Jason

  Laude Granthor had no objections to Darion finishing up his "business," as she called it, though she made it clear it would not continue under her employment. After Darion had left, she asked Jason to keep an eye on him. Jason, of course, agreed. But every part of him did not want to.

  He didn't follow Darion directly. He knew where the fighting rings were.

  It was just as he remembered, the lamps flaring to give everyone the best possible view. It was loud, all the people crammed together, yelling and jeering. And the smell of sweat, smoke, beer, and a hint of piss. He had forgotten how bad it was.

  He went up to some of the taller seats, made from old crates and boxes. They were farther away and less crowded, but the view was decent. The first fight wasn't Darion. If Darion was anything of the brawler he said he was, he would be one of the later fights. Jason wasn't sure how much was bluster, but given their confrontation with Marco and the other men, it seemed unlikely to be.

  Jason couldn't get comfortable, and he kept scanning the crowd. He hadn't been here in a few years. Would someone recognize him?

  He tried to focus on the fight, trying to block out every other thought.

  A rough blow from one of the combatants brought his mind right back to his brother's fights. The spatter of blood across the ring was too familiar.

  He took a deep breath.

  And then it was over. One of them didn't get up fast enough.

  There was a bit of time between fights. People would buy food, make bets, drink, and talk some more. Jason searched the crowd, not for Darion, but for…him.

  Every time Jason saw someone who resembled him, the pearl of dread in his stomach grew just a bit bigger.

  He kept watch on the crowd when a roar began to grow. The next fight was starting, and the crowd was roiling in anticipation.

  The competitors stepped into the ring. Jason had eyes only for one, who cupped his hands around his mouth to magnify his voice. Darion barked a few times and then howled. His supporters echoed him in a deafening chorus of howls.

  The other man pounded his chest and yelled, but it didn't have the power of the pack following Darion.

  Darion was magnificent. He wore little, like his opponent, and he stood with the muscular ease of a warrior in his prime. Hands were wrapped in padding, some undergarments, and not much else. He popped in a mouth guard to protect his teeth.

  The bell rang, and they circled each other. They started with boxing, but neither fighter struck any particularly bad blows. Something seemed off about Darion.

  The round ended without much drama. The crowd was shifting, and Jason could tell they weren't satisfied by the fact that both fighters were being defensive.

  A woman with a curvy figure and painted eyes was tending to Darion, wiping his brow and giving him water. As the warning bell rang, he took her hand and kissed it, then got to fight.

  The second round went much like the first: a few kicks in the legs, some blows to the ribs, and a couple of light blows to the head. Nothing they couldn't shake off. Again, the woman tended to Darion, and Jason was absolutely not feeling jealous. Whatever the feeling was had to be something else.

  The last round began. It was hard for Jason to see who was winning, and he wondered if it would be a technical victory for one or the other.

  There were calls from the crowd.

  "Get 'im to the ground!"

  "Slug 'im in the head!"

  They circled each other, prowling around the ring. Getting serious this time.

  One punch from the opponent. Two kicks from Darion. Another punch from the other fighter.

  Darion stumbled.

  The other fighter didn't need anything more. He delivered a brutal blow to Darion's back that sent him to the ground. The crowd roared in anger and triumph, but more anger. Darion was the favorite, and if he lost, a lot of people would lose money, too.

  Darion didn't fall flat on his face. He turned the fall into a roll. He then sat facing his opponent.

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  His groundwork must have been impressive, because the other fighter stood, arms crossed, waiting. The ref yelled something, and Darion stood. They circled each other, but Darion's opponent was reluctant to engage. He had already won.

  Perhaps, if he had been trying to win, Darion would have been able to change the tide of the fight. That was what people expected of him, after all.

  The fight ended with the bell. The judge lifted the hand of Darion's opponent. And the crowd jeered or cheered, depending on whether their favorite won. Mostly jeered.

  When Darion sat down to rest, the woman was gone. Jason scowled. If you were helping a fighter, you shouldn't abandon them just because they lost. Maybe that's why Anson always asked Jason to tend to him. A brother wouldn't abandon you after a fight.

  But no one was coming to help Darion. Jason made his way down to the ring.

  Darion at least seemed grateful to see him. He grinned sloppily after Jason touched his shoulder.

  "Are you drunk?" He asked.

  Darion shrugged. "How do you think I lost? But not drunk, just a bit tipsy."

  Jason shook his head. "I'll get you some water."

  Darion

  Darion waited, catching his breath. Another fight had started, and he stayed out of the way, wiping his sweat off with a dirty rag. Better than nothing. He looked around for his shirt, but it was gone. He put on his pants and boots and buckled on his sword belt. He slung on his armored jacket. At least everything valuable was still here. The jacket was itchy without a shirt, though.

  He was thirsty as hell. Where was Jason? It shouldn't take so long.

  He stood and started walking to the fountain. Maybe he would meet Jason on the way.

  He scowled, and everyone got out of his way. Losing the fight, even on purpose, put him in a bad mood.

  He saw the captain of the guard as he walked. The man gave the barest nod, but had a self-satisfied smile of someone who had just made a lot of money and was trying to hide it.

  The fountain was constantly flowing, the spigot shaped like some kind of creature, but too chipped and broken to be recognizable. Darion dunked his head under it, the icy water shocking his senses, sobering him up. Then he put his mouth to the stream and drank from it, gulping down the icy water as if he hadn't drunk in days.

  He looked up, wiping his mouth, and then saw Jason.

  A man was standing very close to Jason, speaking softly. His arm was around Jason's shoulder. He was clean-cut and muscular, some kind of soldier.

  Their body language had an intimacy–old lovers, perhaps.

  It wasn't his business to watch.

  But he couldn't seem to stop staring.

  They were talking, but Jason wasn't looking directly at the man. There was a shift in their posture. Jason seemed to shrink, and the man tensed, his face shifting from tenderness to rage.

  Darion started moving forward, but wasn't fast enough. The man grabbed Jason's head and slammed his face against the wall, the bricks scraping his skin. Jason slumped.

  Darion grabbed the man by his shoulder and pulled him back, then stepped in front of Jason.

  Darion smiled, a good head taller than the man. "What's going on here?"

  He rested his left hand on his sword hilt. A warning, not a threat.

  "None of your business." The bastard looked around. He probably had allies here, but were they close?

  "It's fine," Jason said quietly.

  "You hear that? It's fine." The asshole sneered.

  Darion flexed his shoulders. "Glad to hear it."

  The man took a step back and looked at Jason. "Looks like you got yourself a guard dog. Well, I don't want to have some dirty Karangasz leftovers."

  Darion leaned down slightly, his grin widening. "I like being called a dog."

  The look of disgust had a flicker of fear. Good.

  Darion winked.

  The asshole spat and turned away, making a rude hand gesture as he went.

  Jason was looking down. He looked almost ready to cry.

  Maybe if Darion hadn't been drinking, he would have had more restraint. But he grabbed Jason and hugged him hard.

  Jason barely resisted before hugging him back. Darion waited for him to compose himself and let go.

  "Let's get that wound looked at, yeah?" He said.

  Jason nodded. Darion could tell he didn't want any questions asked.

  They went to the med tent, where a couple of fighters were nursing wounds. The healer was busy helping one with a broken nose. The lamps inside were bright, and Darion put down a few coins for some basic supplies.

  He sat Jason down on a rough wooden bench and cleaned his hands in the fountain next to the tent. He soaped up a towel and then started cleaning the wound.

  "You are practically a healer," Jason muttered.

  "Ah, well, just a lot of experience with wounds. Don't know much about anything else. I'm useless with a sickness." He opened the container of healing salve and looked at the scratch. "I don't think it will scar."

  "Oh, good," Jason said, still distant.

  "You deserve better, you know?" Darion said as he carefully spread a thin layer of a salve with the specific kind of gentleness he had when treating wounds.

  Jason snorted. "Like what? You?"

  Darion smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. "Have my lines become so predictable?"

  He paused and then pulled back to study Jason's face, to look at the wound, but also to look in his eyes and with their moth-wing lashes. "But I'm being serious for once. Love doesn't need to cost you so much."

  Jason looked away. "Who said it was love?"

  Darion didn't try to comfort him again. He took a deep breath and screwed on the lid to the salve.

  "I think that's good enough for now. Might need to take a second look tomorrow in the daylight." He got up, and the speed of it made him a bit dizzy. "I'm drunk, and you're hurting. Let's get back."

  "You treated my wound while drunk?" Jason said a bit too loudly. "I thought you were tipsy."

  Darion grinned. "Don't worry, I did a good job with the wound."

  Jason

  They walked back mostly in silence. Jason was ready to get to his cot in the servants' dorm and sleep. It was too late, and everything hurt. There were too many memories in the fighting rings. Too much desperation and grief.

  But as he looked over at the man walking next to him, a tiny blossom was starting to grow.

  Darion cleared his throat, looking in the direction they were walking. "Just so you know, I'm still mourning a wife and child."

  Jason felt the blossom wither with those words. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  "Just thought you should know," Darion paused. "You understand what I mean, right?"

  "Yes, of course." That a man like Darion wouldn't want anything to do with Jason. That he was just being kind and maybe a bit flirty, but nothing more. It was never more.

  "Okay, good. I'm glad you understand."

  They didn't speak the rest of the way.