Young Writers Society

Utrid was gone for a very long time. When he returned, he was nursing a bloody lip.
"His attention will be turned to us," he said grimly. "Sooner than before. Once he finds that assassin he'll blame Loquitur, Loquitur will say he had nothing to do with it--which he didn't--and both their eyes will turn to us and we'll be done for. Godsdammit!" He kicked the desk. "Godsdammit, we're going to lose!"

Good.

Pratik had been searching for a secret lever to get to whatever hole Utrid had been creeping out of when he discovered Pratik in the first place. He was pretty sure he'd found it. But he wasn't going to check, until he was reasonably certain that he'd have time with Tarr and Utrid elsewhere.

Which he wasn't, currently.

Almost as on cue, Utrid burst in with his temper tantrum.

Pratik, on the other hand, had calmed himself. He was back to his icy venom rather than hot rage. It was better -- safer for him, since he could control it; and far more dangerous for others, for exactly the same reason.

He crossed his arms and passively watched Utrid.

"The girl," Utrid snapped. "He's almost finished with her. He likes to brag; find out what you can from her--the name of the assassin, if he mentioned it, anything you can. Do you hear? Anything. Talk to her."

Pratik inclined his head solemnly. "Yes, sir."

He'd been planning to go find the girl later, anyway -- not to wring her for information, but to comfort her as much as possible. He'd have to be careful. He was safe; but she couldn't know that. He had a cock. He was just as capable of hurting her as Tarr, and he needed to be sensitive to the fact that she was going to be skittish around him.

Still, he was going to see if she'd allow herself to be comforted by him. And if he found out more information in the process, then, well, good. But he wasn't going to hold his breath. Wasn't that the girl that didn't speak the language spoken in this region? She probably didn't have a single idea what was happening. Poor girl.

Utrid busied himself rooting around in Tarr's desk, muttering frantically to himself.

(Is it the same girl that only spoke an obscure language? Nortung? I can't remember the right names haha but I remember we had Pratik talk to a girl that couldn't communicate with anyone else -- or is it someone else?)

Pratik strode from the room coolly, walking down the hall calmly. He needed to go slowly enough he didn't see Tarr in the act. He'd cave his fucking skull in on sight if that happened. No. He needed to do damage control; not take the offense. Not yet.

(Same girl! She speaks Akarataran dialect, from the Southern Realm.)

Tarr exited his room a few minutes later and headed back in the direction of his study, certainly looking calmer than before. The girl remained in his bedroom, curled tightly into a ball on the bed.

(ooh okay cool!)

Pratik had made it when the door was closed, so he intentionally strode down the hall that Tarr wouldn't walk past when he left. Pratik's fingernails dug into his palms, jaw clenched, but he forced himself to glare at the floor rather than look at Tarr as he walked away. It'd be too tempting to go after him if he watched him go.

Pratik waited until Tarr was out of sight, then slipped into his bedroom. He stopped just inside the door, assessing the situation before he made any move.

The girl curled tighter in on herself when she heard someone else come in, and she shut her eyes.
"Leave me alone," she sniffed, speaking in Akarataran. "Leave me alone, for God's sake!"

"It's me," Pratik murmured, shutting the door behind himself, but not taking even a single step towards the bed. "I won't hurt you. I swear it on the altar of the gods, I won't."

(I gotta sleep now. Goodnight!)

She shifted very gingerly to look over her shoulder, then dragged herself upright and pulled the fur blankets up over her chest. "What do you want?" she demanded, voice shaking with sobs. Her face was streaked with tears in the candlelight, and there was a scratch on one of her arms. "You aren't the apothecary. What do you want?"

(Night!)

His throat constricted, but he forced his expression to be gentle. This girl needed his gentleness, not his rage. That was for Tarr. He had to compartmentalize. To be fully in the moment here with this girl as her friend, not her avenger.

What did he want?

A time machine, that's what. To turn it back in time so he could go and kill Tarr and not have to look into the eyes of the girl he could have rescued, but didn't.

"To see what you need," he said softly. He took a few steps into the room -- making sure he walked away from the bed with each stride, giving her more space. He sat on the edge of one of the seats and folded his arms in his lap, leaning forward slightly -- looking as entirely passive and harmless as he could possibly manage.

He couldn't change his physique. Couldn't change his sex.

But he was doing every last thing he could to seem the least threatening as was humanly possible.

"I can't imagine what you just went through," he murmured gently, looking past her head instead of directly at her, so she wouldn't have to feel his eyes on her. "I can't stop that bastard from doing whatever the fuck he wants, but by the gods above no one else is going to touch you tonight. I guarantee it."

She opened her mouth to reply, and for a moment pure anger flashed through her gaunt face. Then she dissolved into tears once more, burying her face in the soft pillows to muffle a broken wail. Her shoulders shook; she seemed to be trying to get herself under control even as she was crying, but to no avail.

Pratik took a deep breath and then let it out slowly.

This was one of the exceedingly rare times he wished he was a woman. That he’d be able to go up to her and give her the hug and reassurance she so desperately needed.

But he wasn’t. And he couldn’t.

This was so painful to watch. But he had to be patient.

Eventually the girl calmed and grew silent. There was a long pause wherein only her breathing could be heard, and then she rolled over to face Pratik. "What do you want?" she asked again, voice hoarse. "If you're not here for, for scraps, then what do you want from me? I have nothing left to give."