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Niarok

Niarok glared the boy down, measuring him. He was younger than Niarok, probably by quite a bit. He was also arrogant.

Niarok checked himself. Not arrogant. Just… pessimistic. And curious.

He took a deep breath at the end of his explanation of the Mirianweed, adjusting Yila’s arm on his shoulder. She seemed to be reviving, further supporting his theory that the castle had quick-healing powers.

“Do you have my bow and arrows?” she whispered.

He nodded and glanced over his shoulder, where he’d been carrying her weapons for at least a day now.

She sighed with relief and went back to staring at the assassin.

It took far too much effort for Niarok to resist rolling his eyes, but somehow he did. He could deal with his sister’s awkward flirting later.

His torch popped, and he glanced at it. It was almost halfway gone. He didn’t have many more, but he bit back a remark of concern. He didn’t know these people well enough to know if he should be trying to pool resources or surviving on his own.

“Fascinating,” the kid said from across Yila.

Niarok glanced at him. His eyes were bright and his right hand twitched, almost like he were trying to write it down, even though he didn’t have a quill or paper.

Niarok glared at him. The point of the Mirianweed wasn’t to be fascinated, it was to save his sister’s life. Granted, he was becoming more and more convinced that he didn’t need to try to help her, but he wasn’t in the habit of letting people suffer just because they would live if he didn’t do anything.

He glared harder at the boy, measuring him. He sensed push-back, followed by resignation, followed by frustration.

Volatile.

“How much time do we have and what can we do for her while we try to find a solution?” the boy snapped.

Niarok didn’t answer, just kept glaring. If the kid would use his eyes, he would probably be able to figure something out.

He looked deep into the boy’s eyes and sensed something: spirit.

A grudging semblance of whatever comes before respect sort of took hold in Niarok’s heart.

“I’m not claiming to be an expert on anything, you know far more than I do, but I do genuinely want to help. Just let me, won’t you?” the boy finally snapped with an air of calm, although the underlying quiver in his voice betrayed just how much anger he was hiding.

Niarok nodded, satisfied concerning the boy, and prepared to answer his question, but something distracted him: namely, Yila’s favorite assassin.

He and the one-legged man were having a discussion, and Niarok’s respect for the assassin grew, although he couldn’t entirely appreciate someone who murdered people for hire.

The one-legged man seemed to have a similar opinion, and said so.

The conversation went on, but it lost Niarok’s interest. He was stuck in a memory.

“It’s for the best, son.”
“But I don’t want to!”
“You have to. It’s what your mother would have wanted.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”

Yila tapped his shoulder subtly, and no one but Niarok would have noticed, but it was enough to snap him out his memory.

Vomit roiled in his stomach.

No. My past will not define me. I won’t let it define me.

Niarok hardened his face, washing all the emotions behind a wall, so that the only way to know what he was feeling would be to stare creepily into the depths of his eyes.

Most people didn’t do that. His eyes were too fierce.

Niarok forced all his emotions into a ball that he would deal with later, shoved it beneath the surface, and allowed emotion back into his face, turning to the boy.

“Look. I appreciate your offer. I actually do,” he added when the boy’s face took on an expression of extreme doubt mixed with an undertone of murderous intentions. “But there’s not much we can do. I don’t have Mirianweed, and as I’m sure you heard, I believe this castle is capable of accelerating healing.”

“Which, I know, is technically impossible. But that’s the only explanation for everything I’ve seen here. The only thing I can suggest is that you help me carry my sister until she can walk on her own. And later, if you’re really curious, I’ll give you a piece of paper with the functions of Mirianweed written on it.”

Niarok turned back forward, adjusting Yila’s arm on his shoulder.

A few minutes later there was a distant rumbling sound, and Niarok looked up. His torch popped again. It was down to a quarter.

“Anyone else thinking it might be time to rest?” he called.

Somewhere in his backpack he had food.

And somewhere else in his backpack, he had two of Yila’s throwing knives, which she was clearly itching to get back. She kept looking at her belt between stints of staring at the assassin.