It was in the dark of night within his quarters that Berrod Armstrong awoke suddenly. He sat up sharply, already drenched with sweat as the sheets fell away from his upper body. There was no one else on the bed with him tonight. Caden was on the mend in the infirmary, and it was Caleb's turn to watch over his injured twin.Â
If he'd just had a nightmare, he didn't remember it. It had to have been a terrible one, it felt like his heart wanted to burst out of his chest, and sweat -still- ran fresh from his skin. Unease surrounded him, and a wave of nausea wrenched at his gut. He leaned over the side of the bed to throw up, but nothing came out save a series of painful dry-heaves. Those alone made him shiver.Â
"Yer a piss poor sight, Armstrong."Â
The voice was familiar, but not at all one he expected to find in his bedchamber. "...Osric?"
"That's Master Melkire to you, Armstrong. Don't forget yer place." Out of the darkness at the foot of the bed he emerged. The shorter Midlander bore his trademark smirk, and was dressed in the wares he had been in during their last spar. There was something wrong with his eyes, but Berrod couldn't place it. The moment he spoke, however, the Highlander felt a sharp pain in his knees.
"What the hells're you doin' in here? Somethin' goin' on?"
"Jus' came to wrap things up, Armstrong. Here." He flung several sheets of paper onto the bed. Each one of them was covered in spatters of blood. "I wrote up on the dark seven. Read it. Learn it. See if you can put yerself to any use with 'em an' come somewhere close to where I'm at."
Berrod's thighs suddenly cramped, in tandem with another shooting pain in his knees. He bent forward to clamp his hands on the sheets covering his legs. A wave of anger heated his ears and neck as he glared at the Midlander. What the hells was wrong with his eyes?Â
"You got some nerve comin' in here to tell me that, Melkire," he spat. "Don't get cocky 'cause ya knew somethin' I didn't. I'm stronger, an' I'm gonna be fer a while yet."
The words were uncharacteristic of him, as he believed in showing strength, not telling of  it. Still...the thought, the sentiment behind them was truth. "Yer below me. I told ya ta break the mountain down, but ya can't. I'm better than ya, scrawny Midder piece o'shite. Stay under my foot. Rather kill ya than have ya grow stronger than a true son!"
It was surprisingly easy and comfortable, the way the venom flowed from his mouth. "Smirkin' like that, hidin' knowledge from me like a gods damned sneak after I told ya everythin' I know. I can't stand ya. Get outta my sight."
There was that very smirk on on Melkire's lips -- it stretched into a wide, relishing grin. It -- it seemed like his eyes widened but Berrod couldn't tell. It was something about the murky dark that made them difficult to properly discern. "That how ya really feel Armstrong?"
The envy and hatred were wound as a tight knot in his chest -- but they were an even sicklier abscess of sensation in his knees. "...Yeah."
"Then you know what you gotta do, durin' the next fight."
"Kill ya."
"That's right, Armstrong. No man's gonna take what you got. No man's allowed ta be better'n you. Not even me. Especially not me. Take care o'that, will ya? Make it look like a accident, even."
"Yeah."
"Come again?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good..."
As Melkire turned to leave the room, Berrod finally figured out what had been wrong with the Midlander's eyes.
He didn't have any.
If he'd just had a nightmare, he didn't remember it. It had to have been a terrible one, it felt like his heart wanted to burst out of his chest, and sweat -still- ran fresh from his skin. Unease surrounded him, and a wave of nausea wrenched at his gut. He leaned over the side of the bed to throw up, but nothing came out save a series of painful dry-heaves. Those alone made him shiver.Â
"Yer a piss poor sight, Armstrong."Â
The voice was familiar, but not at all one he expected to find in his bedchamber. "...Osric?"
"That's Master Melkire to you, Armstrong. Don't forget yer place." Out of the darkness at the foot of the bed he emerged. The shorter Midlander bore his trademark smirk, and was dressed in the wares he had been in during their last spar. There was something wrong with his eyes, but Berrod couldn't place it. The moment he spoke, however, the Highlander felt a sharp pain in his knees.
"What the hells're you doin' in here? Somethin' goin' on?"
"Jus' came to wrap things up, Armstrong. Here." He flung several sheets of paper onto the bed. Each one of them was covered in spatters of blood. "I wrote up on the dark seven. Read it. Learn it. See if you can put yerself to any use with 'em an' come somewhere close to where I'm at."
Berrod's thighs suddenly cramped, in tandem with another shooting pain in his knees. He bent forward to clamp his hands on the sheets covering his legs. A wave of anger heated his ears and neck as he glared at the Midlander. What the hells was wrong with his eyes?Â
"You got some nerve comin' in here to tell me that, Melkire," he spat. "Don't get cocky 'cause ya knew somethin' I didn't. I'm stronger, an' I'm gonna be fer a while yet."
The words were uncharacteristic of him, as he believed in showing strength, not telling of  it. Still...the thought, the sentiment behind them was truth. "Yer below me. I told ya ta break the mountain down, but ya can't. I'm better than ya, scrawny Midder piece o'shite. Stay under my foot. Rather kill ya than have ya grow stronger than a true son!"
It was surprisingly easy and comfortable, the way the venom flowed from his mouth. "Smirkin' like that, hidin' knowledge from me like a gods damned sneak after I told ya everythin' I know. I can't stand ya. Get outta my sight."
There was that very smirk on on Melkire's lips -- it stretched into a wide, relishing grin. It -- it seemed like his eyes widened but Berrod couldn't tell. It was something about the murky dark that made them difficult to properly discern. "That how ya really feel Armstrong?"
The envy and hatred were wound as a tight knot in his chest -- but they were an even sicklier abscess of sensation in his knees. "...Yeah."
"Then you know what you gotta do, durin' the next fight."
"Kill ya."
"That's right, Armstrong. No man's gonna take what you got. No man's allowed ta be better'n you. Not even me. Especially not me. Take care o'that, will ya? Make it look like a accident, even."
"Yeah."
"Come again?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good..."
As Melkire turned to leave the room, Berrod finally figured out what had been wrong with the Midlander's eyes.
He didn't have any.
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