Little Wars
by Te
April 2000

Disclaimers: They belong to Blizzard Entertainment,
among others. I wouldn't even *try* to make money
off of this one. 

Spoilers: *siiiiigh* For Diablo. Which is a videogame
for the Sony Playstation. Yes, that's right. I'm 
slashing a videogame. 

Fandom: Diablo.

Pairing: Warrior/Sorcerer, who, for the sake of the 
story, I have named Lothar and Darius, respectively. 

Ratings Note: R for violence and romance out of just
a few too many S&S epics. Forgive me. 

Author's Note: Linda and I have clearly spent far, 
far too many hours of our lives attempting to beat
this game. This is the result of one late night too 
many. In the game, you really can't make out
faces too well, but for what it's worth I tend to see
Lothar sort of like the Conan from the most recent
cartoon. Not *overly* tall, but definitely broad. 
Longish dark brown hair with a hint of a curl,
tanned skin, large blue eyes... you get the idea.
Darius... take Laurence Fishburne in his Matrix role,
age him a few years, lean him down, and you have
Darius. 

Acknowledgments: Thanks go to Rae and Dawn
Sharon for not laughing at me *too* loudly and 
providing all sorts of support and audiencing as 
I wrote. We luf her. 

Oh yeah, and this sort of draftish, so suggestions
are welcome. 

thete1@earthlink.net

*


Lothar took his fifth -- and last for the night -- 
scout around their camp in grim silence. Darius had 
laid enough magics around the defiled cathedral that 
even he could feel them, their weirdly soft hum in his 
bones. Intellectually he knew they were quite safe 
abovegroud, and yet he'd *been* down there.

They'd both been down there often enough, and seen 
what had been done to Tristam's holy place. The 
ravaged bodies were bad enough, but somehow the 
mysterious stains were worse. There were *things* 
down there that made Lothar remember that he was 
only two and twenty, and that the sun shone brightly 
above only for the living. It made the finely made 
weapons in his hands -- spoils from dead warriors 
who had descended before him -- heavier than they 
should be.

Lothar wondered if the sorcerer knew his doubts. 
What he thought of the way Lothar had woken with 
a scream on his lips the night before, batting at 
nothing at all. Darius had already been fully awake, 
meditating toward the coming dawn. Darius had said 
nothing, and there hadn't been enough light for 
Lothar to see the look in his eyes. 

It didn't matter, though. He was a *warrior*, trained 
in the hottest swamps and coldest snows since his 
father had sent him away from Tristram to learn. 
Even at the age of seven he'd been a large child, tall 
and strong. He had served with many armies, 
sheathed his arms in the blood of his enemies more 
times than he could count, and this... was just 
another job. No, more than that. His father was long 
dead, but Tristam was still his birth soil, was it not?

This was his duty. 

He heard the laughter of his first teacher -- a 
scarred old bastard with a patch sewn over whatever
remained of his right eye -- and gritted his teeth 
against it. It was his duty, whether or not he was 
ready for it. He just thanked God he'd had the 
presence of mind to take the sorcerer up on his offer 
of help.

*

Seven months ago the battered letter had found 
Lothar in the employ of a more powerful than 
average lord with enemies. Lothar loved the lords and
their petty inland squabbles, in all truth -- it kept 
him away from the larger battlefields. The song of
glory still called for him now and again, but there 
were already enough dark memories to give him 
some measure of caution. 

He hadn't needed to find out how well the carrion 
birds loved the eyes of the dead.

There was time enough left for glory-hunting later, when
he got tired of the softer life.

The lord payed well, and the towns under his care 
were free, easy places filled with plump barmaids and 
men who didn't mind a bit of dicing between ales. 
Good work, indeed, and so when he saw the urgent 
press of his full name upon the paper he'd blanched 
a bit. He had not gone back for his father's death -- 
he'd never quite forgiven the man for taking him out 
from under the old blacksmith's apprenticeship -- 
and there was something accusing about the 
envelope.

After a time he realized that he'd let the maid 
simply stand before him with the letter for enough 
time to silence the entire tavern. A quick glance 
around revealed more eyes on him than not, including
the strange black ones of the lord's wizard, an 
unfamiliar sight in the towns. He returned the stare 
with one of his own for another long moment before 
finally taking what was offered. 

And there it had all been in a letter written by the 
town Elder himself -- a story too fantastical to be 
real. Dark riders, kidnappings, slaughter after 
slaughter leaving Tristam the bare skeleton of 
itself as things -- demons, he called them -- defiled 
everything they could touch. He was needed, 
desperately.

Come home, it said. If not for your father's memory, 
then for the few innocents left who may yet survive. 
Cain's stamp could have been faked, true, and yet 
Lothar knew in his heart that it was not. 

He read the letter through several times, ale 
untouched by his elbow. When he finally looked up 
again the wizard had joined him at his table, and 
was waiting patiently for Lothar to come back to 
the world, hands folded within his long, crimson 
robes. Lothar, oddly, hadn't been surprised at all by 
the other man's presence, or by his offer of help. 
Such things could only be expected after letters
like his own. 

"I have heard tales of other such atrocities in 
the farther kingdoms," he had said, "and I would 
not let another occur if I could possibly stop it 
from happening."

It had all been falling into place within Lothar's 
mind, that vast, terrifying closing of possibility that
was the real truth behind destiny. He'd had to fight, 
at least a little. "What makes you think I need the 
services of a lord's conjurer?"

The man had merely smiled and made a pass over 
the both of them. A brief jolt and Lothar found 
himself out by the hitching post beside his frisking 
roan gelding, gear neatly stowed in the saddlebag. 
Beside him was the sorcerer, already mounted on his
own perfectly placid grey. Lothar had opened his 
mouth to say something, but the sudden realization 
that he had, in fact, nothing to say shut it for him. 

He calmed Oxbow as best he could and mounted. 
"And do you already know the way, then?"

"Hardly, Lothar. I am merely the conjurer, after all." 
A smile danced at the corner of the man's lips, 
forcing Lothar to take another look.

The impression of great age was lost in the waning
summer sunlight, leaving a man of middling years, 
at most. He was lean, true, but the hand holding the 
reins was large and well-made, lacking the bunched
knuckles of the agecurse, and the bit of forearm 
showing from under the robe was firm with 
whipcord muscle.

The mouth was full within the frame of a
well-trimmed goatee. His skin was brown and seemed 
unmarked, from what little Lothar could see. When 
Lothar met the other man's eyes again the smile he 
met was even more wry, though not at all cruel. 

"I am called Darius."

"I am... well. You already know that, don't you?"

Darius gigged his mount into a walk, and Lothar did 
the same. "Yes... the spell I performed was called 
teleportation. I would not deceive you -- I am not so 
powerful that I could perform such as that over 
and over again. Not yet. I will not be able to perform 
any but the simplest magics for several hours yet, 
unless I take one of the potions I have among my 
belongings. I prefer to save those for times of great 
trouble, though, as the potions have a price."

"Do they age you? Weaken you in some other way?"

Another smile, lighter this time. "Only my purse, 
warrior."

Lothar caught himself flushing a little -- he knew 
nothing of sorcery, save the fleeting glimpses he'd 
gotten of the weird woman's shack when he was a 
boy as he and his friends had rushed by, giggling 
and terrified. A voice, new and unwanted, wondered
aloud in his mind just how many of those friends
still lived. 

"I will teach you what I can, as you will teach me of 
your own arts, Lothar. We shall need both to 
survive this, I think."

It was beginning to feel as though the other man 
had bored a spyhole directly into his brain. A
mosquito buzzing greedily at the edges of his 
thoughts. "And will you be *comforting* me this 
entire quest?" His tone was as acid as he could
make it. 

Darius started, took a moment to reply. "I apologize
if I've offended. I've merely grown accustomed to 
people seeing me as something... different because 
of the powers I hold."

"You *are* different."

*

In truth, they had said little more to each other 
beyond the necessaries of subsistence and basic 
training over the next several weeks of travel. 
Lothar had regretted his angry words a thousand 
times and justified them just as many.

There was something deeply wrong about having 
that much power, in the way Darius' pupils nearly 
obscured the whites when he performed any magic. 
In the way Lothar knew his own eyes changed 
whenever he practiced the few small spells he had 
been taught. Darius had *been* human, Lothar was 
sure of it, but a part of him was equally sure that 
he'd sold at least some of his humanity for the 
wisdom.

That, too, was the way of the world he knew. 

Of course, there was also the nagging whisper 
that Lothar had simply not appreciated having 
his pride wounded so many times in one short 
period. 

And yes, that was true as well. True enough to make 
him finally try to open up again as they drew closer 
to Tristam, but they were cautious of each other. A 
team, perhaps, but nothing like the fellowship needed 
for a quest. It was a troubling thing, and restless 
dreams had been filled with scene after scene of the 
two of them dying because of one moment when the 
trust simply wasn't there.

As it happened, there hadn't been much to worry 
about on that score. Nothing in his imaginings had 
measured up to the truth of what now lurked behind 
the cathedral doors. Shambling things, skittering 
things, clawed and toothed and rotting things that 
somehow *lived*, and came at them in great masses.

They'd barely escaped with their lives from the first 
horde, but when the last of those demons fallen 
they'd shared a look. Darius wordlessly removed 
potions from his pack for the two of them, and 
offered half to Lothar. The sorcerer was bleeding 
from several nasty looking cuts on his face, and 
winced with every inward breath. Lothar didn't 
need a mirror to know he was in similarly poor 
shape.

He took the potions without a word, one something
like blood and swampfire, the other... something 
else. Neither had any taste, and when they were 
both gone Lothar's blood ran hot and wild. He 
watched as Darius' flesh knitted itself back together 
with something like hunger, and couldn't stop 
himself from reaching out to swipe at the blood.

Darius grabbed his wrist and Lothar growled 
despite himself. "Ah, I'd forgotten how it was the 
first time... easy, warrior. Now is the time to kill."

And so they had, clearing room after room of 
monsters, stepping over the bodies of those who 
had come before. Back to back they fought, Lothar 
acutely conscious of the seemingly effortless way 
Darius shifted to match and accomodate the 
movement of Lothar's sword arm.

Conscious, too, of the crackle and stench of 
inhuman flesh burning from Darius' bolts of fire. 

At the end of a room full of skeletons draped in the
rags of what had once been the Tristam-Norva-Pelot
militia they found a darkened staircase leading down
to what could only be another level of beasts. Lothar 
had been about to start down when he felt a hand on 
his shoulder.

"Above us, the sun is going down. We would be well 
to leave this place until the dawn."

Lothar let himself be led back into the light, and tried 
not to wonder just how deep below he would have to 
go before this had all ended. 

There had been many days of the same for the two of
them since then, many trips into the town proper to
buy the weapons and potions they by rights should 
have received for the price of their work.

There was no one left in town that he knew, even the 
old blacksmith had been replaced with a man named 
Griswold, all hearty voice and pig-gleaming 
predator's eyes. They'd been forced to rifle the bodies 
of the dead for the gold to continue their quest, and 
Lothar took acid pleasure in the way the merchants' 
noses turned up at the smell and occasional debris.

The weird woman was the worst of all of them, 
claiming that the magics it took to create her wares 
made the prices necessary. Lothar had checked 
Darius' eyes for confirmation and found only a cold,
slow sort of anger that settled oddly in his own belly.

It turned out to be a war, after all, and they were 
surrounded by the vultures -- there was never a 
question that they would sleep away from the good 
survivors of Tristam, and so it was.

It grew harder to kill the creatures that beset them
the further down they went, of course, and so they 
started giving themselves a day or more of rest and 
training between each foray below. A day on the 
surface of the slowly autumn-chilling earth, with 
no noise but his own and Darius' breathing and no 
scent but the vague and somehow *safe* hints of 
cowflesh somewhere to the southeast. 

Those days were the best of it all. Though his 
nightmares played constant on his eyelids 
whenever he so much as blinked, it was *day*. Even 
when it was cloudy Lothar knew the sun was merely 
waiting for the earth to take its refreshment before 
returning. 

And he could speak. He could. Most times he chose 
not to, but he could. Never about the nightmares, it 
seemed pointless (shaming) to describe what Darius 
already had to know, if only from his own restless 
dreams, but there were other things. 

The best place to bathe in the stream, away from 
most of the crawlers below. The first time he'd killed 
another man. The first time he'd killed a woman. 
The first time he'd made his teacher smile with 
pride. 

Darius told, somewhat haltingly, of a boyhood spent
among the desert-folk, and the way simple breeches 
and a tunic would never quite feel like *real* clothes 
to him. Of the old priestess who had simply arrived 
at his mother's compound one lazy afternoon and 
demanded him for her own. He glossed over more 
than he told, but then, so did Lothar. 

Darius changed when he grew excited, or spoke 
about anything emotional. A vague and vaguely 
*sharp* accent would surface, but that wasn't the 
problem, really. Darius was a scholar, full of a 
scholar's words and flights of fancy. Sometimes it 
became difficult to follow him in language as he 
talked about the sorcery and all it had meant... but 
there were other ways to follow. The expansive 
gestures that occasionally bared the man's arms, 
the bright gleam that would replace the normal 
coolness of his eyes. 

It was a shameful thought, but there were times 
Lothar wished ill-feeling on Darius solely to see 
his eyes become more alive, more recognizably 
human.

But they were ginger of each other, and asked 
few questions. Lothar felt himself start to cleave 
tightly to the other man and knew it for the 
dangerous and necessary fellowship of arms at 
last. The quest had gained a new aspect for both 
of them, he knew -- making sure the other stayed 
alive. 

Finding enough detachment to continue to fight 
even when his new shieldbrother was surrounded 
by creatures with no right to exist was a constant 
challenge now, a queer balancing act that aged him. 
Tempered him both harder and more supple in 
complement to the gradually increasing quality of 
the weapons and spoils they recovered from below --
of course the ones with better weapons and more 
skills had made it farther before dying at last.

Lothar laughed at himself silently. Every evening 
began with idealism and the strengthening of his 
resolve to fight, and ended with the uglier and 
uglier truths that slid him down into the 
increasingly restless nights. He still had the days of
rest with Darius, but he knew it wouldn't be much 
longer until the poison of his thoughts just bled 
right through into the sunlight.

Though he believed it was possible he would survive
the cleansing of the cathedral, he was beginning to 
wonder if he'd still be himself at the end of it all. 

Lothar wondered -- not for the first time -- how he 
could tell Darius to start prodding at the *other* 
wounds Lothar had picked up. How to tell him to 
just *do* it, and yet not have to actually ask. He 
made excuses for himself. Of course he could share 
everything with a shieldbrother, but Darius was 
not a warrior, Darius was meditating, Darius was 
too... still. 

In truth, he wanted more than just the words. 
He longed for the true winter to hit, and force 
them to huddle in the blankets together. 

He wanted to press his nose against the other 
man's skin to make sure the strange spice of it was 
still there, still the same as it had been from 
across a table in a tavern in a wider world Lothar 
wasn't sure existed anymore. He wanted to trace 
every scar that he'd seen form and disappear 
through the agency of the potions. He wanted to be 
traced.

He wanted the scars back, and if he couldn't have 
that then he wanted, needed, something else to 
ground him. Lothar knew this part of war, too, 
and had never begrudged himself the easing of the 
ache. Not even when he was the other half of an 
army of two. 

And yet, and yet. He had also never had to ask 
for it. He was not blind to himself, he knew he was 
comely enough for a warrior -- still young enough 
that the scars were no match for the rest of him. 
In the night, among the men and their good sweat 
and their good blood, a hand would rest on his 
body and the question would linger in the air just 
long enough for Lothar to taste its tang before he 
pushed the hand where it needed to go.  

Darius was not a warrior, and, despite his increasing
skill with the flail he carried, he would never be. He 
never came to Lothar's bedroll, or beckoned him to 
his. Lothar wasn't even sure how his people felt about 
what went on sometimes between men of war, and 
couldn't help but remember the incident with his 
first potion with a queasy hint of embarassment. 

But he ached for it just the same, and when the next 
of the free days came he scrubbed himself clean 
(again) of the horrors down below and walked naked 
in the early morning chill from the stream to where 
Darius sat, queerly naked to the waist with his legs 
coiled beneath him.

It was the same position he used for much of his 
meditation, but Lothar could read the tension in the 
lean muscles far, far easier than he had been able to 
read the dusty old tomes of spells Darius seemed to 
toss at him endlessly.

He could read the tension and he saw the exact 
moment when the aloof dignity in the man's eyes 
melted into something raw and fluid that left 
Lothar's knees feeling untrustworthy. Before he could 
kneel in front of Darius he was being pulled in close, 
strong fingers digging into the flesh of his buttocks 
and coarse beard brushing against his thighs. Lothar 
cried out before he could think and heard the fat 
murder of ravens that hovered always by their camp
burst into flight in surprise. 

He almost expected to be showered in lost feathers, 
silky and strange as the diabolically clever tongue 
driving him mad. He struggled for purchase on 
Darius' bald pate and groaned his frustration aloud. 
He wanted to fight the queer passivity of his position, 
but he also didn't want to listen to the driving 
instinct to piston his hips, fuck himself down into 
the sorcerer's throat until his spend exploded out of 
him in hot, violent bursts. 

It would be over much too soon, leaving his body 
satiated while his mind still ached. 

"Please, Darius... you have to let me touch you."

But was that really true? What if the sorcerer 
bewitched him here, forced him to remain still 
under his too-light ministrations? His cock twitched 
at the images and Darius let out a muffled grunt 
and simply continued to suck him, suckle and 
tease at him until Lothar finally forced himself out 
of the deepening haze to push the man away. 

The expression on Darius' face was nothing like 
the self-satisfied smirk he'd expected, though, and 
Lothar heard the click of his own dry swallow. 
Darius had landed in an untidy sprawl, wiry chest 
heaving up and down, dark nipples standing in 
stark relief to the rest of him -- save for the 
insistent bulge still hidden by what seemed like 
yards of red cloth. 

"You... want me." And his own idiocy made him 
blush and turn away just enough for Darius to 
rise and grip him roughly by the elbow before 
he fully registered the movement. He could have 
broken free at any moment, but it was too strange, 
too exhilirating to be touched so freely by the other 
man -- even after being inside him. 

Darius dragged him back to the stream and threw 
them both down to their knees on the muddy bank, 
settling himself behind Lothar and holding him in 
place. Darius' heat was incredible against his skin, a 
pulsing kind of bake that left Lothar pushing back 
for more of whatever he could get. 

He let himself be turned toward the water and held 
there. Darius remained mostly still behind him, 
every deep breath heightening the small friction 
between them. Darius' cock was a burning knot 
pressed into the small of his back. 

Darius finally started moving his free hand, petting 
with firm strokes that scraped Lothar with both 
new callouses and old. The palm brushed his nipple 
and he groaned. It wasn't enough, it wasn't --

"Darius, please --"

"Look into the stream." Rough, low voice against his 
ear, making him shudder.

Lothar obeyed, and immediately began losing himself 
in what he saw. A man on his knees, muscled 
shoulders just slightly strained from the way Darius 
held his arms behind his back. Body sheened with 
sweat where not streaked with mud. Cock dark with 
blood and straining for his abdomen, and the dark, 
relentless hand that refused to touch it. 

He watched as the man in the water struggled briefly,
ceasing altogether when something in the movement 
(friction heat against him so hard so fucking hard 
oh gods wasn't ready please) caused the precome at 
the tip of his cock to pearl down and down until he 
was connected to the bank itself. Darius finally 
released his arms, but Lothar did nothing but set 
them at his sides and wait. Darius rewarded him with 
more touch, more feverish skin against his own.

The man in the water arched back, expression closer 
to anguish than anything else when Darius took one 
hard nipple between his fingers and twisted. Again 
and again until the sensation was pain and beyond 
into the dark, scarring pleasure he suddenly craved 
more than anything. 

When Darius fastened his mouth against Lothar's 
neck he began to beg as silently as he could, thrusting
his hips at the air and moving toward the ghost of
every touch, however fleeting. Yes, he thought, yes, 
please please and Darius had to hear, had to know 
because one roaming hand finally found his cock and
squeezed.

Again Lothar lost his silence, this time for good 
as Darius stroked him ruthlessly, eventually forcing 
his head back up so he could see his reflection.
Flushed and sweating freely, looking dazed and too 
needful to be borne. He didn't even try to turn away, 
just watched as Lothar settled his head on his shoulder
and stroked him faster, twisting just enough to made 
Lothar jerk. Wet, flesh-slapping sounds that could 
never be anything but what they were -- blushingly
familiar and hopelessly obscene.

Darius slipped his tongue around the shell of Lothar's 
ear and that was what finally drove him over the edge, 
yelling into the morning sky.  

Darius held him tightly, and Lothar could almost taste 
his need.

"Do it..."

And then he was belly down to the mud and he heard 
the sounds of cloth falling away and then Darius laid 
his cock in the cleft of Lothar's buttocks and began 
to thrust. Lothar would need some time before he 
could truly go again, but the friction, the sheer need 
evident in every thrust...

Lothar moved as best he could beneath Darius, catching
the molten tip of the man's penis against the very 
outside of his pucker with every shift. The sensation 
was both strange and strangely needful and Lothar 
shifted further, hoping for more. 

"Ahh... you would drive me mad --" Darius' voice was 
cracked and harsh, his movements increasingly ragged
against Lothar.

He knew it wouldn't be long and so he flipped Darius 
off of him and pounced, holding the man's hips down 
and nuzzling at the thick, dark thatch of hair. The 
spice was even stronger down here, humid and 
insistent. Lothar just buried his face there for a long 
moment before lifting the other man's tight sac to 
his lips. 

Darius groaned long and loud, thrusting up into air 
and brushing Lothar's cheek each time and it was 
suddenly impossible to tease. Lothar took as much 
of the other man's thick, dark cock as he could in 
one stroke and gripped the root in his fist. The stretch 
of it was shocking, weight and pressure making him
feel he must look ridiculous.

The feeling faded fast as Darius twined one hand in 
Lothar's hair while letting the other trail over his 
cheek in a strange combination of languor and 
desperation. Lothar began moving up and down, 
trying to duplicate Darius' earlier actions, reveling in 
the way the other man writhed under his touch, 
drooling around the cock in his mouth. 

Darius moaned nearly continuously, Lothar's 
name scattered among strings of incoherent sounds 
and he tried to take it deeper, kissing the edges of 
his fist as he worked himself faster and faster, 
categorizing every touch of heated velvet flesh 
against his cheek, rushing over his lips and 
desperately trying to fuck his throat. Gods he wanted
that more than anything, but he had no idea how 
and this was good, too. Delicious in taste and 
sensation.

Lothar had never felt so much power over the 
sorcerer, not even when dragging him out of the 
catacombs after the use of his magics had drained
him utterly. This, *this* was what was needed, 
Darius' greedy, fruitless pushes against Lothar's 
heavy arm, Darius' groans, Darius' hot splashes of 
come against the back of his throat, on his tongue, 
and finally on his cheek as Lothar pulled back 
enough not to choke. 

He lapped the mess away almost helplessly, and 
settled himself half over the other man.

Morning passed into early afternoon silently, sun 
drying the mud and come and spit into their flesh. 
It had been weeks since Lothar had felt this simply 
human. Occasionally Darius stroked his back, but 
mostly they were still and within their own thoughts. 

When Lothar finally shifted partially away from 
Darius the quiet was broken.

"We can leave this place if we so wish, Lothar."

Lothar bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to 
taste blood, but remained silent.

"There are places I could show you where the sun 
*is* God, where the days sweep by under shifting 
sands, where the cities slumber in the heat of day 
and awaken by night to the sounds of birds whose 
voices I know you've never heard."

The silence lasted longer this time, finally broken 
with a humorless laugh.

"These people we're protecting lost the best of 
themselves in the maw of that so-called cathedral, 
Lothar. Your town will die no matter what we do -- 
what does it matter where the blight that finally 
ends it all comes from?"

Lothar sat up and thought of Lothar's offer, or rather 
tried to, as every image faded under the cathedral, and 
the increasingly laughable hope that they would 
someday find the entity that had sent the corruption 
bubbling toward the surface and destroy it. 

A part of Lothar was absolutely sure that there *was* 
no end to it all, that they would just keep descending 
further and further until they finally forgot how to 
get back up again, that victory would simply find 
them alone in the dark, hot ruins until they were 
as blind as some of the creatures they fought. 

It was a nasty, slinking form of terror, but it was 
his. All his. And he knew it would be there no matter 
how far they ran, and someday even the sun would 
not be able to burn it away.

"I can't leave, Darius."

"No... I did not believe you could." Darius stood and 
stretched, still nude, and Lothar smiled when he 
realized he knew when each crackle of the other 
man's spine would come. 

A silent pause, mostly comfortable. 

"Darius?"

"Yes?"

"Why wait to ask until... why wait?"

"I don't know, Lothar. Perhaps because young men 
are more pliable after sex." The man's smile was 
both teasing and rueful, but then he turned away. 
"Perhaps because I have been slow to realize just 
what we've been risking."

Lothar struggled to come up with something to say,
and finally blurted out the first thing that came to 
mind. "My teacher always said it was best not to 
think of such things when it can be avoided."

"Your teacher died alone and in pain, did he not?"

Lothar felt something tighten within him "I will 
not turn back, sorcerer." He spoke to the other 
man's back.

"Of course not." Darius started to turn, then seemed 
to think better of it. "Rest easy, warrior. Tomorrow 
we kill again." And then he walked off toward their
camp.

And suddenly it was too much, too much to be 
subjected to the other man's fears and impossible 
dreams. Anger flared red behind his eyes and he was 
not surprised to find it was the color of Darius' robes. 
He banked it as best he could, scrubbed off the top 
layer of mess, dressed and moved into the braka. 
The first, easiest "dance" of the warrior and the one 
that sent his thoughts spiraling back to the 
mountain school and its clear, cold air.

The threat of a fatal fall had been constant, but 
Lothar had lived long enough to *miss* that. Constant 
and terrifying and true and real as the earth it was 
made of, and never, ever surprising beyond the 
occasional echoing scream of the careless. Darius 
had no right to be angry, not when he knew it was 
how it had to be. He would not be punished for doing 
his duty.

Flash of his own face contorted in ectasy and Lothar 
fought hard with himself over it, over its acceptability 
given Darius' dangerous doubts and fancies. A glance 
over to the man in question, an unintended meeting 
of stare-to-stare and the flash spawned others, melded 
itself with the feel of fighting back-to-back and with 
the sands that he would not let himself believe that 
he would never see and the echoing darkness below 
and it was all just too *much*. 

A cruel joke that he could accept this much as well 
as the simple fact that the next staircase in the 
cathedral could bring nothing more nor less than 
death and --

"We are brothers, are we not, Darius?" Just answer, 
don't question, don't tease, don't --

"We are."

It would have to be enough.

End.