor directly in front of Jorthen's feet. Jorthen looked down and found a rather large shard of glass right where he would he stepped had he moved forward again. He swept the glass off to the side with the side of his boot. "Thank you. I almost missed that." 
The boy tensed as the glass shard collided with the leg of a nearby table, and he rocked more fervently, creating the rustling noise Jorthen had heard from outside. 
He wanted to give the boy more space, but he had no idea how long it would be before Geram returned with men who would not be so careful about dealing with him. He shuffled forward another step, swept aside another set of tiny shards, and knelt carefully, resting his hands on his knees where the boy would easily be able to see them. "...I'm Jorthen Lavahr. Can you tell me your name?" 
The boy looked at Jorthen's hands, then at his face, then at his hands again, distrust in his eyes. 
"Look," Jorthen said. "I don't know if you can understand me, but..." He hesitated. "...Sal treyn? Sri treynin Jorthen Lavahr." 
The boy's throat bobbed, and at last he spoke, his voice faint and excessively raspy. "Heard you the first time." 
Jorthen sighed, checked for glass behind him, then shifted to sit in a cross-legged position. "So you can answer me, right? Can you tell me your name?" 
The boy tucked his chin behind his knees and shook his head, dropping his gaze to stare at the ground. 
"All right, then. Can you tell me how old you are? Are you fifteen, sixteen?" 
"Seventeen," the boy rasped. 
Jorthen nodded. "Good to know. If you can't tell me your name, is there something I should call you?" 
The boy tried to speak again, but his words were lost in another hacking fit. Jorthen waited until the fit subsided, and at last heard the boy whisper, "San." 
Jorthen managed a faint smile. "Good to meet you, San. You can call me Jorthen." 
If San heard him, he didn't acknowledge it before Jorthen heard footsteps outside the door behind him. He tensed and called over his shoulder, "Don't come in." 
San flinched at Jorthen's volume and pulled his knees more tightly to his chest. 
"Sorry," Jorthen said more quietly. "Listen, San, I'm just going to get up and tell the people at the door that we're all right in here. I'll move slowly so you can see everything I'm doing. Deal?" 
San didn't look up, but his head bobbed briefly in a nod. 
Good enough. Jorthen stood carefully and made his way to the door, then opened it a crack and spoke softly to the people on the other side. "You can go back to your posts. I have the situation handled." 
The soldier directly on the other side looked baffled, then irritated. "You sent old Geram halfway across the base to summon us just to tell us to leave?" 
It was just like Geram to shift blame, Jorthen thought, but he overlooked the fib for the moment. "I apologize. If you want something to do, inform my father and co-instructors that I won't be part of the sessions this afternoon. Send them my apologies." 
"Lieutenant," one of the other soldiers said reprovingly. 
"If you'd rather come in and deal with the boy I've only just succeeded in appeasing, be my guest." 
The men on the other side of the door went silent, then one of them muttered, "Apologies, sir. We'll be leaving now." 
Jorthen rested his forehead against the open door and allowed himself a moment to relax. He heard shuffling and opened his eyes to see Geram's withered, wary face peeking into the crack. "Is he tamed?" 
"He's calm," Jorthen said. "If you want to come in, give me time to warn him first." 
Geram nodded and took a step backwards. 
Jorthen shut the door quietly and turned back to the figure huddled in the corner. "San, the physician needs to come in to clean up and finish treating your injuries. Is that all right?" 
San's eyes flickered and widened slightly, and he shook his head wildly, then sped up his rocking. 
"Hey, hey." Jorthen approached him and knelt again to match his eye level, then forced himself slightly lower. "I'll stay right here the whole time, all right? I'll make sure he doesn't hurt you." 
San gulped again, and in the same faint, raspy voice as before, he said, "Not a baby." 
Jorthen's mouth twitched to the side. "I know you're not. But I also know you're nervous and in a foreign environment. It's understandable not to trust anyone. But do you think you can trust me enough to let the physician in?" 
San's eyes rose briefly to meet Jorthen's, then dropped again, and he nodded almost invisibly. 
Finally, Jorthen thought, then turned his head to call just loudly enough to be heard by aged ears, "Geram, you can come in now." 
Now if they could just get through the rest of the day without anyone getting bitten, scratched, or hit by objects being flung through the air, the day would be at least a marginal success. 

Update On The Short Story Situation

All right, fellow digressors, here's the situation: A while back, I resolved to post the openings to several short stories and give you all the chance to vote on which one I should continue. I posted the first scene of two of them, then never got around to the others. Quite honestly, I would love to just run back and forth between all the possibilities and write them all and share my babies with you for your entertainment. (Yes, my characters are my babies. My very tortured babies.)

However... I am seriously behind in my primary project, 'The Sehret Chronicles: The Rescuer', and with how my health is, it's hard to do much of anything, so I'll be hard-pressed to get this book done by the end of the year. As you might have guessed by the sporadic nature of my posts, my brain is not the most reliable one in the world, and if I try to keep up with too many things at once, I'll just fall further behind in everything.

SO. Here's the deal. I find myself rather attached to both of the short stories I've already introduced, 'Street Rats' and 'The Runaway'. I think if I picked one of them, I might have a chance at making at least some progress with it, though I know at this point that to promise to churn out a scene every week would be unwise and unfair. Which one I would prefer depends on the day. 'Street Rats' gives me the opportunity to show a whole different side of a couple of my favorite antagonists (THEY WERE JUST BABIES, OKAY?), and that appeals to me. However, 'The Runaway' would give some insights into both Jorthen and Sohrem, and maybe set things up a bit for the books that take place after it chronologically. I also have a better idea of the plot for 'Runaway', so it is possible that I would put out scenes more reliably if I chose it.

But I miss Tal so much... Yes, I know I'm insane. He's still my baby, even if he did get a little... erm... messed up. And baby Siran is adorable. I love their early relationship, before things started to go really wrong.

...But I digress once again. Here's the bottom line: I want to write these. But it's probably best that I go with only one of them for the time being. SO. If it were up to you, which story would you like to see continued? In case you missed them earlier, or in case you'd like to review, here are the links to the opening scene of each:

'Street Rats - Part One'

'The Runaway - Part One'

So (yes, I like that word)... What do y'all think? Yes (I like that word, too), I do actually want to know what you think. I am an extremely indecisive person and a people-pleaser, so I'd like to be sure that you all have input into whatever I do here. I mean, sure, writing these things is fun, but I'd like to make sure other people enjoy them and not just me.

ANYWAYS. I hope I've explained the dilemma clearly enough. Feel free to ask clarifying questions about the stories or whatever below. Go!

'Street Rats' - Part One

Hey there fellow digressors. Sorry I've been so absent lately -- among other things, copy-editing business has picked up a bit, so I've been busy with that. I had a day off today, though, so I spent it mostly sitting around and browsing Facebook and Pinterest. I saw some other people dealing with prompts and such, and decided to check out my huge board of prompts on Pinterest. I picked one, posted it to a writers' group on Facebook, and followed it myself. A couple of my friends urged me to write more and put it on the blog, or even to write more short stories and do the same with them. 

Well, it just so happens that I'd already considered this idea. And I've decided to give it a go. 

But here's the rub: I have way too many stories dancing about together inside my head. Most take place in the world of Sehret, and most are backstory pieces about my main characters or their families. And I am such an indecisive person that I can't decide which one to use. SO. Here's what I want to do -- over the next couple of days, I'll post the opening scenes for a few of these short stories, and give each a (very temporary) name so you can keep track of them. Then, in a few days (I'll have to figure out how many stories I'm dealing with before I know exactly when), I'll write a summary post with shortened versions of the scenes, and ask y'all to vote on which one most interests you. Whichever story has the most votes will be the one I continue (or try to continue) and post exclusively here on the blog. Let me clarify: These scenes are not in any actual book that I'm writing at the moment. They may become their own novellas or be sorted into an anthology of short stories at a later date, but right now, the only way to read them will be by coming here. Think of it as a serial novella which you get to read as it's written, and on which you can give feedback if you so desire (but please, be kind). 

Another idea I've considered is designating a certain day of the week to check the 'Writing Prompts' widget in the sidebar and follow whatever prompt it gives me, and invite y'all to join in if you want. Thoughts? How many of you would be interested in something like that? 

Anyways, now that I've gotten that intro out of the way, let me introduce you to the first (not fully edited) scene of the first short story... 

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Street Rats

(Temporary Title)

Prequel to 'The Sehret Chronicles: The Merchant's Son'

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Lans, Reshan-Shamindo Border -- Reshan Territory

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All he had to do was take it. The bread sat on the edge of the table, fresh and wafting its yeasty scent towards Tal, making his stomach grumble again. He wouldn't have felt it over the moths fluttering in there, had it not sent such a sharp stab of pain throughout his ribcage. His hands trembled from hunger and fear. How would he ever make them steady enough to steal for his brother's dinner? 

The baker turned away to deal with a customer, and Tal's heart quickened. He tensed, glanced around to be sure no-one was watching, then... 

"You don't want to do that." 

Tal gasped and spun to press his back against the wall between him and the baker's stand. His pulse pounded in his head, and his stomach churned. 

A boy of about his age with straggly black hair and keen blue eyes crouched next to him and grinned. "New to this, are you?" 

"Keep quiet," Tal hissed. His hands shook, so he curled them into fists. "This is risky enough as it is." 

"It's risky because you don't know what you're doing. Me, on the other hand? I could get that bread in less than the amount of time you've spent shaking behind this wall." 

Darr's voice rang through Tal's head. "Quit shaking and get the job done. There'll be time enough to think things through later." 

He swallowed, glanced over his shoulder, then fixed his gaze on the newcomer again. "...Who are you?" 

"Name's Ryst. This is my territory." 

"It's Reshan territory, stupid." 

Ryst snickered, making Tal flinch. "So do you want that bread, or not?" 

Tal worked his jaw. "I've stolen before." 

"Sure, sure you have." Ryst crept to the edge of the wall and peered around it. "All right. The customer is leaving." 

Tal found himself creeping up behind Ryst and trying to peek around him. His heart leapt to his throat again, and he pulled back. "Do we go now?" 

"Back," Ryst hissed, and shoved Tal back far enough to retreat himself. 

Tal barely caught himself before he could fall. Frustration rose within him, and he glared at Ryst. "Why did you distract me? I could have made it." 

Ryst sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "If you're counting on customers to distract him, then you never go during the first sale of the day. He won't let his guard down long enough to let you in until he feels safe looking away that long." 

"I don't have all day. I just need enough time to run in and grab the bread." 

Ryst snorted. "And then he'll spot you and call the guards. You might think you're fast, but you won't get away if you try something like that." 

Tal tried, but he couldn't think of a proper response. He looked away and tried to keep a neutral expression. His eyes stung, and he blinked hard to get any stray flecks of dust out of them. 

He felt eyes on him, and when he looked again, Ryst was watching him. "What's your name, anyhow? I haven't seen you around here." 

Tal swallowed hard, then cleared his throat and tried to sound as grown-up as possible. "Talsyn Lethar. I... didn't used to come here often." 

"Talsyn Lethar?" Ryst wrinkled his nose. "Too long. How's 'Tal' sound?" 

Tal shrugged. "It works." He was actually used to having his name shortened that way, but he felt no need to point it out to a thief he would probably never speak with again. 

"Fine then, Tal. How old are you?" 

"Why?" Tal glared at him again. "I don't even know your full name. Why do I have to give you my whole life story?" 

Ryst rolled his eyes again. "Fine, then. Don't tell me your age." He inched forward on the balls of his feet, then glanced at Tal. "If I snag that bread, I get a share, right?" 

"What kind of share?" 

"Half." 

"One third." 

"Half, or you can grab it yourself." 

"I have a brother to feed, dimwit." Tal tried to make the words sound hard and clipped, but his voice trembled, betraying hi desperation. Could he really get the bread on his own? Ryst was right -- he had no idea what he was doing. He'd only stolen twice, and both time were under Darr's supervision. Both times, Darr had stressed to him how this was not a permanent solution, only a quick fix until they could get on their feet again. 

But Darr wasn't here, was he? Not that he had really been there in life, either. 

It took him a moment of staring to realize that Ryst had vanished from his perch by the wall. 

Tal blinked and scrambled to his feet. Where had the rat gone? Stolen the bread, no doubt, and run off with every bit of it. Well, maybe that was fair, but it wouldn't help Tal fill any stomachs tonight. He glanced nervously about and fought the panic rising in his chest. He had to think. If Ryst's assessment was accurate, an attempt at theft now would more likely earn him a trip to jail than a meal. He couldn't afford that. He also couldn't afford to sit here all day coming up with plans if he wasn't going to follow through on them. 

He groaned and paced away from the edge, ran a hand through his greasy black hair. This whole trip had been a bad idea. It had been hard enough saddling up the old hag's gelding and getting it here. And leaving his brother on that hill outside of town, without supervision? While safer than leaving him at the house, it was still a monumental show of idiocy. He had to get out of here now. He had to grab Siran and-- 

"Hey, Tal-boy." 

Tal started and fumbled at his tattered belt for the sharpened stick that he'd hung there. He jabbed it out ad he whirled around to face the speaker. 

Ryst laughed and tossed a fresh, piping hot loaf of bread from his right hand to his left. "Still working yourself up, I see. Here." And with that, he flung the loaf into the air in Tal's general direction. 

Tal dropped the stick and caught the loaf in mid-flight. He turned it over in his hands, ignoring the way it burned his skin. The smell wafting from it made his knees weak. Upon closer examination, he saw that the loaf was whole. He frowned. 

"Good enough?" 

He looked up to see that Ryst was still watching him. Tal lifted the loaf as if putting it on display. "What about your share?" 

Ryst shrugged. "Break it off if you like. I'll eat something. Unlike you, I'm used to stealing for myself." 

The words stung, but Tal could barely hold back a grin as he stuffed the load into his bag. He had to get back to Siran. They had to get back to the house before the old hag got sober enough to realize that they'd gone. 

"Hey, shaker." 

The words made Tal stop and face Ryst again. His face flamed as he remembered that he hadn't acknowledged the efforts made to get the food now bulging in his pack. "...Thanks." 

"Actually, I was just going to say that my name is Rystar Teln." Ryst shrugged. "Just in case you were still wondering." 

Tal swallowed hard again and nodded. "...Teln. I'll remember." 

"I'd rather you didn't, actually. The name's Rystar." And here Ryst stepped forward and extended his hand. "Think you can remember that much, Lethar?" 

Tal hesitated a long moment, then took Ryst's hand and slapped his palm. He nodded. "Sure. And just call me Tal." 

Ryst returned the slap and grinned faintly. "I guess I probably won't be calling you anything, if you're not sticking around. You really going to feed yourself and that brother of yours with one load of bread?" 

"We've made do with less." Tal stepped backwards and lowered his hand. "I have to go. he's waiting." 

Ryst nodded. "Power to you, Tal. And lots of it." 

Power. Now there was an elusive commodity. Tal shrugged. "Sure." He turned again to leave, then hesitated. "Hey, Ryst--" 

But when he turned again, Ryst was gone, vanished as if he had never been there in the first place. 

Tal looked down at his satchel, then at the ground where Ryst had stood. After a long moment of thought, he turned and sprinted off in the direction of the hill where he'd left his brother. 

When he got there, clouds had just begun to roll in over his head, and the air was pregnant with telltale moisture. Tal shuddered and quickened his step. He spotted the patch of grass where he'd made Siran sit not an hour earlier. 

Nothing. The grass was bare. 

His heart leapt to his throat again. "Siran?" His voice came out hoarse, and he nearly tripped in his haste to get up the hill. He reached the patch of grass in question and patter it as if to be sure that no-one sat there. His eyes had not deceived him. Panic swelled in his chest, stole his breath from him. He whirled around and panted for breath. "S-siran? Siran, where did you go?" 

Could he have wandered into the city? Had Tal passed him in his hurry to get there? What if one of the merchants had nabbed him, declared him a Shamindo street rat and locked him up somewhere? What if-- 

"Tal?" 

Tal nearly cried out from relief when Siran sprinted over the crest of the hill towards him. Tal stumbled up to meet him, grabbed hold of his arm, and dropped to his knees before his little brother. "Siran, I told you not to wander off like that!" 

Siran's green eyes grew wide, and he tried to jerk his arm away from Tal. 

A bit of remorse left a lump in Tal's throat, and he released Siran's arm. "I'm sorry. I was just... I just didn't..." His words trailed off, and he winced, then touched Siran's arm more carefully. "Look, Siran, you know I wouldn't hurt you, right? Not ever." 

It took a long moment, but Siran nodded and wrapped his arms around Tal's neck. 

Tal blinked hard and returned the hug, then took a deep breath. It was time to be the big brother here. No more motherish panic attacks. He reached for his satchel and pulled the flap open. "I got something in the market for us." He reached into the bag and pulled the loaf into view. 

Siran's grin was instantaneous. "You got food?" 

Tal relaxed again and managed to return Siran's grin. "Yeah. I had a little help, but we won't go hungry tonight. Here..." He broke off a piece and offered it to Siran. "Chew it slowly. This will have to last us until I can get some more." 

If his brother heard his warning, he showed few signs of it. Siran stuffed the morsel into his mouth all at once, and seemed to have no intention of chewing it. 

Tal laughed. "Eacy there. Don't choke yourself." 

Siran coughed and ducked his head a little, then made a more obvious effort to chew his food. All the same, it was barely five seconds before he swallowed. 

Fair enough. Tal broke off a piece of the bread or himself and took a bite of it. The succulent, yeasty taste almost made him cry out with pleasure. He could see why Siran's self-control had gone out the window. But this had to last. He finished his piece and stuffed the rest of the loaf back into the satchel. "We'll have the rest at the house." 

Siran's face fell. "But she'll take it." 

"No, she won't. I'll hide it so that she won't ever find it." Tal offered a hand to Siran. "Trust me?" 

A pair of wide eyes met his, then Siran nodded, smiled sheepishly, and slid his grimy hand into Tal's. 

Tal squeezed his hand and led the way back down the hill. Siran's feet slipped enough times that, by the time they reached the bottom of the hill and approached the animal they'd ridden into the city, Tal had hoisted his brother onto his back and had a pair of arms wrapped tightly about his neck. It was all he could do to hold them far enough out to avoid choking. He helped Siran mount and began to fasten their satchel to the saddle. Something bumped his rear, and he swatted without looking. "Settle down, horse." 

The black gelding, Taryk, nickered and nipped again. Siran giggled. Tal grimaced and ignored the animal until he had the bag secure. Taryk bumped him with his nose, and Tal sighed and rubbed it. "You're a real chore, aren't you?" 

This must have been enough, for a moment later, Taryk bobbed his head and began to graze again.
"Oh, no, you don't. You'll eat at home just like us." Tal swung into the saddle and helped Siran center himself on the saddle. "Ready?" 

"Can we make him gallop today?" 

If this nag galloped, he'd fall apart halfway home. "We'll see. Just hang tight, all right? We'll be home soon." 

Siran nodded and took hold of the saddle horn. Taryk seemed none too pleased, but ceased his grazing, and when Tal picked up the reins and kicked, the animal tossed his head slightly and began the eternal ride towards home. 

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Copyright (c) 2015 by C. F. Barrows