Sheeva trembled as she struggled to stand, then stared at her bag with tired eyes. She had been in too much pain to sleep well, and when she finally managed the pain, she found her position too uncomfortable to even begin to doze off. She had neither the energy nor the will to carry it.
“Would you carry my bag?” She asked.
Tazaro looked at her and immediately doubted she could walk decently at all. She was using a long stick to support herself, though remained hunched over with exhaustion. Her unbroken wing had been retracted, and the injured one was still tied down, its tip jutting out from behind her awkwardly such that the end feathers almost grazed the ground. Her right arm rested in its sling, strapped against her body with a loose piece of twine since they had run out of bandages.
“I can do that. Are you, uh, sure you want to walk?” He watched her squint her eyes at him, then look away, embarrassed. Her stubbornness seemed to know no bounds. He stooped down, grabbed her bag, and threw it over his shoulders, latching the support band together around his waist.
“We will take it slow.” Sheeva decided.
“I can…carry you, you know. It's kind of necessary, isn't it?” He offered, holding out his hands.
Sheeva’s eyes widened, and she felt her face warm as a flash of whatever her pain-riddled brain had dredged up to distract her from reality shone in her mind’s eye, and she looked away from him again, biting her lip. How inappropriate of her to have succumbed to such fantasy in the first place!
“That is not happening.” She said firmly, frustrated as the ghost of his hand rested on her cheek.
Tazaro sighed, then started to head out, waiting for her to follow. He listened as he heard the shuffle of her feet and the thunk of the stick on the cobblestone, then turned to face her. She visibly shook with the effort to stand, and he was amazed she could even manage that.
He huffed and rolled his eyes at her ridiculous stubbornness.
“Fuck it–I’m carrying you.” He decided, walking up to her. Stunned, she did not have the wherewithal to fight him as he scooped her up, and she squeaked in surprise as he positioned her to fit comfortably in his arms, trying to make sure he did not jar her wing in any way.
He paused with the sudden, gloomy reminder that he’d just been carrying his deceased mother in the same way the previous morning.
Sheeva hit his chest weakly, glaring up at him.
“Put me down!” She ordered, bringing Tazaro out of his gloomy thoughts and into an irritated mood. Annoyed at her struggle and dismissing her request with a stern frown, he started walking. He tightened his hold on her as she squirmed, trying to ignore the ache of his muscles.
“Would you please knock that off? You’ll make me drop you, and you’ll just get hurt more!” He growled, relieved when she slowed and seemed to settle, though remaining stiff and alert. Still, it was better than wrestling someone akin to a hyperactive battle dog.
Tazaro drew in a clearing breath as he found himself wondering what might have happened to Jax, then looked at the forest in an effort to recall which way Roussell would be.
Sheeva saw him looking around, and, curious, focused to see if, since she could use a severed chunk of hair, it would allow her to guide them home.
It didn’t work as she had hoped, nor did any strings head towards Mildred’s ashes, though a tiny trail still wandered off towards the northeast, where his father presumably resided.
She would keep that tidbit tucked away for a later time.
“It’s not working, so I’m not sure. But, the sun’s still rising, so if we head against it, we should find our way soon enough. I’ll…try to rest some more,” She agreed.
Grateful she was willing to work with him a little, Tazaro took off.
As he stepped over a log, he realized she was still tense, and it seemed to make carrying her more difficult as the reminder blared in the back of his mind.
“You can relax, you know. It’ll make carrying you easier, maybe. Hopefully, it might just help you, too. Lighten up; I’ll do all the legwork.” Tazaro suggested. Sheeva huffed, then squeaked and grabbed onto his shirt as he stopped and adjusted his hold.
At least she could still move, he supposed.
“Seriously,” He groaned, feeling his face scrunch as he tried to will away tears. “Relax. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m…” He paused, unwilling to say that her stillness reminded him of the rigor mortis state of his mother’s dead body. “I'm trying to help you. It's–well, it's the least I can do, considering…” He assured, trying to give her his best soothing voice.
After reasoning that she had no other choice, Sheeva took a deep breath and sunk into his hold. At this, he was able to carry her better. Her head rested against his left shoulder, and her unbroken arm reached up to try to support herself as her right lay slack in its sling.
Tazaro pressed onward and let his mind wander. Sheeva occasionally tensed as he took a wrong step or slipped, but slowly relaxed in his hold again as he continued on his way.
Along the way, he did his best to block the memory of Sheeva wailing in his arms and begging not to be left alone, damned if he brought it up. She had not said anything to him about it, and he hoped it was because she had no recollection in her brain’s desperation to cope rather than embarrassment of her conduct...now relatable as her situation was.
As he contemplated why she was so closed off, he decided it had to do with all the hellacious things she suffered through.
Rose.
Llyud.
Llyud dying at someone else’s hand.
And now, blaming herself for his mother's death and whatever had transpired in the fight with Zakaraia. Coupled with the events in Torde and the plucking of her wings, he imagined there was even more that she refused to tell him. Sheeva had closed herself off from people to protect herself and them from pain and suffering. It was a lonely, depressing way to live, he told himself.
He wondered that since she agreed to teach him to fly and even taught him a fire spell, she would still be willing to train him. Truth be told, he felt obligated to try, since the bastard had killed his mother and beaten Sheeva to a pulp. Even if she denied it, she would probably need help the next time around.
He paused and shuffled her further up in his hold, then continued. Though the chilly air nipped at his nose, Sheeva was warm against him.
“Thank you for carrying me. I–” Sheeva hissed in a sharp breath of air as he took a wrong step, then settled, pressing her forehead intently against his skin. Her fingers rubbed the fabric of his shirt between them. He paused for a moment, wondering what else she had to say, glad she couldn't witness the red on his cheeks at her close contact.
“I am...I cannot believe I am alive. I thought for sure, I had died. That I had–” Sheeva stopped and tightened her arm around his neck. Tazaro felt her shake from the effort and gave her a light, reassuring squeeze of his own.
“Forgive me for my invasion of your personal space," She apologized.
He looked down at her, amazed that her sense of personal boundaries was so deeply ingrained that it held up in this state.
"Don't worry about it–I mean, I'm the one carrying you, so…" He trailed off, trying to think of a way to ease her anxiousness.
"You are…generous, and your voice, it’s…pleasant. Soothing. It helped.” She murmured, giving a pleased hum as she settled against his shoulder again, attempting to give him a hug with the awkward way her arm looped around his neck.
“‘Helped?’ Helped with what?” He asked, feeling odd hearing about how his voice had been "soothing."
"Did you…think you had died?"
The rush of wind past his neck and the sudden nervous tension of her body told him she
probably would not answer, or perhaps she could not remember.
“Yes,” She admitted in a shaky, small whisper.
He took a deep breath and boldly pressed his cheek against the top of her head.
“O-ok. But, um, you didn’t.”
“No,” She muttered with a seemingly disappointed sigh. “No, I didn’t,” she repeated.
Tazaro cleared his throat and carried on, trying to mentally distance himself from the situation as anger boiled within when his brain reminded him why they were out here. It was difficult to keep distracted; with how warm she was against him, he may as well have been next to a furnace. She was surprisingly light, considering how much muscle she had to have to be able to kick ass and take an ass-kicking. He wondered if the fact that she had wings had something to do with it.
"Had I…died, I'd at least like to have known…"
His pace slowed as she trailed her hand into his hair, her nails lightly grazing the back of his neck and causing a gasp to rush past parted lips as his cheeks heated even more. As he heard a soft, amused sigh and a chuckle, his heart skipped a beat.
“How…unnatural of me, to feel so comfortable,” She chuckled as her head dropped onto his shoulder in exhaustion. The tip of her nose grazed the nape of his neck, and she whispered something incoherent into his chest.
“What?” He asked, trying to make sense of her nonsensical rambling.
"You have a wonderful smile, and your eyes, they hold such intensity. Recalling them, in the end, gave me peace. Had I died, I would have been...content.” Sheeva murmured, her hand dropping from his chest in exhaustion.
His stomach dropped in fear, and he stopped to glance down at her. Her eyes had closed, and her breaths flowed in short, strained wisps along his exposed skin. Gently as he could in his growing alarm, he shook her.
“Sheeva? Hey, Sheeva?”
She sucked in a breath and shivered as her eyes peeled open.
“Tam?”
“I-I was worried; thought maybe you were–please don’t die on me.” He pleaded, voice laced with anxiety.
“You are here, now. I will be fine.” She whispered tenderly, reaching up again to touch his cheek with a relieved smile. Perhaps I will not die alone, after all.
Tazaro froze when she placed a tender peck on his lips before she leaned her head back onto his shoulder. The pads of her fingers brushed his jawline as her hand fell again, and he glanced at her, fully surprised and perplexed.
“What are you--What just happened?" He asked, still trying to grasp the situation.
Feeling the burn of fever and moisture of sweat upon her brow as her breaths flashed against his chest in short wisps, he slowly understood. "Oh. You’re…” Tazaro bit his tongue to prevent the whole sentence from passing his lips.
Apparently delirious. He finished silently, jerking his head back to look forward as he trudged on.
As the wisps of hot breath swept across him again, he stole a look at her face–passive and peaceful, despite the sheen of fever's sweat, dark bags under her eyes, and the sickly bruise ailing her cheekbone. She was still asleep and probably would be for a while.
Flummoxed, flustered, and mildly embarrassed, Tazaro trudged on.
At the sound of a ‘blip,’ Tazaro tensed and crouched, ready to sprint. The adrenaline ripped through his muscles as his hair stood on the back of his neck and he jerked his head up to look forward and around himself. His face contorted in a fierce, menacing glare, but as Bartholomew’s apparition passed through the trunk of a tree and stopped in front of him, Tazaro settled, though still angry.
“I don’t have time to deal with you,” Tazaro growled, trying to ignore the super-charged tremble rippling through his body from the fight-or-flight response. His legs wobbled with his first several steps, but as he pushed on, he found himself able to walk decently again.
Tazaro refused the ta’hal acknowledgment as he passed him.
“Sheeva’s looking worse for wear.”
Tazaro’s frown deepened, and he had not realized his hold on Sheeva tightened until his knuckles ached. Bartholomew floated, ghost-like, at their side through trees and branches. Tazaro’s thoughts raced, and as Bartholomew’s mysterious disappearances dawned on him, he stopped and turned.
“Where the hell did you go? Why do you keep disappearing? Are you in league with Zakaria? Are you working with him? It’s all just some ploy, isn’t it?” Tazaro exploded in accusations. He was thankful he had Sheeva wrapped up in his arms; otherwise, he would likely try to grapple the celestial beast and pummel his fists into its cat-like face.
Not that it would do much good, since he had already learned the beast lacked a tangible, physical form.
“Working with him? Pah! That would be the last thing I do with that traitor!” Bartholomew snapped back, hovering in front of them while he crossed his arms. His leathery wings flapped through low-hanging branches. Tazaro huffed and shook his head.
“I don’t buy it. I don’t buy it at all!”
“I’m on the hunt for that skulka, too!”
“Then why didn’t you stick around after Sheeva and I went to look for his body? That’s awfully suspicious and pretty cowardly! You could have just picked him off then!”
“I am not a coward, and I sure as hell don’t need to explain myself to you!” Bartholomew’s minty-green eyes flared in rage, and he swiped at Tazaro with a claw. Tazaro barked out a cry as ice ran through his veins, and when his legs collapsed underneath him, he attempted to take a knee as gracefully as he could. Still, he dropped far too fast and grunted in pain as his kneecap banged a rock and a tingling jolt from a twinged-nerve shot into his foot.
Sheeva stirred at the sudden drop, and she groaned and hissed as a wide-spread pain shackled her body.
“What...happened?” She slurred.
Tazaro looked at her apologetically, but did not answer her question. His suspicions of Bartholomew needed to wait until she was lucid enough to grasp them. Perhaps, even, she might have her own suspicions to add.
Tazaro looked for Bartholomew, who had perched himself up in a tree, glowering down at the both of them.
“Bartholomew happened. You ok?” He asked, not breaking eye contact with the being.
“In pain.” She answered.
Tazaro broke his stare-down with the unblinking creature to glance at her. Her face was still flush and sweaty, brow pinched with the grimace of discomfort. He jerked back to eye the ta’hal, wondering if he could take a chance setting Sheeva down and settling for a few moments while he gave her some pain medicine.
“Well? Help her. I’ll not kill you, remember? Made a deal. I keep my deals.” Bartholomew insisted with a dismissive wave.
Tazaro settled and moved to lay her against the base of a tree. He shrugged the bag off his shoulders, retrieved the medical kit, took out a painkiller, and held it to her mouth. She took it and swallowed it down with water as Tazaro held the pouch to her mouth. He took a sip for himself.
She closed her eyes and settled, and within a few minutes, she was snoring again.
Satisfied that she would be fine, he turned back to Bartholomew who was now standing on the forest floor with two clawed hind legs, tail flicking about behind him. Tazaro followed the tan tail blade with cautious eyes, wondering if he were going to be impaled with it again. His body shivered, almost seeming conditioned already, and he prayed that was not the case–he did not want to put up with constant, full-body chills.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Look: As I told you two days ago, I planned to get my revenge. But…that’s been taken care of.” Bartholomew paused, rubbing his temple with a claw, tutting to himself.
Somewhat. The rest of it will have to wait, ‘cuz I really can’t do squat like this, He mused.
“I lack an entity. If I were to charge into battle, the most I could probably do is scare someone out of their wits and make them need to change their shorts.” Bartholomew answered, demeanor softening as he calmed.
Tazaro felt his shoulders sag.
There went the idea of using Bartholomew as bait in case Zakaraia came back.
“Ok, so…” New plan, he thought to himself, sighing again. “You said...you keep your deals?”
“Some of us are honorable. We have a code, you know. Not a great one, but it’s still something.”
"I see. What happens if a ta’hal breaks their deal?”
Bartholomew blinked at the question, then stooped to spiral his tail and sit back on it. His legs crossed, and he leaned forward to prop his arms on his thighs in thought.
“I don’t know. I’ve never witnessed it. I’ve never done it personally, either.” He tapped his chin as he thought about it. “Maybe we turn to stone. Maybe, we turn into a giant black hole.” Bartholomew visibly shuddered at that, and it snared Tazaro’s curiosity. “Who knows?” Bartholomew added with a shrug.
Tazaro had no idea what a ‘black hole’ was, but if it could make a ta’hal shudder, it had to be terrifying. Maybe, it was some form of eldritch aberration, with thousands of unblinking eyes, hundreds of green, slimy tentacles, and an insatiable hunger for Sferrans. He brushed his shoulders off as he felt his skin crawl.
"Mom said something about making a deal with him, so I just thought, maybe–"
"--what, he'd burst into a million pieces? If only!" Bartholomew interrupted. "And that still wouldn’t be good enough for the bastard!" He grumbled, causing Tazaro to silence. Any further commentary he might have would likely be interrupted without remorse.
Still, since “that bastard” had not seemed to have died somehow, Tazaro rejected the idea that Zakaraia might be some type of supernatural being.
After several sighs, Bartholomew stood and stepped toward Sheeva, a contemplative look on his face.
Tazaro wedged himself between the two, giving Bartholomew another menacing look.
“Oh? You’re gonna stop me?” Bartholomew asked with a derisive laugh before he continued onward, stepping through Tazaro. “Good luck with that!”
As the apparition floating through sapped him of his body heat, Tazaro fell to a knee once again, shivering. Surely, he would develop hypothermia at this rate.
“Argh, fuck you!” Tazaro swore.
Bartholomew only laughed in response and stooped down to Sheeva’s level.
“Hey, what are you–
–Relax, you overprotective bastard. I wasn’t going to do anything. I was just going to scour through her memory again–to see if there was something I missed. Maybe, there’s something I can do to help.”
“You-you can go th-through people’s memories?” He asked past the fierce shiver and chattering of his teeth. He brought his fingers to his mouth to blow warm air on them.
“Like reading a diary! Though, your memories are far too sappy for my tastes,” He grinned, taking pleasure in disturbing Tazaro with the news. “I’ll sadly be stuck with those for the rest of my unnatural life. Anyway, my bounty hunter’s been through too much to die now.”
Tazaro blinked, surprised and somehow pleased, not expecting such empathy from the being, but when he thought of how Bartholomew referred to her as a “bounty hunter,” he realized Bartholomew only had an invested interest in keeping Sheeva alive. He frowned at the logic.
As he glanced back at Sheeva when a dead-sleep muttering sounded from her, the gears in Tazaro’s head began to turn.
“You said you were gonna search her memories ‘again?” Tazaro asked for clarification.
Bartholomew sighed.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He sassed.
“Well, wait a minute: if you’ve already read her memories, wouldn’t you know how to cast her healing spell?” Tazaro asked. Bartholomew arched a curious eyebrow.
“Hmph. You assume I know everything.”
“Not everything–you must know a lot, though.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know...Love?”
Tazaro’s eyes hardened and the scowl formed on his face in an instant.
“Don’t you ever call me that again, you son-of-a-skulka!” Tazaro threatened. He cringed as the pet name grated his eardrums. He shuddered, shook his head, then picked at his ear and forced a deep, calming breath.
Tazaro thought for a moment, wondering how to elicit the information he needed. Though he had only cast one spell, maybe Bartholomew could teach him and he could cast Sheeva’s healing spell–if Bartholomew really had searched her memories. He put on his best poker face and began to play a game.
“So you know about Kirin. Do you...know my sister’s name and how she died?”
“Amara Chorea. Wellington’s Flu. You almost died, too. Nothing like hallucinations of Death at the foot of your bed while shivering from chills and sweating from fever. Didn't enjoy feeling that after eighteen years of cold, hard crystal." Bartholomew shrugged, seeming uncomfortable.
Tazaro looked over his shoulder, noting the curious suggestion that the ta’hal could feel things through people's memory.
“Well, that’s, uh...disturbing," He summed, unnerved at the reminder of being bedridden from illness. He could barely recall his mother telling him about pointing at the foot of the bed when he was high off his ass on flu medicine. "I’d forgotten about that, and with good reason, thanks."
Tazaro shook his head at himself, eager to get back on track.
"Alright...What food did Sheeva and I share in the workshop a couple weeks ago?” He questioned.
“Of all the things you can ask, and you ask that? I have tons of history at my beck-and-call, and you ask that?”
Tazaro gave him an insistent look.
“Fine, it was a stupid cheese roll,” Bartholomew answered, though pausing as his jowls began to water and his stomach began to churn. How much he couldn’t wait to devour some food!
…If he’d be able to at all.
“Damn, that was tasty. Both of you really liked it. So did I. She likes making those. Kneading the dough. Gives her something to punch other than people.” He answered, slightly contemplating possessing one of them at some point just to relive the experience of eating. Of course, that would mean temporarily imprisoning himself, something he wasn’t keen on doing anytime soon.
Tazaro arched an eyebrow, secretly amazed that the sense of taste would follow with the reading of someone’s memories. He briefly wondered what other senses followed, then shook his head, trying to stay on task.
"Alright…when’s each of our birthdays?”
“Hers? 8th of Fanevir, 1308,” He replied, a little more quickly than Tazaro expected and with such certainty, he took it to be an honest answer. Sheeva’s true age was a bonus, as was the real birthdate.
“Yours?” Bartholomew paused, and Tazaro could tell the Ta’hal had to think about it. “11th of Thulus, 1307,” He answered.
Tazaro arched an eyebrow; the difference in response time was suspicious.
Still, the real game began.
“Favorite color?”
“Yellow.”
“Prized possessions?”
“A ridiculous pocket watch and a silly painting.”
“How to cast her healing spell?”
“That’s a cakewalk. All you gotta do is–Oh. Oh. Argh, ya bastard!” He barked. Tazaro turned to face him and watched victoriously with a smug smirk as the ta’hal paced and fumed. “And to think, after digging around in your head, I’d have known to expect–hah, I’m impressed! Ya got me!” He gave a fanged, toothy grin as he clapped and applauded Tazaro’s efforts.
Tazaro felt proud of himself: the rapid-fire questioning never ceased to yield withheld information. He’d have to thank Micah for teaching him the interrogation technique when they got back.
“So, can you cast it on her?” He asked. Bartholomew stopped pacing and shook his head.
“No, I can’t.”
“Damnit, Bartholomew, why not?” Tazaro snapped.
“Because I don’t have an en-ti-ty!” Bartholomew emphasized dramatically with claws snapping like fingers in Tazaro’s face with each stressed syllable. Tazaro raised his arm to brush the claw out of his face, then stopped himself; it would do nothing but cause full-body chills again.
“I don’t have a phy-si-cal bo-dy. I cannot draw my own pow-er.” He stressed even more, motioning with his hands. “Haven’t you gotten that through your head by now?” Bartholomew pointed out, annoyed.
“Fine, can you teach me, then?” He asked.
Bartholomew stared at him for a moment as he sized him up, then scoffed. Sure, the Sferran might have enough energy to spare, but he doubted the man’s ability to control flow.
“Hah! And what–you’re gonna try to cast it? You have no experience!” He chuckled, impressed with Tazaro’s guts. “If you’re not careful or you don’t know what you’re doing, it’ll sap you of all your strength. You’ll die.”
“Well, can you possess me again and do it?”
“I know you just lost your mother and all that, but do you really want to die that badly?” Bartholomew grunted.
Tazaro’s heart ached and his face flashed in anger, and he stood tall, ready to throw hands as rage coursed through his body.
“Fuck you! I sure as hell don’t have a death wish!” He barked, storming towards the beast. Rather than swinging a fist, he grabbed a branch on the way, then swung, full force. The stick did nothing but fly through, and, frustrated even more, Tazaro raised it above his head and swung it down through the beast’s head.
Bartholomew simply blinked at Tazaro, unamused, though he “tsked” at himself.
It was a low thing to say, even for him.
Tazaro stared at the dent in the ground he had made with his strike as he reigned himself in. Taking swings at a ghost would do no good for him, nor would losing his temper.
“Are you some kind of ghost?” Tazaro asked, still trying to wrap his mind around it all.
Bartholomew frowned.
“Man, I hope not,” He admitted, looking at his claws before scratching at his scalp.
Tazaro sighed and tossed the stick aside.
“Look, I can’t think of anything else,” Tazaro stated, looking back at Sheeva. She still hadn’t woken, despite all their noise.
Bartholomew remained silent, unwilling to become caged again. After eighteen long years in a crystal with nothing to do but ruminate on two-thousand year’s worth of Sferran history, sleep, and have losing arguments with himself, he wasn’t interested on spending any more time in another prison, even if it was mobile and fleshy.
“Fine, if you’re not gonna do anything, then; you leave me no choice. Suppose I try it anyway, die, and you can figure out whether or not you turn to stone!” Tazaro called over his shoulder as he walked back over to Sheeva, determined and rolling up his sleeves.
The few times I’ve seen her cast a healing spell, it had something to do with a leaf, right?
Bartholomew, more frightful of being turned to stone and imprisoned for eternity, got to his feet and bounded on all fours towards Tazaro, who’d already reached Sheeva.
“Wait, stop!” He roared.
Tazaro stopped, turned, and saw a flash of light from the ta’hal’s palm and felt a bizarre spin as he stared into it, mesmerized.
----------------------------------------
“Jax. Jax, stop it, you fluff.” Tazaro mumbled, moving his face away from the humongous battle-dog as it licked at his face. The licking stopped, and as a snort brushed across his face, he opened his eyes.
A dark, moist, bristled snout inches from his face formed in his vision as he woke, and he jerked upright, giving a startled cry and swatting at whatever creature it was. He watched the white-tail of a stag disappear as it bounded off into the forest, spooked. Tazaro wiped at the grass-ridden drool on his face and scrunched up his nose in distaste as the smell wafted into his nose.
“Tok za vilg?” He muttered. His body ached, and as he pushed himself up, his arms felt weak and weighty. He looked around for Bartholomew, remembering what had happened in the moments before he stared into the strange, white light. The ta’hal was nowhere to be found, and Sheeva was still sleeping in the crane of the tree.
Tazaro crawled over to her, moving the hair out of her face. Some color had recovered to her face, though she still seemed pallid. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and he wiped at it with the sleeve of his tattered jacket. He shook her shoulder gently.
“Sheeva?” He asked.
She came to, blinking, and slowly looked at him as she fought to sit up a little more.
“Wow, you seem like you’re feeling better. Good, that’s good!” He greeted, hopeful.
Suddenly, her face turned green, and she leaned over and hurled, spewing vomit on the ground. Tazaro held her hair out of the way and rubbed her back as well as he could while she trembled and coughed.
“At least I have–ugh–energy to puke.” She muttered, panting as she lay her head back against the tree. “We have stopped? How long was I asleep?”
She took a sip of water at his behest.
“Uh...I’m not sure. I-I just woke up, myself.”
Bartholomew walked through a tree and stopped behind them, a scowl on his face.
“This imbecile decided to try to heal you.” He explained. Sheeva looked at Tazaro for confirmation.
“Truly?”
Tazaro nodded.
“Thank you…” She muttered. He had a feeling that a “but” was following by the sound of it, and Tazaro prepared himself for scolding. “But you should be careful. It is too risky; you’ve yet to learn to control things.” She blinked as something did not add up. "I have not shown you that spell."
“Bartholomew was really the one to do it.” Tazaro defended, tilting his head toward the ta’hal behind him.
Sheeva looked at him gratefully and whispered her humble thanks.
“Pah! With how little power I was able to draw, it seems like it didn’t do much. Just made you puke. Maybe you’re allergic to him or something.” Bartholomew deflected, waving the matter off with a hand.
He turned his back on them and floated out to the ledge of the grassy knoll they were resting at to stare at something across the way, his claws clasped behind his back. As he grumbled to himself about something, his wings shuffled in indecision and his tail flicked. They watched him take a deep breath and sigh, wings and tail settling with the action.
“Do you believe me now? I’m not your enemy. Stop being idiots.” He insisted.
“Alright,” Tazaro agreed, not about to counter the fact that he’d called them both “idiots.” “Will you at least tell us what you have against Zakaraia?” Tazaro asked. Bartholomew turned and scowled over his shoulder, the corner of his lips curled in a snarl. The snarl faded, and he turned back around.
“I told you. Zakaraia’s a traitor. Betrayed me. Betrayed my friend. Cost him his life.”
The setting sun shone through Bartholomew, casting a greenish hue over them as the golden rays mixed with his transparent blue. Sheeva found it interesting that, as the wind swept across the grass, it did not wisp through his hair like it would hers or Tazaro’s.
“Was that friend my father, by chance?” Sheeva asked.
“Your father got a name?” Bartholomew asked, turning his head to look at her, teal eyes piercing with a brightened glow caused by the sunlight that streamed through his head.
Sheeva closed her mouth, then dropped her gaze to her feet.
“I…don’t know his name. My birth mother never talked about him, only to tell me that he was a Ta’hal…and to tell me the same,” She admitted. “Zakaraia said that he was the one to kill him.”
“Zakaraia’s killed thousands of people. Besides, just because I’m a Ta’hal, I know every Ta’hal?” Bartholomew scoffed, crossing his arms. “How indecent of an assumption you make!”
“I–” She began, then silenced. “My apologies.”
Tazaro studied Bartholomew for a moment, a nagging feeling that something was left unsaid as the creature’s tail began to flick.
“So, what was your friend’s name?” Tazaro asked.
Bartholomew thought for a moment, then laughed.
“Belias, the Alchemist.” He answered with a mighty, booming voice as he dramatically raised his hands to the sky. “Ah, he thought he was hilarious, coming up with that moniker!”
Sheeva tried to recall if she had ever heard the name before, but it was unfamiliar.
“Would you help us track Zakaraia down?” Sheeva asked. “Or will you just disappear?”
Bartholomew craned his head to look over his shoulder at her, frowning. He scowled, his irises piercing amid his pupils.
“What, disappear and miss out on the wonderful opportunity to put that fucker in his rightful place? Hah! I’d be a fool to waste that chance!” He scoffed, scratching at his shoulder. They watched him float away through the trees. In the distance, Tazaro could see the top of the golden clock tower, and he felt a mass of relief swoop through him at the realization that they did not have much farther to travel. He turned back to Sheeva, wondering if she could press on a little further.
To his amazement, she had already gotten to her feet, albeit stubbornly so.
“Wow, that healing spell must have worked better than I thought!” He cheered, pleased. Sheeva chuckled in pity at him and shook her head.
“We shall see. In all honesty, I am only managing this because I have to pee.” She announced, using the trunk as a support as she stepped around it and hid from Tazaro’s view.
“Oh. Uh, sorry.” Tazaro mumbled, turning his back on the situation. He stepped toward the ledge they were standing on to purvey the view while he waited. When Sheeva shakily stood next to Tazaro with the aid of a stick, Tazaro broke out of his thoughts and offered help in sitting her down.
“We should hurry to Roussell. We shall find a place to lay low and hide while I recover and figure out our next steps from there.”
Thankful that she was adamant, Tazaro opened his mouth to protest.
“We need to get you to a hospital.” He pointed out. Sheeva shook her head.
“No. No one else would understand.” She argued.
Tazaro crossed his arms and shook his head. He decided he would get them to Roussell first, and then they could argue.
“Well...at any rate, we should keep going. Come on.” He offered to carry her once again, and she frowned.
“Must you really–
–do we have a choice? Come on.” He interrupted, surprising himself with his sternness. Sheeva pursed her lips and sighed heavily.
“No. I suppose not.” She pouted. Tazaro shot her what he hoped was an encouraging grin.
“You can kick my ass for it later when you’re healed, though I pray that you don't.”
Sheeva grumbled to herself as she allowed him to scoop her up, gasping as she felt her feet lifted off the ground. She didn't wrap her arm around Tazaro's shoulder this time, drowning in self-pity and embarrassment. She allowed herself to sleep more, intending to get as much rest as possible.