Ice and Fire

Raw

"Spotted Julian yet?" I finally ask, with as even a voice as I can manage. Still, it shakes. But maybe Darrow saw him in the halls. Near the trough? In the armory? Maybe—

But he stiffens. He doesn't look at me as he responds. "Not a sight."

He sounds surprisingly somber. Surprising, because he barely knows Julian. Why should he worry over him? But he does. He is. It... touches me. To know I'm not the only one here—the only one in these worlds—who's optimistic about Julian. Who believes he might survive this. Who is hoping that he will.

I want—I want to hold his hand again. But I've forfeited the right.

"Meh." I shrug. "The kid is probably trying to be gentle with his fight."

He hates it when I call him that. More often than not, the words summon him. A small and, admittedly, ridiculous part of me was hoping they would now. That he might creep behind me, unnoticed until he ruffles my hair and protests. Three minutes, man! Three minutes older, and he acts like a gory sage!

But they don't.

"Father taught us the Silent Art, Kravat." I pause, puffing my chest slightly (I cannot help myself when I'm talking about Kravat.), waiting for him to acknowledge the significance of that; it usually raises eyebrows, at the very least. But he doesn't. He is still not looking at me.

"Julian is a prodigy at it," I continue. "He thinks I'm better."

I am, if only because I do not hesitate. Please, Julian. Although I know he cannot hear me, I beg anyways. Listen to me, brother. Don't you hesitate. Don't you do this to me. Not to me, Julian. Not to me.

Don't leave me. Don't leave me all alone. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

Don't you love me?

I suppress a sob. "Thinks I'm better at everything, which is understandable." I chuckle arrogantly. "But really, you just got to get him going. He'll be fine. Don't you worry. He's made of sterner stuff than he looks."

I speak with a confidence I do not feel. From the way Darrow looks dismally into the Julian–less crowd, into the still–empty archway, which has seen no activity for minutes, I can tell he doesn't feel it, either.

"Speaking of it, who'd you slag? Did you know the poor bastard?" I frown. "I knew mine."

I can tell he'd rather not discuss it. Of course he wouldn't. He is too decent to brag over a kill. But I need the distraction. Please. Talk to me. Pity my eagerness, won't you? Can't you sense it?

I tell him about Nexus. That I crushed his windpipe with a bladejab about ten seconds in. I don't say that he survived it, that he suffered, that I had to snap his neck. Only that it caught my fingers oddly. Truthfully, only a Stained (and, possibly, a Gold with the strength and resilience of Karnus) could shatter a reinforced trachea and not dislocate their fingers.

I forget the name of his victim almost as soon as he gives it. And he refuses to share more details about his own fight. As always, he deliberately rejects my conversational bait. Because of the advance? Or because he still wants me to go, for the same reasons as before? To leave him to the silence he craves, that I cannot tolerate? I don't know.

Reluctantly, I do. I cannot help the occasional glimpse back, but our eyes never meet again. I manage to entice some of our livelier classmates into boasting about their fights and it becomes immediately apparent that Vixus and Titus are not the only ones who thought the Passage was splendid fun. Many eyes gleam wickedly, simmering with excitement at the prospect of more condoned brutality. Mine probably would, too, if Julian was already here. Or... if he wasn't. If he was safe, at home. Where he belongs.