Sun down - Dance of ice and fire

A river flows

It had taken three risings to bring the stranger back from the brink of death. Merak had had to reopen some of the more shallow wounds to prevent infection. The man was stable now, but he had still not woken.

Mizar looked at the stranger occupying his bed. The man thrashed around, he did that quite often. Something plagued his mind and Mizar was determined to find out what. If this man had information that would help end this war they were bound to press on his mind, were they not?

He could do nothing to relax the poor man's mind, but his own he could calm with evening tea. There was, after all, nothing more relaxing than watching the fire that made the water boil. Or the smell of the steam it emitted. He didn't like drinking it, however. It was just water with flavour in his book.

The stranger thrashed around again. Mizar sighed. He stood and wandered around the fire until he stood beside the bed. He could not calm the strangers mind, his body's movement however the general could restrict. He shouldn't hurt himself, after all. And the stitches could be broken when he moved like that.

Restricting the man was tiresome. As using magic always was. One needed something to draw energy from to prevent exhaustion. Mizar usually used the life of flowers, but they were rare in winter and he did not have any stored. So he had to use his own energy.

The stranger however seemed to have no intention in helping him. His resistance in the general's magic was giving the latter a headache, but at least he wasn't tossing and turning anymore. Mizar frowned as he concentrated on his magic.

If his head hadn't been throbbing he would have noticed it sooner. The black eyes that started back at him. Black like the night they were meant to see in.

The stranger was a nightwalker. A norren. An enemy.

„Start with your name", he hissed. The norren would have even better information than an elven spy. „And tell me about the flaws of your camp."

The stranger's mouth moved, but no words left his lips.

„What's wrong with your voice?" Mizar knew he should have killed the man then and there. He was useless if he couldn't tell on anything.

Maybe it was pity, maybe it was the incredulous look the norren gave him. In any case, the general couldn't do it.

This man couldn't use his voice but he brought across the message „are you serious" pretty well. Communicating was going to be a problem, but maybe this nightwalker could be useful nonetheless.

„I am going to release my hold on you. Don't move."

Mizar was not surprised that the norren did, in fact, move. But the magic had weakened him and the elf could not hold on much longer. He was surprised, however, that the stranger moved swiftly and forcefully, even though he was wounded this badly.

The general told himself that had he not been surprised, maybe he wouldn't be lying beneath the raised fist of his enemy. Another hand was firmly placed upon his collarbones, so he couldn't move upward.

Above the fire the water boiled.

„Would you like some tea", Mizar offered. He couldn't do much more than that. It felt odd to be laying, fully clothed, beneath a naked man he did not have the slightest desire to be intimate with.

After brief consideration, the norren nodded.

„Well, you're going to have to let me go, then."

The nightwalker surprised Mizar yet again when he did let go. He removed himself from above the general and stood next to the bed. At least he tried to. The stabbing pain of his wounds brought him tumbling down.

This time, Mizar was faster. He caught the norren before he could hit the ground and helped him sit. Mizar moved the blanket onto his lap.

„Alright-y. Would you like sugar in your tea?"

No, the nightwalker shook his head.

Blinking heavily he continued to look around the tent. It was nearly empty, for it was over-all meant to be moved quickly. The wooden props, too, were designed to be taken down or built up within a heartbeat. Three of those held the sewn-together leather pieces that made up the wall. There was the fireplace in the middle and a pile of clothes and bags in a corner next to the bed. Though bed was a generous term. It, too, was meant to be packed quickly. Leather wrapped around tight wool filling.

Mizar handed the man his kuksa, a wooden cup he normally kept on his belt. „There you go, er... yeah, I'm going to have to call you something. You okay with ‚Doash'?"

It meant ‚no ears' in the elven dialects. The general guessed that the norren would know its meaning. He had understood what he said before after all.

His guess was confirmed when the man touched his own cut-off ears. Then he nodded. ‚Doash' seemed to be an acceptable name.

Mizar sat down next to him on the bed - without a kuksa of his own. The norren frowned at the hot water in his. Then he held out the wooden cup towards the general.

„I didn't poison it. I just don't like tea."

Doash made no move to drink and glanced at the iron pot above the fire.

„You don't believe me. Fine. I can see why." Mizar took the kuksa from the norren's hands and sipped the flavoured water. „See, I didn't die."

Stil frowning, Doash took the cup back and began sipping the tea himself.

„Actually, I don't plan on killing you at all. I've done enough killing on the battlefield, I don't need bloodshed in my tent. This, of course, would be easier to justify, if you had information, you'd care to share." Mizar looked at the man next to him. Doash was unfazed by what he'd said. He didn't care much about dying, it seemed. „Now I know I'm asking you to betray your people here... but I did save your life and it seemed they were keen on taking it. Would you like to hurt the ones who hurt you?"

Doash jerked away when he felt a touch to the healing scar that decorated his chest. His eyes darted towards the general. He was contemplating, staring, looking for a clue in Mizar's face that told him the elf wasn't to be trusted.

Then the norren drew a spiked circle into the air and put it on his head. He cut his neck with an imaginary dagger.

„So...", Mizar guessed. „You want the king to die in exchange for your help?"

Doash nodded.

„Alright-y. Deal. But my men can't know you're norren. That'd be your death", the general analysed the nightwalker's face. „Your ears obviously won't be a problem anymore, but we got to hide your eyes. Also - you can't be running around camp like a plucked chicken. My clothes should fit you well enough, though."

The norren nodded slowly and went back to staring at the, now empty, kuksa.

Mizar rose and moved over to the pile of clothes, that -he would swear on his life- did have some sort of order. He had yet to figure out said order himself, but no one needed to know that.

„Here", he said, re-emerging. It wasn't that big of a pile, but he sure acted like it was. Whether that was to ease the stranger's thoughts about taking from someone who didn't have much or just to give in to his own need for drama, he did not know. „Try these on. We'll figure out the eye-issue tomorrow. It's late."

The norren tried to get up from the bed, again. More slowly, but without falling this time. He moved like an old man, careful not to strain his wounds too much.

Mizar watched Doash dress, deep in thought himself. Was this really such a good idea? He knew nothing about this stranger that had been considerably eager to betray his people. He would have to be careful.

„Were you a fighter? In the evernight" the general heard himself ask.

The norren, fully dressed now, crooked his head. He raised a hand to bisect his face. The other he placed like a knife on his own throat.

Mizar realised: the man in his tent was a priest of Tanshi, the god of death.