The Prince's Mark

The Road to Dezmer - Thirty One

Mirthal settled Tracou in bed and slipped in next to him, but sleep didn't come. He lay on his back, unable to tear his eyes from the ceiling. Rain pounded the manor, coming from clouds that obscured the moon, leaving Ergakan in a wet darkness.

Hours earlier, Mirthal had killed a man.

That man would have murdered him, Tracou, Pendaer, and anyone else he could. Perhaps he might have spared Tracou, but no one had known that at the time. Mirthal couldn't have done anything else.

And yet...

As the Elven Prince, murder should have been far beyond him. But he had crushed a man's skill with the broadside of his sword. He had felt the impact. He had seen him crumble.

His death could have been avoided. Not today, of course. Not in the situation they had been forced into, but if something had changed earlier. Perhaps if he hadn't left the Elven Kingdom, the Winleans would never have learned about Ergakan and thus would never have had it within their sights. Maybe just leaving with Tracou for Ergakan back in Shalen would have avoided everything. Then again, as long as Winlea had those mountains...

The starting point lay farther back. But what was it?

Did it matter?

Mirthal's stomach hurt.

He turned, taking in Tracou's sleeping form. His mouth had opened in his sleep and a bit of drool trickled onto the pillow. Cute. Sleep forcibly relaxed his dezmek body more so than he could manage while awake, even on a good day.

Tracou had killed men today, too. They couldn't be sure how many, and Tracou hadn't dealt the blows with his hands, but he had brought death to the Winlean invaders. Despite all this, he slept.

Mirthal wanted to wake him up and spill his worries out in front of Tracou, to hear some sympathy, to hear his words out loud. But he couldn't do it now. He hadn't done it earlier because they all had other things to handle.

Grabbing one of Tracou's hands with both of his, he heaved a sigh.

He couldn't get the image of Burman's crushed skull, the smell of blood, and the cries of the dying out of his head.

This little village full of little people doing things of such little relevance to the rest of the world had been attacked by those intending to kill them. Death had been inevitable. And what if it had come to Tracou? What if Burman had grabbed him and strangled him or cut him open? What if it had been Tracou's corpse in the dirt, his blue eyes unseeing, his blood mingling with the blood of countless other dezmek?

"Ow," Tracou whimpered, his eyelids dragging open.

Mirthal jolted, letting go of his hand. He hadn't realized that he had been squeezing him. Unlike Pendaer and most elves, the power of his mark did not prevent him from hurting Tracou.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry for waking you—I didn't mean to..."

Blearily, as though he had been asleep for a thousand years, Tracou stared at Mirthal. A few Dezmerian syllables fell from his mouth.

"What?"

"Ah... M'okay."

"All right..."

Closing his eyes again, Tracou's body began to relax again.

"T-Tracou," Mirthal blurted. "Wait. Just for a few minutes. Please?"

"Mmmmh..." Tracou pushed himself up and shook his head like a dog drying itself. "I'm awake."

"Come here, up against me."

"I'll fall asleep again."

"Okay." He paused, now unsure what to say. "I can't sleep."