Stay

[Bjorn]

Bjorn sheathes his sword, and then takes up the manacle, leading Breke back to his rooms in silence.

[Brian]

It's the same, slow, shuffling steps, even slower on inclines.  When you return to Breke's room, he walks over to his chair, frowns at it, and then kicks it to one side, moving around the table and taking a different chair instead.  This is the one that would face the entrance.  "The chair fell over," he notes.

[Bjorn]

"Yes," Bjorn says, "it did."

He shuts the door behind him, but makes no movement towards the table.  Instead, he studies Breke carefully, watching the erratic, wandering movements of his eyes.  The, abruptly, he asks, "Why?"

[Brian]

"Probably because I knocked it over," Breke replies indifferently, his fingertips tapping the table.

A servant enters the room, unbidden, and bearing a small tray.  She puts the place precisely in the center of the circle carved in the table, a large flagon to one side, and a knife suitable for eating off of on the plate.  She hesitates, and asks, "Anything else?"

Breke shakes his head.  "That will do," he says distantly, as though his mind were elsewhere.

The girl nods, and turns to you.  "Anything for yourself?" she asks.

[Bjorn]

"No, thank you, mistress," Bjorn says, respectfully.

When the servant has left the room, Bjorn resumes his study of Breke.  Without acknowledging Breke's last statement, he continues, in the same even tone, "You're blind, aren't you?  And right now, my instincts tell me that you're unwary, and that I could kill you without effort -- and at the same time, they tell me that you're dangerous, and I haven't a chance of beating you without dying myself."  His eyes narrow.  "You're cuffed like a criminal, but they don't seem to do the least bit to slow you down when you fight.

"So.  Why?"

[Brian]

Breke stiffens, and lowers his head.  "Most would assume madness before blindness," he says quietly.  "A warrior can't be blind ... you should know that.  They must be whole in body and spirit.

"Nothing about the mind, though."  He snorts, and shakes his head.  "I can tell where you are, still standing next to the door, fingers twitching like you've got to be ready to unsheath that crowbar you call a sword at a heartbeat's notice.  I can tell that.  And I could tell when the other men grew nervous of my obvious blindness.

"And I know where that circle is," he says, pointing at the circle carved in the table.  "I've learned that.  But I can't ... don't have the time or subtlety to learn where every door is.  Where stairs and walls are.

"You serve Hamar ... but I've actually met him.  'Power,' I said.  'I desire power.  I'll give anything for mastery of a the blade, and the art of killing.'  And he said ... 'Give me your eyes, that have gazed upon me, and I shall give you the tools to do as you wish, made by my brother, those ages ago.'  Then he gave me these swords, which I've never seen, and my sight has never worked since.

"When I was younger ... much younger ... those I'd hired to keep my secret and help my goal of mastering the blade ... they tried many other things.  But the ploy that always worked best was to simply pretend to be a madman, a genius of killing with no social graces.

"Stumbling, not looking anyone in the eyes ... this is fine for madmen.  And if they got the job done right, then so much the better.  It was a fine thing.

"And then a letter came from Lord Kevin.  And he said that there would be an exchange of money for my services.  We thought this was a fine thing, my assistants and I, and so we left.

"But ... we were attacked.  They couldn't touch me, no.  If they tried, they'd be slain, and that would be that.

"But they found another way to cripple me anew regardless."

He shrugs, and his fingertips find the tankard, pulling it in front of him.

[Bjorn]

"So."  Bjorn makes his way over to the table, righting the fallen chair and sitting himself down in it.  "You bargained away your sight to attain an unnatural mastery.  Rather than taking pride in your dealings with Hamar, you hide what you've done with those chains and a pretense of madness.  Whatever has been helping the Dreadmarch killed all your assistants, and so now you need a new seeing eye to guide you."  He adjusts the hang of his scabbard to make himself a little more comfortable.  "Is that about right?"

[Brian]

He nods, taking a sip from his drink.  "About right," he agrees.

[Bjorn]

Bjorn drums his fingers on the table top, a single staccato flan.  "Well, then," he says, "what have you got to offer?"

[Brian]

he considers this for a moment, then says, "You're a slave to the church.  Someone with money could buy your freedom."

[Bjorn]

"And?"  Bjorn asks, indifferently.  "At this time, that's far from being particularly important to me.  My freedom won't mean much if the Dreadmarch wins.  Besides," he shrugs, "an exchange of one servitude for another doesn't offer much."

His lips quirk.  "Perhaps I should rephrase the situation.  You traded with Hamar, your sight for your skill.  If I were to act as your guide, Hamar would be giving you back a portion of your sight.  What will you offer in turn?"

[Brian]

"I've got exactly one thing that's not money, and that's the swords," Breke replies dryly.  "Those, I keep until I die, unless you're willing to give me YOUR sight for them."

[Bjorn]

"No," Bjorn disagrees, "you have at least one more thing.  Your skill.  The swords are meaningless unless they're used.  And I suspect that not all your ability comes from the swords themselves?"

[Brian]

Breke purses his lips.  "Is that what you're after?" he asks, frowning.  "Fine.  I'll teach you how to fight without relying on your eyes.  Is that what you're looking for?  I think you know how to handle a sword well enough as it is ... and you'll get better in time.  I did.  But fighting without using your eyes...."

[Bjorn]

"No, it's not what I'm after," Bjorn says.  He leans forward, and his voice becomes intent.  "The Dreadmarch will be no laughing matter this time.  They've struck hard, and come close to winning the war before the seige has even become.  Nothing matters, beside that.  What I want, then, is for you to fight.  Not for money, not for glory.  You'll fight the Dreadmarch, and your only thought will be its defeat.  That is my price.  If you fight for Hamar here, I will be your eyes."