Friend of my Frienemy [Max, Open]

[Tirael]

Dinner had ended almost an hour ago. Most of the Abbeydwellers had filtered up to the dormitories, but Tirael had returned on the pretext of having left 'uhh...something' downstairs. Secretly, he just wanted to see the room. Of course, he'd seen it plenty of times, but not like this: the way the ceiling seemed to disappear beyond the light of the torches, the occasional snap of fire being the only break in the silence. It was a nice contrast to the usual bright, crowded hullabaloo of dinner; all the loud interaction still put him off a little.

Footsteps behind him broke the spell, however: their reverberation caused him to wheel about in surprise. Upon seeing the source, he felt rather embarrassed, doing a rather poor job of covering it up with a gulp and a forced straight face. "What--er, what're you doing down here?" he blustered, negating any possibility that he wasn't flustered. Not that it would have mattered, anyway. This creature already knew him full well as a rather...flighty individual.

[Maxodis]

At this late hour, there were those who struggled with the task of drifting off to sleep, and in an effort to catch their elusive rest, counted. Numbers, stars, mice... the list went on. Redin Outmir counted heartbeats. He had to, his tormented mind couldn't focus on anything else long enough to make any progress. Not that counting his own heartbeat was much easier, it had been getting drastically weaker as of late.

But count he did.

He did not count with any illusions of eventually finding any sleep, nor did he count with any illusions that in some obscure fashion, through counting he would find relief. He was counting the weakened beats of his heart because without pain, without blood, he knew no other way to be sure he was still alive. Without counting the beats of his heart, he would be convinced that he had finally begun the start of the eternity of hell that he had more than earned for himself. But his heart was still beating, so he wasn't yet dead.

Indeed, he was somehow walking. Walking slowly, deliberately, an unevenly, but walking nonetheless. Hardly aware of much beyond counting, he'd unknowingly meandered into the room that the woodlanders(Well... they were abbeydwellers now, weren't they? How times had changed...) had renamed Great Hall. His amber eyes, long since dulled, failed to take in the grand room quite like it's other occupant had, much less the otter in question himself.

"What--er, what're you doing down here?"

The startled question was enough to cause the weasel to lose count and stagger. Unseeingly he grabbed for a chair beside him, holding onto it tightly with shaking claws as he struggled to maintain his balance. His appearance was wretched in the dying light, his fur matted and soiled, his muscular frame disturbingly thinned, the rows of his ribs showing clearly in the dim lighting. Having stabilized himself, he slowly looked up with sunken eyes rimmed with black, his hazy gaze fixing on Tirael. "I'm.... walkin'... 'tis 'ealthy.... prolly..."

[Tirael]

"I'm.... walkin'... 'tis 'ealthy.... prolly..."

For a moment, Tirael didn't believe he was looking at Redin. Something was clearly very, very wrong; nobeast aged twenty years in a few weeks unless there was. Even the weasel's voice sounded raspy, decayed. "It is if you're not sick," Tirael chided. Genuine concern had seeped into his voice. A change this pitiful was much more important than some argument with Sleet, and breaking a table certainly didn't warrant as bad a condition as this.

Moving slowly to where Redin stood, he took a closer look at the once-formidable creature. He looked almost like a ghost, and that thought of death disturbed the young otter. "It'd be healthier for you to rest. I'm sure Sleet's already told you that." He hadn't spent much time around the two of them, but she'd acted like a mother to him. A sarcastic, violent mother, but a caretaker nonetheless.

"Come on, let's get you to a bed," Tirael murmured. He had to resist the urge to take him by the arm and support him. Instead, he kept back a small distance; the ill had a nasty tendency to lash out, and he knew Redin had no problem becoming violent.

[Maxodis]

"It'd be healthier for you to rest. I'm sure Sleet's already told you that."

This inspired an abrasive snort from the weasel, his features twisting with sarcasm. Sleet hadn't been around to tell him anything: she'd been spending so much of her time outside the abbey's walls that it was a joke to believe she resided within them. He supposed he wasn't much surprised that Tirael had not noticed... as an assassin, being unseen was what she was best at. She'd even managed to teach Redin some of the art of evasiveness... but not enough to stagger around dangerously in the middle of the night, it would seem.

"Come on, let's get you to a bed,"

"No!"

Redin was taken aback by his abrupt shout, but not by the fear behind it. Scowling deeper and chiding himself sourly for reacting ridiculously to the healer's gentle manner, he cast his gaze to the ground and slowly lowered himself into the chair he was grasping onto. "No..." He repeated, in a softer tone. Leaning forward in the chair, he rubbed his worn eyes with a heavily scarred paw. "Y'don't unnerstan'.... couldn't poss'bly know, 'ow could ye?" He shook his head, falling silent for a moment. "No sleep."

He fell silent again, acutely aware that he was shaking all over and silently furious because of it. Redin was well aware that his endeavor would cost him, but not this much. Never this much. But then again... he deserved it for all he had done.

There they were again, the thoughts, the guilt, the anger, the dead oh all the dead voices thundering all around demanding

Blood.

"... N-no..."

He ripped his paw covering his eyes with the other, slamming back into the chair with a sharp gasp. He instantly clenched his paws tightly, bracing himself against the violent shuddering coursing through him. This was ridiculous. He was not weak. His harried gaze met the healer's once more, his eyes hardening with a spark of defiance. "I need.... I need ale... wine, lots o' it." His strength was fleeting at best, and he seemed to wither as soon as he'd finished speaking. His deep, ragged voice sounded almost pleading. "...Please..."

[Tirael]

"No!"

Tirael stepped back sharply; he'd suspected Redin would react poorly, but he couldn't help getting startled. 'No!' echoed all around Great Hall; the otter was certain more than one sleeping creature upstairs had woken with a start. Now the weasel was starting to babble, and Tirael figured it would be best to let him speak his piece. So he leveled his gaze, betraying little emotion and listening intently.

"No...Y'don't unnerstan'.... couldn't poss'bly know, 'ow could ye?" He shook his head, falling silent for a moment. "No sleep... N-no..."

Sleet must just like head-damaged creatures, Tirael thought. It was the only way to explain why she'd chosen to stick around Redin and himself; he didn't see much advantage for her to do so otherwise, particularly with how easily annoyed she was. Wait, he's talking again...

"I need.... I need ale... wine, lots o' it."

"No," Tirael said firmly. "I won't help you dig your own grave. If you want to die, so be it, but don't drag me into it. I don't want your blood on my paws." He hadn't killed yet, and he certainly wasn't starting with Redin.

[Maxodis]

"No, I won't help you dig your own grave. If you want to die, so be it, but don't drag me into it. I don't want your blood on my paws."

At this the Weasel barked a harsh laugh. "Die? Ha! Were it so bloody easy 'ealer." His mirth faded into a smoldering look of disgust. "I've been lookin' fer longer'n yew've been alive. B'lieve me, I searched long'n 'ard fer death... an' no bit o' drinkin' will bring 'im to me tonight, no matter th' torment I'm sufferin'..."

He trailed off, holding his face in his paws again for several long minutes as he listened to the rattling sound of his weakened breathing. Even as he was, the weasel could take a disturbing amount of alcohol. The only danger he was even mildly concerned with was drinking to the point that he would throw up what little food he'd managed to keep down. Alcohol was, although fleeting, his cure.

He looked up at the healer again. Redin had no idea where he would find what he sought, but the otter did. Like it or not he needed him. "Jes' a bit o' bloody scotch, Tir'el," he murmured. "Whiskey. Brandy. Wotever y'see first. I said please, an' damnit, I'll ask ye ag'in nicely.... but jes' one more time." He sat up in the chair, his eyes staying locked on Tirael's as they narrowed dangerously with a glimmer of his former viciousness. "Find me. Somet'in t'drink. Please."

[Tirael]

"Die? Ha! Were it so bloody easy 'ealer."

Tirael furrowed his brow. Honestly, some creatures had the most bizarre ways of looking at life. Death was easy. He had no doubt that Redin had plenty of opportunities to end it all; given his lifestyle, he figured it would be a much greater challenge for the weasel to live long enough to complain about how hard it was to die.

"I've been lookin' fer longer'n yew've been alive. B'lieve me, I searched long'n 'ard fer death... an' no bit o' drinkin' will bring 'im to me tonight, no matter th' torment I'm sufferin'..."

The otter shook his head slightly. This was ridiculous. Redin's life was clearly full of pain--nothing else would explain how he'd turned out--but half the creatures he'd ever known had suffered, too. Many had lost their entire families and had clung to life anyways. Those few that didn't, well...they didn't wait very long. Knowing all this, it seemed inconceivable to Tirael that a creature that apparently hungered for death would linger in life.

"Jes' a bit o' bloody scotch, Tir'el," he murmured. "Whiskey. Brandy. Wotever y'see first. I said please, an' damnit, I'll ask ye ag'in nicely.... but jes' one more time.

"Find me. Somet'in t'drink. Please."

After scrutinizing Redin's face for a moment, Tirael just replied, "I don't buy it." Raising his eyebrows, he said, "Call me crazy, but if you've wanted to die for seventeen years, you wouldn't have put so much effort into staying alive. Whatever you think you know, something is worth living for." He crossed his arms. "I'm not going to help you wallow in self-pity. Not until you figure out what that thing is, anyways."

[Maxodis]

The words were hardly out of the healer's mouth when Redin launched himself from his chair. Illness and torment faded in the span of a heartbeat, to be replaced by vigorous hate and rage. His tired features twisting into a mask of fury, his paws locked firmly around the young otter's neck as his flying leap took the both of them to the ground. He watched Tirael's eyes widen with shock and then pain, his paws clawing desperately at the weasel's vice-like grip. Slowly, the color began to drain from the otter's face, sharp little noises of his struggle to breathe drawing a slow grin across the weasel's features. The otter kicked and thrashed helplessly, even weakened the Weasel was far stronger than the healer. But Redin was weak no longer. In a single glorious moment, he had given in and...

The weasel blinked, snapping back into reality.

... and nothing had changed. There was no rage, no endless fountain from which to draw strength and hate from. There was no victory, no pleasant sensations gained from feeling the otter's life fading underneath the unforgiving crush of his paws. Nothing had changed.

His paws soon began their perpetual trembling, whatever strength he had briefly felt fading rapidly once more. Although nothing but a vision, the frenzied charge had been like water to a dying plant. It was what he craved. It was what he needed...

... No, the carnal feelings of satisfaction after taking a life were unnatural. It wasn't what he needed. There was another force at work... there always had been. How easy it was to lay the blame in another's actions? But at the same time, what other explanation could there be?

He held the resolute otter's gaze, attempting to ignore the soft beat of the young creature's heart as it pulsed in his neck. "... A'ight otter, yew win. I'll tell ye." He chuckled ruefully as he sat back straight in the chair, the grin on his face never masking the dangerous flare in his eyes. "But I gotta warn ya... there's alot t'tell... an' I got some conditions."

[Tirael]

"... A'ight otter, yew win. I'll tell ye."

Redin's surrender came as a surprise to the otter, who was quite unused to winning. But if he'd managed to get through to Redin of all creatures, he certainly wasn't going to complain. He was also rather curious about what this weasel truly cared enough about that he would put off his much-desired death for it. Please don't let it be about revenge, Tirael wished fervently. Please, let him be alive to do more than just kill.

"But I gotta warn ya... there's alot t'tell... an' I got some conditions."

"Conditions?" Tirael asked. That was a new one. "Uh...okay, what are they?" In retrospect, he would be a little amused by Redin announcing conditions--he was the one who'd decided he was going to tell the healer his secrets, anyways--but for now, he remained focused intently on the withered apparition seated before him.

[Maxodis]

"Conditions? Uh...okay, what are they?"

The false grin faded from Redin's features, leaving in its wake only the visage of a grimly determined soul. He raised a paw and made a loose fist as he began to speak. "One," he raised one finger of his paw in emphasis, his deep voice carrying as clearly as the single toll of a bell, dominating all other sound despite his soft tone. "I doan' gotta tell yew tha' wot I 'ave t'say... ain't gonna be pretty. Fer either o' us. I'll talk, but not wit'out drinkin' while doin' so." He narrowed his eyes meaningfully. "... Yew sure as 'ell are gonna need it. An' afore yew start goin' on 'bout how yer worried I'll drink m'self t'death or somethin' ridiculous as tha', I propose this: Yer gonna drink with me, at yer own pace." He chuckled softly. "T'will be a cold day in 'ell 'fore an otter c'n outdrink me, so th' only thing yew gotta worry 'bout is 'ow yer gonna feel t'morrow."

Again, his mild amusement faded into solemnity as he slowly raised a second finger. "Two. I 'ate bein' closed inside this bloody building. We're gonna take this outside an' find a nice quiet spot t'drink and speak privately. Doesn't 'ave t'be out in th' forest. Jes'..." He trailed off, his eyes losing focus for a long minute. "... Jes' out. I need some bloody fresh air."

"Three." His countenance blackened instantly as he leaned closer to Tirael, his lips curling back with a soft snarl. "If you ever speak a word o' wot I 'ave t'say tonight to any other soul... make no bloody mistake." His eyes hardened. "You'll be screamin' bloody murder 'fore I even begin with wot I'd do t'yew."

[Tirael]

Tirael grew more and more nervous as Redin outlined his 'conditions.' The alcohol in particular caught his attention, mostly because he was expected to drink it, as well. He'd never drunk much before--he didn't care for it--and he doubted he'd be able to handle the stuff well. Even in his current state, Redin had significantly more body mass than the otter, all the better for absorbing alcohol. He could probably drink Tirael under a table.

In his concern, he barely heard condition two (something about outside?), but he snapped back for the end of the speech:

"You'll be screamin' bloody murder 'fore I even begin with wot I'd do t'yew."

Of course, end it with a death threat, Tirael thought to himself. For a few moments, he debated with himself as to whether or not this was a good idea. But if it was the only way to keep Redin mindful of why he bothered to live, then it was too important to pass up. "Fine. Wait here, I'll go get your precious drink."

Grabbing a candle from the table, the otter stood and headed for the stairs. He passed through Cavern Hole, edged silently past the door to the kitchen, and crept down the stairs to the cellars. Rows of barrels, firkins, and dozens of other containers lined the shelves, and he was at a loss as to which one he should tap into. Holding his flickering light up to each scrawled label, he squinted and tried to read the faded, chipped writing. Eventually he realized it was pointless, though, and decided to just get a sample of whatever he opened first.

The first barrel he tapped, however, yielded only a dribble. Clearly, the vermin occupiers had nearly drunk the place dry. The second barrel he came to, however, allowed him to fill a sizable pitcher with an amber liquid he couldn't identify. All he knew was that it smelled strongly of alcohol, and...well, alcohol and something else. Try not to think about how old it is, he told himself. Grabbing a few blankets, he ascended the stairs as stealthily as he could.

"Here. Put this on, it just snowed and it'd be shame if you froze halfway through a sentence," he said, thrusting one of the blankets at Redin. Wrapping the other one about him like a cloak, he picked the pitcher back up and indicated the door. "After you." Or with you, if you need help walking.

[Maxodis]

"Fine. Wait here, I'll go get your precious drink."

The weasel's amber eyes stayed fixed aggressively on the otter even as the creature left to go procure the requested substance. His matted fur bristled as he watched Tirael go, though his anger was not directed at the healer. Not that the otter had shown any real fear, the healer clearly felt that Redin was no threat to him. A notion he would quickly discard if he knew what was good for hi-

No.

Redin shook his head, shutting his eyes tight in denial of the unwanted thoughts slipping into his mind again. The seductive voice was speaking to him again, soft and sensual as always, its venom thinly veiled behind is silken words that had always soothed him. There was no need for alcohol... no need for him to have come to this point. The otter was an easy enough target. He was young and full of vibrancy, still full of the childish innocence of youth... taking his life would be immeasurably satisfying. Especially after having refrained for so lon-

"No."

He realized he'd growled the single word to an empty room. The sound of his voice almost felt unfamiliar. Certainly, the deep, roughened tones coming from his mouth were his own... yet they sounded so foreign. Uttered in soft defiance... was that what he truly sounded like?

His thoughts were cut short with the reappearance of Tirael, well-laden with a number of things. He arched an eye at the younger creature as the otter balanced the nearly-full pitcher and an armful of blankets, catching the thickly-woven quilt as it was thrust at him.

"Here. Put this on, it just snowed and it'd be shame if you froze halfway through a sentence. After you."

A blanket. Redin felt the hot coals of his anger flare slightly in the pit of his core. A blanket for the cold? Did the otter truly think Redin to be so weak?

He hesitated for a moment to reconsider the scathing comment that hung on his tongue. He was weak... wasn't he? Any beast could tell that he was far from healthy just by his appearance. And had he not been stronger of mind, it was possible he wouldn't ever have given into the words in the first place, so many years ago...

He shook the quilt out with a dull snap before wrapping it around his broad shoulders. No reason to get ahead of himself with his thoughts, there would be opportunity enough to judge himself when he explained himself to the otter.

He rose, slower than he liked, and ignored the wrenching feeling screaming from every joint in his body. Not one bit of his pain translated onto his features, which remained sullen and grim as he slowly passed by the otter on the way to the door. Without looking, he reached out with a blanketed arm and scooped up a pair of brass cups left conveniently on one of the tables he passed. "C'mon then, otter... 'tis too soon fer yew t'be regrettin' yer decision."

((Bleh.))

[Tirael]

"C'mon then, otter... 'tis too soon fer yew t'be regrettin' yer decision."

Upon opening the main Abbey door, Tirael did not receive the gust of cold wind he expected. Instead, a chill drifted slowly through the opening into Great Hall; there was no wind. The moon shone brightly, making the snow glisten blue and white. A few small flakes, stragglers from earlier snowfall, continued to drift down and join the light on the ground. Once the otter closed the door, the world felt muted, calm. What sounds he did hear--the crunch of footpaws in the snow, his and Redin's breathing--were crisp.

Together, otter and weasel trudged slowly in the direction of the pond. A few lights still shone from the Abbey's windows, but Tirael could see no silhouettes in them; nobody was watching. Might as well start now, he thought to himself. Breathing a sigh that turned to mist before him, he said simply, "So."

[[You bleh? Me bleh.]]

[Maxodis]

It was indeed a serene night. Save for the few stray snowflakes drifting lazily from the sky, there was absolutely no movement. The scene may as well be an elaborate painting. No signs of life were apparent, no traces of natural vibrancy. As far as the eye could see, nothing grew. It was a landscape devoid of life, branches bleached white by snow only barren husks of previous health.

It was also cold. Very very cold.

A lifetime of getting around on his bare footpaws, thirty winters previously endured without complaint... and just now he noticed the sharp knives of frost twisting up his already tortured legs. It was only through pure force of will that Redin was even walking, it should not have come as a surprise to him to find that enduring the biting cold of snow would push his pain tolerance farther than he was accustomed to. What took him back the most was that he'd noticed the cold at all. The weasel had never really noticed cold; rather he was aware that certain temperatures caused him pain. Pain could be endured, shut away, ignored. To feel cold was to not only feel its pain but also feel the body's powerful urges to bring itself back up to a comfortable warmth. The pain was a simple matter to get around. Feeling cold was not.

But why now? The weasel could hardly remember when he'd last been able to recognize cold, before he learned to shut it out. Why had he so suddenly lost the ability? More questions, more mysteries. He reflexively tugged the quilt tighter around his ravaged body. Answers would make themselves apparent when they were ready. He would endure the cold until then.

Coming out of his thoughts, he found himself near the Abbey pond. It hadn't been quite long enough for the entire surface to freeze over. The otter slowed, his soft sigh streaming out in a long cloud before him.

"So."

"So..." The Weasel repeated, coming to a halt beside the healer. He was silent for a time, his shallow breaths flaring before him as he considered where to begin. Sure, the otter had been adamant in refusing to help until he'd heard what reason Redin had to continue living. That was not an easy answer to give, particularly since he wasn't entirely certain himself. Was he really trying to convince the healer, or was he just trying to convince himself? One way to find out.

He glanced around, and upon finding an old water bucket half-buried in the snow, flipped it upside down and used it as a seat. Holding the two brass cups loosely in one paw, he gestured at Tirael to come closer. "So 'fore I get started, tell me 'onestly otter... why dossit matter t'yew wot reason I got t'live? I c'n only imagine wot y'think o' me, wouldn't it be less o' a burden fer one such as me t'jes'..." He made a wavy gesture with his paw. "... disappear?"

[Tirael]

"So..."

Redin lapsed into silence, glancing around for something to sit on. Once the weasel had found his perch, Tirael followed suit, seating himself on a small rock. Several moments drifted by as the pair sat, and thought, and waited.

Though the whole situation was too serene for the otter to feel any bursts of emotion, he decided he was surprised at how calm Redin seemed, as well. He'd seen the weasel act calm the first morning he'd been at Redwall, but that had only been until Sleet had awoken and began the chaos. As much as they seemed to (unwillingly) care about each other, it was clear they were horrible influences on one another; they were always at their angriest around each other, or at least, it appeared that way.

"So 'fore I get started, tell me 'onestly otter... why dossit matter t'yew wot reason I got t'live? I c'n only imagine wot y'think o' me, wouldn't it be less o' a burden fer one such as me t'jes'..." He made a wavy gesture with his paw. "... disappear?"

It was a good question. Furrowing his brow slightly, Tirael spent a few moments of his own to try and figure it out. "Well...it would be convenient. I won't lie about that," he finally admitted. "Having you around isn't exactly easy...but less of a burden?...no." Staring at the half-frozen pond, he continued. "We get one chance at life," he said, sweeping his paw about to gesture at everything around them. "And...I know you think I'm naive. I probably am. But I lived in a warzone, and all that time...so many lives were just...ended. On both sides."

Transferring his gaze to the snow between his footpaws, he spoke more softly. "They can't get life back. You--you still have it. And before you decide it's not worth it anymore, I want you to remind yourself why you've bothered with it this whole time." Finally looking back at Redin, he murmured, "Death isn't going anywhere. Don't abandon life without knowing what you're going to lose."