Chapter Text
Westron wind, when will thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, if my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again.
―Western Wind, c. 1530
Fog hung listless in the branches of the trees, unwilling to loosen its death grip on the landscape. The leaves had lost most of their autumnal brilliance in the lateness of the season, instead turning brown and shriveled like small roosting bats. The grey sky met the grey air in a grey embrace, creating a dumpy bluish color that made everything cold and rather miserable looking overall. It was dim too, maybe a handful of hours left before full dark. The weather had been a steady drizzling rain off and on for nearly a week now, clamming the air and freezing his fingers, and it didn't look like it was going to quit anytime soon, much to Lyndon's ongoing displeasure. He hated being wet unless he was swimming, and it certainly wasn't warm enough for that. Or if he was taking a bath, and well, that was a luxury he highly doubted he'd be indulging in anytime soon.
They―Lyndon and Jack―were in Khanduras again, trudging their not-so-merry way through the desolate bit of moorland southeast of Tristram on the fast track to Westmarch, and Lyndon was fairly certain that most of the local dirty-faced, sheep-shagging peasantry didn't believe in bathing.
Lyndon thought fondly of Kingsport's contrasting vibrancy in times like these; burst free from her borders for over a year now, and yet red, gold, burnt orange and the blue, blue of the sea whipped through his memory like the pennants bearing the city's crest; beach roses and crossed swords. Beauty and Finesse. Not like here. Not like here at all. They'd even missed the nice red and orange leaves, like they'd missed every pleasant season, always moving from one miserable extreme to the next. Ahh, typical north country, where all the pretty colors went to die.
Or dye. Ha.
The path dipped down and a crumbling rock wall, likely as ancient as the land itself, rose up along their left, then higher still as they skirted the base of a steep hill. Mossy boulders lay scattered among the trees like lost marbles, massive shadowy shapes looming in the gloom. Lyndon frowned as his boots squelched unpleasantly through the mud―it was going to take forever to get the filth out of the suede. Knowing his luck, his favourite pair of footwear (nicked from a drifter with conveniently same sized feet) would likely never be the same.
Some panicked sounding twit with very pretty handwriting had sent an anonymous letter by a fat carrier pigeon, claiming that there was some kind of nastiness brewing in Westmarch's large capitol that shared its moniker. Probably a group of women starved Templars gone off the rocker. Lyndon laughed to himself at that. What terrible trouble could there possibly be if all the great demon lords were dead?
Speaking of women-starved, Lyndon was pretty sure he was going to waste away and die out here if he didn't find a pretty girl or something soon. He hadn't scratched that particular itch since those two barmaids in Lut Gholein, and a handful of sad evenings with Rosy Palm and her five sisters could only take the edge off for so long. But eugh, bloody Westmarch though, where all the city's elite looked down their noses at anyone with a distinctly Kingsport tongue. Even one as smooth and cultured and noble as he'd forced his to be. The amount of personal effort and charm he'd needed to put forth in order to get women interested enough to actually sleep with him in that wretched city had been staggering. Frankly, he deserved a fucking medal. What a summer. Dark haired and sour-faced, the lot of them. Like Jacky was, and Lyndon wondered briefly if he were a native or had some relation. Regardless, he certainly couldn't wait to pay that stuffy little snob-hole another visit. Not.
“Do you know what happened the last time I was in Westmarch?” Lyndon asked the Demon Hunter as airily as he could manage whilst they rounded a bend in their path to discover― yet more foggy forest! Would wonders never cease?
Jack didn't even glance back at him to answer, which Lyndon found rather rude. “Yes. You were assaulted by several women. You've mentioned this before,” the hunter replied, about as friendly as a rotted log and all the bugs and newts beneath it.
“Several naked and angry women,” Lyndon amended helpfully, stepping carefully over a large tree root. Wouldn't want a repeat of yesterday when he'd tripped and face planted in the mud. “And who's fault was that, do you think?” he prodded.
“Yours, I assume.”
“Uh, wrong!” Lyndon shot back. “If Mariella hadn't tattled on me to all her little girlfriends then that whole mess would have been avoided!”
Jack turned to look at him then, his face a mask of that half-bored, half-serious expression he always had planted there. In the low light he also looked a little bit angry, but then again he sort of always did. His eyes were piercing―very, very blue, Lyndon noticed, but maybe that was just a trick of the light too.
"Maybe you shouldn't have given her a reason to," Jack lectured like a tired parent. "Maybe you should have thought a bit harder about it before you decided to sleep around." It was the most he'd said all day. He studied the dark misty trees flanking their path for several moments as if in contemplation before releasing a tired sounding sigh, “... Please don't tell me things like this, Lyndon.”
Yeah, like you would know anything about it you fucking tit, Lyndon thought nastily, reminding himself that the Demon Hunter with his grim black cloak, and his grim black armor, and his grim black hair, had probably never even once kissed a girl in his entire stupid, grim black life. Prick.
"Mmm, maybe maybe." Lyndon drawled, amused. "What I'm saying is," he pressed after a pause, skipping ahead, "is that I probably shouldn't be going back there for a while...” He finished with nervous, halted laughter. “Really, must we bother going all the way there?”
“You can go wherever you like. I'm not your keeper.” He replied, and well, that made it sound like he didn't give a tinker's damn if Lyndon was here with him or not!
“But since there isn't much else for us to do currently besides make our trip to Kingsport, it can't hurt to pay a visit. Adria could be anywhere,” Jack finished rather curtly, dismissing Lyndon's concerns.
“Fine, whatever.” Lyndon sulked, then kicked a loose stone, watching it bounce off the path and disappear into the mist. It probably would hurt to pay Westmarch a visit actually, and he had a pretty good idea of just who was going to end up with the most bruises. Definitely not Jack, because he wasn't already in trouble with the royal bloody guard. If Lyndon looked hard enough, he'd probably still be able to find a poor representation of his devastatingly handsome visage slapped onto a wanted poster somewhere. They didn't say "Dead or Alive" on them yet, last time he checked. Small mercies.
He doubted that 'hero by proxy' would be enough to protect him this time. He was just in far too much trouble on this side of the world to slip by unnoticed. Especially with all the attention the Demon Hunter tended to draw.
Though, he doubted that Jack would ever truly allow him to get arrested and thrown into prison. He wouldn't, right? Maybe if the hunter knew about all the rotten things he'd done (you know, the usual theft and murder written in the finer details of his previous profession), maybe he would let him get arrested. Might even lock him up and throw away the key himself.
Shit.
Lyndon stayed quiet after that, feelings more than a little bit hurt, and feeling more than a little bit apprehensive about what might or might not happen. Not that Jack cared, because he didn't care about anything except killing demons and being an ornery arse about it. Prick.
Speaking of arse, at least Jack had an incomparable one. Those dark leather trousers he wore hugged every curve, practically painted on him. Definitely a ten. He'd seen shabbier behinds on far prettier ladies, and Lyndon considered himself a connoisseur. Small mercies indeed. Ha. It was the little things that kept him going these days. Not that he'd been looking, mind you. And besides, even if he had, there wasn't any harm in just looking now was there? Ahh, but he could almost hear Eirena admonishing him in her cute accent now, “the way you look, there is.”
Really, someone who was such a raging son of a bitch (emphasis on the raging) shouldn't be in possession of such a pleasing asset (ha!). It was wasted on him.
Lyndon glared rather sullenly at the back of Jack's hood-covered head for what was probably a good mile, hoping he could somehow burn a hole right through the fabric― until he'd nearly tripped over his own feet and gone face-first into the leafy sludge. Again. He hoped it would get dark soon. If only so he could stop and have a well-deserved rest.
The wall that followed them gradually fell away, leaving little else but pebbles to spill into the empty path. It wasn't a narrow path Lyndon noted, perhaps a long forgotten carriage road, present on only the oldest of maps. The wood of the trees looked slimy in the dim fog. Somewhere in the mist, an owl trilled like the soft whinny of a lost horse. Or some sad ghost. Creepy country. Everything was just wet and creepy and disgusting looking. And ahh, of course, he thought sourly, wiping cold moisture from his nose and moustache (his nose was running), musn't forget the cherry that topped this little evening stroll: the dreadful bloody rain!
The Demon Hunter didn't seem to care about that either. He probably fucking loved it, the prick. Lyndon sighed, and tried not to pine too hard for Caldeum's rather pleasant late autumn weather that they'd recently left behind. Arriving back in the great desert city after being in cold Mt. Arreat and Bastion's Keep for so long had been absolutely spectacular. Lyndon had enjoyed every single second of sunbathing, treasure hunting, and swiving. Apparently, there had still been lots to do there: demon hordes skulking about, cultists continuing their awful ways, and monsters crawling around everywhere. It was easy for them to swoop in and make a little extra coin on the side from the desperate Iron Wolves who were once again in charge of protecting the city. There were bounties to claim from one corner of the desert to the other, but the Wolves had neither the time nor the manpower to attend to them. That was where he and Jack came in.
It was a marvelous system, truly. Lyndon could still turn a tremendous profit from the bounties and looted treasure, fund his little indulgences, and save up gold to pay his brother's way to freedom. And if a significant chunk of coin found its way to his brother's family? Then that was all well and good. Oh, also that convenient bit about avoiding arrest simply by being associated with the Demon Hunter, that had been nice too.
Jack of course could continue hunting and killing his most favorite prey, keeping himself busy and properly grumpy. Their widespread travels gave them the golden opportunity to tell every person they could safely trust, from one corner of Sanctuary to the other, to keep their eyes peeled and contact them if they saw anything or heard something about that dreadful witch Adria.
Adria.
Lyndon supposed that finding out where she'd promptly fucked off to after sacrificing her daughter to the Lord of Terror was the real goal behind all their little adventures. Dreadful fucking wench. He didn't dare ask Jack about her, the man was pissy enough as it was without having to speak of Adria in any great capacity. And truthfully, Lyndon really didn't even want to know, he just wanted to thrust a dagger into her eye and call things even. And as Jack had said, she really could be anywhere by now.
Ah, Leah. The poor girl. He really missed her, but it was probably best not to think of such things now. Or ever again.
=+=+=+=+=
Yep, Lyndon was pretty sure he was going to fucking die out here, and boredom was going to be what finally did him in. 'Bored to Death' it would perhaps read on his tombstone. 'RIP Lyndon: Very Handsome and Wrongfully Slain by Ennui.' Better, much better. He hoped Jack would be a good enough sport to take the time to carve his epitaph on a wooden cross or something. It was the least the Hunter could do for doing this to him.
When they'd decided to cross the narrow Twin Seas again to make their way to Westmarch, they'd unfortunately left Kormac and Eirena behind. Stuck here in the rain with Jack's nearly silent, sour company, Lyndon found that he missed them both rather fiercely.
Eirena had wanted to study magic in the Caldeum Library or some such thing. Try to find some creepy wizard willing to speak with her and help her learn to magic things into chickens faster or whatnot. Maybe she'd learn to turn things into other animals. Maybe kittens. That'd be much better. Kormac, of course, had mentioned that Eirena might need his protection and insisted on staying with her.
How honorable of him, Lyndon thought. That Templar was getting much bolder, he might even try to hold her hand next. Pffha!
Imagine Lyndon's surprise when Eirena actually agreed to let that miserable wet blanket accompany her. Dear Eirena was quite capable of taking care of her own sweet self, but Lyndon had definitely seen stranger things. Though, he imagined the poor girl had likely been bored to tears by now, listening to all of Kormac's sad drivel. That is if she could glean even a single fucking word from his pathetically sheepish mumbling. What a joke.
Jack had sent a message out to them a bit ago with the raven that sometimes followed them. Lyndon wasn't sure if it was some kind of pet or something but Jack fed it sometimes and it allowed him to touch it, so it probably was. How would that thing even reach Caldeum anyway? Would it fly over the ocean? Stow away on a ship? Whatever, he didn't care. The message told Kormac and Eirena to meet them in Westmarch in a few weeks' time, and the date was already fast approaching. The more he thought about it, the more Lyndon warmed to the idea of visiting the capitol. There would be good company, and it was better to visit there, he reasoned, than dive headfirst into the marvelous disaster he was expecting in Kingsport.
Really, he didn't mind putting it off, he was anxious enough about it as it was. The Thieves Guild would be out in force to kill him when they finally arrived in Kingsport, certainly, but hey! What were some ragged, slow-witted vagabonds in comparison to the denizens of the Burning Hells? Just about nothing really! And Lyndon had gotten better. Stronger. The larger part of a year spent killing nasty little creatures and their bigger, infinitely scarier siblings had made him much more skilled than he used to be. Most every thick-skulled nobody in the Guild could barely scrape enough brains together to complete even the simplest of jobs anyway. Lyndon was confident that he could at least outsmart them, and knowing all their tricks certainly helped. And Jack would be there, making sure he didn't get quietly murdered. Really, It wasn't like he was afraid to face Edlin or Rea again, he wasn't worried at all!
Frowning, Lyndon sniffed and wiped a bit of moisture off the end of his nose again, hitching his pack up a bit higher on his aching shoulders. Well... perhaps he was just a little bit worried. He'd made a lot of people very, very angry. One of his many talents. His brother probably hated him right now, and he knew Rea did. Why else wouldn't she answer his letters? He supposed they'd cross that bridge when they came to it (and then burn said bridge immediately after with lots and lots of fire, please and thank you). Sometimes he wondered how his friends Mousie and Markus were doing. Wondered if they missed him, thought he was dead, what have you. Mostly he thought about Edlin.
But really, he didn't want to think about any of those things right now anyway. It always made him feel like garbage.
Lyndon's mind whirred, struggling to hit upon some other roving thought to distract himself. Jack had been ignoring him for a while now, it had to have been at least an hour. Hm hm hm.
“I'm tired.” Lyndon whined rather petulantly, hoping for a small scrap of something. Even an argument would be better than just.... silence.
“We'll stop at sundown and make camp. As we've done every evening for the past months, if you recall,” Jack answered crisply.
“Well... alright.” Lyndon didn't really have a retort for that, it was hard to keep a quick wit when one's travel companion lingered in a mood vile enough to make you feel guilty for even existing.
But then again... that just made it all the more fun to antagonize him. Lyndon waited a moment, the few beats of quiet almost more than he could tolerate.
“My feet hurt!” Lyndon tried again, struggling to suppress a grin.
Jack's head half turned, but didn't quite twist around to look at the thief. “Do you speak so incessantly to escape the silence?” he pressed through audibly grit teeth.
Lyndon felt a sharp pang in his chest, like the words had hurt more than they were supposed to, but he dismissed the feeling as irritation. "Oh, I don't know, do you stay tight-lipped for hours and hours so that you can wallow in it?” he retorted with a sharp sniff.
Jack said nothing, continuing to bimble along through mud and leaves and whatever else scattered about their path. Relentless. Best to wait a bit before trying again. He didn't want a repeat of the other week when he'd made the Demon Hunter so furious with his casual chatter that the man had refused to speak to him for nearly a day. It had been agonizingly dull, a bit like it was now actually. He sighed.
Lyndon settled for humming a wordless melody, half remembered from... somewhere. Caldeum maybe. There was always music coming from the inns and taverns spread about that city. Kingsport too. He sighed, Gods he missed Kingsport. He missed people.
Speaking of their path, Lyndon could see those two terrible little weasel things bobbing about near his feet, keeping pace with his stride. One brown with white spots, the other white with brown spots. He always forgot about them until they popped up again, usually inside his satchel stinking up his things. They looked up at him when he looked down, whiskers twitching, pink noses sniffing, with little smiles on their wretched rat-like faces. He scowled at them. Where in the Burning Hells had they come from? Fucking... flea ridden... little... tube rats!
He resisted the urge to kick at them, knowing that Jack's already thin patience with him would surely snap, and he'd draw that pretty curved blade he kept and slice Lyndon's head clean from his shoulders. RIP in pieces, haha! The bright side of a swift death would be that he'd at least escape this wretched weather. That, and Jack had promised to bury him if he ending up dying. Maybe he'd get his death by boredom epitaph after all. Hell, getting murdered might be the best thing to happen to him all day!
Ahh, not that funny.
His stomach rumbled then and he frowned. He reached into his pocket for another piece of cured venison, something Jack had scraped together, having managed to kill a young stag. While decent tasting, they'd been eating it for over a week now and Lyndon was well sick of it. The small piece of cured meat felt cold and a bit slimy in his fingers, a side effect from his noticeably damp pockets. Lyndon was beginning to think that just about everything he owned was damp, but it was too cold and raw out to really tell.
When they would make camp in the evenings, Jack would sometimes disappear into the woods for a while, leaving Lyndon to his own devices. He would return silently, with pheasants or quails, rabbits sometimes, and most recently the young stag. Lyndon frequently volunteered to help (sometimes he got a little nervous being alone in the dangerous wilderness, not that he would ever admit it aloud) but Jack stated that his incessant chatter would probably scare all the animals away.
“I know how to be quiet you berk,” Lyndon had muttered irritably the night Jack had taken the stag.
“That's good, and you'll have even more time to practice while I'm gone,” Jack called over his shoulder before disappearing into the woods. A living shadow that Lyndon could not even hear as soon as he had gone out of sight. Privately, Lyndon thought that Jack made him stay behind to get some time away from him, which hurt his feelings a little bit, but he had come to accept that Jack needed his time alone. Hell, it gave Lyndon the opportunity to enjoy a little personal time with himself, so he supposed it was good for both of them. After brief relief, brought from a hurried turn of his wrist, Lyndon would spend the rest of this time tending the fire and staring wide eyed into the darkness, ever alert for the shuffling of a rotting undead thing or the pitter patter of little demon feet. Mostly, he felt rather lonely, and tried not to be too grateful that the small weasels usually stayed behind and kept him company. The bat Jack often let sleep in his pocket lingered too, chasing bugs drawn by the firelight. He was often too afraid to sleep until the Demon Hunter returned.
These small hunting excursions supplied them with enough food to keep them going, but Jack told him the local game had not been very plentiful since the demons had infiltrated the countryside. Even though their nasty presence was waning, the animals were slow to return. A pain for them, but likely much more dire for the villagers. Lyndon sometimes wondered if they were going hungry.
Their wealth and most of their possessions had been sent along with Haedrig so they wouldn't be seeing any of it until they met up with him. So New Tristram was actually their next stop before the capitol. He'd forgotten. Lyndon thought it very considerate of the Demon Hunter to provide the blacksmith with some decent work. Akarat knew that fixing their armor and equipment was a full time job with all the trouble they got themselves into. They had taken some money and supplies with them, but it was too cumbersome to travel with chests loaded with gold and jewels so they didn't have a large supply of coin to aid in filling their stomachs.
Lyndon still kept a healthy amount on his person, as was his habit, and he could always grab some more from someone else's pockets if he so desired. But he had also sent much of what he earned away to his brother's family, and for the debt, as he usually did. Surely they would have enough to live comfortably in a nice house in Kingsport by now? But no letters. Lyndon supposed he couldn't really blame her for not responding to him. He hated himself for what he'd done, too. Sometimes he even thought that it might be better this way, but that didn't make it hurt any less. How old would their children be by now? Would they have called him Uncle Lyndon?
Well, it didn't matter did it? No point in dwelling on it. Should try to think of something else anyway.
Gods, he was hungry, he could just about murder a bowl of stew right about now. And a bottle of Red Hill. Fucking Hell. He stuffed the bit of slimy meat in his mouth and glared at the small cat snakes again.
The weird marmots, as if sensing Lyndon didn't want them around, picked up their bouncing pace and ran ahead to the Demon Hunter. Jack paused and stooped his great height just enough to scoop them up, one in each hand, and set them on his shoulders where they wriggled and crawled their way into his pack. Eugh. He is madder than a bag of ferrets carrying those filthy things around with his clothes. Ha. Is that what they're called? Whatever. They smelled.
Lyndon had the very distinct impression that Jack liked those small furry vermin more than he liked his very human and very charming and most-certainly-not-flea-bitten traveling companion. This thought only served to sour his mood further. He was going to need to think of something else before he really began to feel sorry for himself.
Lyndon sighed a little and looked up at the grey sky, the clouds impenetrable as armor. He cursed under his breath when an icy raindrop struck him directly in the eye. Lyndon hadn't quite been lying earlier, his feet really did hurt, and they were cold, also likely as damp as the rest of him. He really just wanted to sit in front of a nice, roaring fire somewhere with a pint of ale in one hand and something to eat in the other. Maybe even a cup of tea, that'd hit the spot. He blinked and rubbed his eyes and tried not to wish too hard for at least someone else out here for him to talk to.
Just where in the Burning Hell's had everyone else gone off to anyway? he thought. Shen, Tyrael, where had they gone? Not that he really missed them or anything. What was it Jack had said to him?
Ah, yes.
Tyrael was off doing his own secret business somewhere, Lyndon at least knew that. He could only guess as to what the Angel was truly up to and supposed he didn't care too much about what it was precisely. Something about the Soulstone, Jack had mentioned. The demon hunter had apparently taken his two day nap right through the meeting where they'd decided what they were going to do with it. Tyrael had thought it a happy accident. Minimize the number of people who knew its location and all that, which made it rather obvious that it was probably hidden somewhere on Sanctuary. Lyndon honestly didn't much care, he just hoped they'd never see that stupid nasty demon rock again. The thing really gave him the willies.
What was Tyrael going to do after that? Would they ever see him again? Eh, Lyndon found it a bit strange, for being an Angel he was really rather boring. Everyone had told him that Tyrael was this great warrior, and he could fight certainly, but he just seemed.... Lost, maybe. Lyndon couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe he was still learning how to eat correctly or something. Still getting his "mortal-legs" as it were.
Shen had run off... somewhere, promising that he'd find them again at some point. Lyndon had actually been rather sad to see him go. He genuinely liked the eccentric jeweler. They often swapped stories about women, one of his favorite topics, and one he couldn't really get away with discussing with many others without someone yelling at him for it. What Lyndon liked even better was that the ancient Xiansanese Jeweler actually paid him for the various gems he brought back from his frequent "errands."
Haedrig, that's who he missed the most. His reliable drinking companion and the first friend he had made among their ragtag group of adventurers. Gone home to New Tristram. Lyndon assumed the blacksmith had wanted to be somewhere familiar and see how the town was getting on. He also had to tell everyone who was left in that godsforsaken little hamlet the sad story of what had become of Leah. Another grave to place flowers upon. For such a small village, New Tristram had a rather disproportionately enormous cemetery.
Lyndon frowned and glanced into the darkening forest again. He really didn't want to think about Leah or any of that mess right now. Gods, why couldn't he just think of something nice?! He glared at the back of Jack's head again. Maybe it was because Mister Sunshine and Happiness drained all the joy out of the (admittedly gloomy) atmosphere within a two mile radius. Prick.
At least New Tristram probably wasn't much further. That was good, some agreeable company to look forward to. Lyndon was glad of this, he hated drinking alone, and he was pretty sure he was starting to hate Jack too. Just a little.
Well, maybe just his rotten mood.
=+=+=+=
The sun― or what Lyndon assumed was the sun, he couldn't really see it through the wall of dreadful clouds ―was hanging low in the sky, dipping beneath the row of trees like the slowed descent of a diving water bird. Wouldn't be long now, a fire to warm him and then he'd bury himself in thin blankets that were never heavy enough to be truly comfortable atop his lumpy sleep roll, trying to pretend he was in a real bed and his balled up duster he would clutch was another person. Couldn't fucking wait.
After a while of thinking about little in particular, Lyndon had the sudden thought that he hadn't actually looked at the map in at least three days now. He had no idea where they were. He wasn't sure if they'd even seen another person in over a week. Not even a highway man trying to relieve them of their possessions to liven things up.
He looked around; the forest was even darker now with craggy trees tilting towards them, meeting in a grim skeletal canopy above their heads. Wouldn't it be dark soon? Lyndon wasn't stupid, had he been alone he would have traveled the main roads. Much safer that way. Far better to contend with the odd incompetent robber than with whatever nasty beasts crawled about the forests. Of course, when your traveling companion was an accomplished demon slayer, you generally didn't have much to worry about from the local fauna. It seemed he'd been relying on Jack far too much to lead them around though, and that apparently meant taking empty, creepy back roads away from people and taverns where one could relax with a drink or five and a lady or three. He supposed the Demon Hunter at least seemed to know where they were going.
Gods, what was his fucking problem anyway?
Lyndon frowned at the back of the hunter's head again, a black bobbing vision he'd probably see burned right into his eyelids when he went to sleep that night. Other people were usually easy for Lyndon to read and interpret, but he just couldn't seem to figure Jack out. Every time he thought he had a grasp on who he was, the hunter would do something that utterly baffled him.
Jack had practically given him a stroke by making that promise to help get his brother out of the Kingsport's prison and pay off the Merchant's Guild Bank. Even though they had been through much together, Lyndon still had trouble accepting that the Demon Hunter was willing to give so much to him and want absolutely nothing in return. Everyone wanted something, that's just how it was. Nothing was ever free. Lyndon hadn't expected anything from Jack, what had possessed (ha) the hunter to offer such a thing? Their claim to friendship was tenuous at best. Lyndon had been certain right up until that fateful promise that Jack tolerated him at best, and at worst, absolutely despised him.
If that were truly the case, then why did Jack make that promise? Why was Lyndon even here right now traveling with him for practically the third month in a row? If there was one thing Jack wasn't shy about, it was hatred. He wouldn't have asked Lyndon to come along if he hated him now would he? He just couldn't understand.
It was nice of Jack, sure, but the scoundrel's troubles seemed woefully insignificant when compared to demons and angels fighting each other in some great eternal war then trying to kill everyone else and destroy Sanctuary. Oh hey, remember when that happened? A lovely little visit to fucking Heaven and killing seven demon lords crammed into one disgusting body? Lyndon certainly didn't, or at least he tried really, really hard to forget it. Sometimes he did so well it almost seemed like a bad dream, but the cold reality of Leah's painful absence always woke him right up again.
Best to unremember as much of that wonky nastiness as much as he was able.
Their impossible victory in the Silver City of course meant that the Demon Hunter was some kind of magical freak, or a wizard, or a bloody god. A Nephalem? What the fuck was that anyway? Jack hadn't seemed like much of a god after he'd keeled arse over tit onto the floor and nearly died after killing Diablo. That two day nap... Lyndon had actually been a little worried about him. Just a little though, definitely not a lot.
Apparently, being a Nephalem meant that you were a tireless prickly bastard every single day of your life, mingled with the occasional act of obscene, selfless kindness.
He'd even been nice to Lyndon when he'd broken his brother's crossbow and gotten ah, really upset. How humiliating. He'd been tired, and hungry, he hadn't meant to get upset. It had been a low moment. Lyndon liked to think that it hadn't actually happened, but the refurbished crossbow currently resting at his back and endlessly accumulating some kind of magic ice on its stock that he had to diligently scrape off at least once a day argued differently.
Lyndon just wasn't very good at accepting such grand acts of generosity, especially not after growing up in a world where he'd been forced to bite and claw for everything he had. There was always a catch or a string attached, and he almost wanted to demand what in the Burning Hells Jack thought he was doing and what he wanted from him.
Nobody had ever been this nice to him before, at least not since he was a boy
Then why act like an enormous arsehole now? It was a wretched puzzle to be sure. For all his skill with those strange little crossbows Lyndon wasn't allowed to touch, the sullen Demon Hunter wasn't very good at explaining his reasons. Or expressing his feelings.
Really, he just wasn't very good at communication in general.
Lyndon liked it if he were the one doing most of the talking anyway. He liked to talk, his brother used to joke that he'd talk to a piece of shit or a dead rat if there wasn't anyone else around. Lyndon supposed that wasn't too far from the truth.
It had never been just the two of them before, at least not for so long. There was always someone else around Lyndon could talk to when Jack didn't feel like talking (which was most of the time). Even Kormac could be amusing if Lyndon got him going.
Jack often complained that he talked too much, but Lyndon just didn't want to feel like he was alone. He would do just about anything to stave off the feelings of guilt, loneliness and uselessness that threatened to suffocate him when he had too much quiet time to think. It was better when he kept his mind (or even better, his body) occupied as often as possible, and if that meant spitting out whatever meaningless drivel popped into his head then so be it.
"Say, where are we?" he blurted suddenly, escaping the mess of his thoughts. He felt like he was in some enclosed space where time refused to move. It was just twilight, and trees. Rain and shadows. A black, hood-clad, bobbing head a permanent fixture ahead of him that he never got any closer to.
"Khanduras," Jack said immediately, as though he'd been waiting all along for Lyndon to ask something.
"Akarat's balls, I know that!” Lyndon hissed, eyes rolling skyward, “I mean where, specifically."
Jack came to a slow stop, turned, and actually looked at him. "Uhm."
"Gods, are we lost?" He was going to fucking scream if they were. Just scream forever.
"No," Jack said quickly and unfolded the map he kept in a pocket somewhere. He stepped under the meagre protection of an adjacent oak tree so that the map would not be dripped upon, then squinted at it, brow furrowed. Lyndon followed, because even a brief moment out of the rain would be one he would cherish. Lyndon watched as a number of strange, distressing expressions flickered over the hunter's face, recognitionangerregretfear, but surely he'd imagined or misinterpreted the last one. They were gone in a moment anyway, smoothed over into that vaguely blank and bored expression Lyndon was so used to.
"We are about two miles east of Havenwood. Still heading due West, to Westmarch," Jack said, holding out the map and a well-worn compass for Lyndon's inspection.
"Don't you mean marching due west to Westmarch? Ahaha!"
Nothing. Not even a smirk. Tough crowd.
"Tristram first, right?"
"Right."
"And Haedrig?"
A sigh, barely a breath of soft annoyance. "Yes."
"Is Havenwood a town on the main road?" Lyndon pressed his luck with his questions, craning his head to look at the map again, hardly able to contain the excitement in his voice. A town!
"Yes." Jack didn't sound happy about any of it, but he'd been a bloody prick for days now, so Lyndon thought little of it.
Towns following the main roads always had inns! Brilliant! Lyndon felt his mood improve considerably.
=+=+=+=
Honestly, Jack hadn't always been such wretched company.
Even if Lyndon was doing most of the talking, they did rather well together if he did say so himself. Their shared affinity for ranged weapons really helped grease the wheels of conversation during times like these. It was the only subject Jack was willing to speak about at length. Lyndon had taken what he could get at the time, but had to admit that their little chats had revealed some rather interesting things:
Lyndon had only seen some of the contents of Jack's bag in stolen glances, and it had piqued his curiosity to nigh unbearable levels, but he was unwilling to risk the Demon Hunter's temper by looking through his things in any great detail. The observant bastard would probably know. The few items he had seen in passing glances had been strange: bones, vials of dark red liquid he assumed to be blood, clumps of fur and hair tied with string. Something that looked like a flap of scaly skin, chalk, charcoal pencils, ink, a fucking dog's skull. Or perhaps a wolf's or some other wild beast. Things he might expect to be among the contents of a Witch's purse.
Through his usual persistence, his curiosity had eventually been rewarded. Since bows and arrows had become such a hot topic of casual conversation, Lyndon eventually learned that most of those strange items were for but one purpose; crafting his deadly bolts. And since then, Lyndon had spent many a dark night out in the wilderness, shoulder to shoulder with the other man, watching in quiet amazement while Jack showed him the rituals and meticulously gathered materials he used to enchant his weapons.
And somehow, the most surprising and interesting thing of all, this had led to Jack attempting to teach him:
"Since we have the time, and we're going to be working together," Jack had told him soon after they'd left Bastion's Keep, "I might as well teach you. Somewhat dangerous, but a very valuable skill, especially for an Arbalist."
"Fucking!— What's that?!" Lyndon shouted, distracted by stinging snow blowing into his eyes with all the force of a seaside hurricane.
"What?"
"An arba... what's-it. What is that?"
Jack looked at him like he was stupid, hair whipping wildly in the wind like a flock of black winged birds. "An Arbalist. Someone who uses a crossbow. You should know this."
"Well, no one ever told me!"
A sigh. "Now you know."
"Wait, so you mean I can learn to put fire and lightning and whatnot on arrows as I please? Like you do?" Lyndon had asked, looking for clarification. It all sounded a bit far-fetched to him. Though he supposed Angels and Demons sounded far-fetched at first too, and of course he knew how that turned out.
"Eventually, yes." Jack seemed to consider something then, brow furrowing. "Though, perhaps you should just watch at first."
"How are you so certain that I can do this, I mean, don't you have be uh, magic or something?" Lyndon had always just assumed the Demon Hunter could because he was a Nephawhatever.
"Do we not use the land, the water, the beasts? The tools are here before you, anyone can do this. It comes easier for some, harder for others, but the craft can be learned like any skill."
"Oh."
Wicked!
"Ahh, no need to explain, I see what you're trying to say. I'm magical," Lyndon proclaimed breezily.
"Ehh, no more than anyone else, likely less."
"Hey!"
Later, when they'd made camp for the evening in some godsforsaken frigid cave, (one that Lyndon was pretty sure was used as a burial chamber for ancient barbarians, but was admittedly rather cozy once they'd settled in) Jack made a fire at the cave's mouth with bits of old wood and went over the steps needed for enchantment with Lyndon as his interested audience.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Lyndon had asked, watching with a grimace while Jack pushed a razor sharp blade against the meat of his large palm and cut deep enough to draw blood. Jack squeezed his fist tightly and let it drip steadily over the hefty stack of new arrows.
Eugh.
"No." Jack's hair, cut to chin length the other day by Eirena, made a rather effective black curtain that obscured his profile, save the tip of his hawkish nose.
"...Alright.”
Lyndon blinked, observing, and pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. "Must you always bleed all over your own arrows, every single time you enchant them?"
"Only a little, and only for shadow magic. A few drops is enough to make many, though I admit it has been a while since I have needed to replenish my supply." The stack of arrows began to exude a familiar deep black smoke tinged with a sinister red light.
Lyndon had cut himself on accident a thousand different times learning to fight with knives, but didn't look forward to actually hurting himself on purpose. Jack's crossbows looked normal enough despite the enhancements he'd placed on them. The real power was in the arrows he made.
"You won't be learning anything like this so you don't have to worry much about it."
Well, if he was going to say that, now Lyndon was interested.
"Why not?"
"Because it is shadow magic, demonic in origin." Jack flicked blue eyes up to his briefly. "Dangerous."
"I mean, I could use the arrows you've already made―"
"No. I don't even want you touching them."
“But why not?” Lyndon argued. “They're so much better than mine and if you made them it would probably be alright because―” Because that's what you are isn't it? A demon? Half demon? Dangerous?
“No. It takes a lot of training to resist Hell's corruption, and for most people it cannot be learned at all. I would not have you hurt by my lack of responsibility.” Jack continued, unyielding, "just... pretend they're poisonous or something and do me the courtesy of leaving them alone."
"But I use poison arrows," Lyndon added, failing to hide a smile.
"Please don't be obstinate."
Lyndon laughed.
Had it been anyone else, Lyndon would have likely argued until he was blue in the face, but when it was Jack he found it easier to accept that the Demon Hunter knew better than he did. If only for this particular subject. He was also a bit surprised when Jack more or less admitted he cared about him. Really, Lyndon was just happy they were having a conversation that seemed to be lasting longer than five minutes.
The thief had often thought back on this time, wondering how Jack had managed to be patient enough to teach him things and at the same time answer the endless stream of questions Lyndon had been compelled to ask him. Thankfully, despite being rather impatient in everything else he did, the Demon Hunter seemed to genuinely enjoy teaching.
“Why doesn't everyone make weapons and whatnot this way? If it's so much better?” Lyndon asked curiously.
“You have to kill demons to acquire the materials,” Jack explained, inspecting the now smoking bolts one by one, then putting them carefully away into his quiver. “Not many are willing or even able. Hellspawn have been few and far between, until recently. They were more common long ago.”
“Oh.”
“This why Haedrig's particular skill is in such high demand. He is one of only a few craftsmen left who is familiar with the old ways.”
Lyndon smiled and nudged the hunter's knee playfully. “Only the best for us, yeah?”
Jack indulged him with a rare smirk which manifested as no more than a wry twist of his lips. “Yeah.”
"Is there anyone besides Haedrig who knows how to make them?” Lyndon pressed, eager to keep the conversation going.
“A smith in Kurast, a barbarian woman named Charsi. Supposedly she kept company with the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye before she left to cross the seas, but I have never met her.”
“I've been to Kurast,” Lyndon offered, pulling his hood up over his head and getting comfortable in front of the fire. There was something familiar about that name, but he couldn't place it or dredge up the memory. Honestly, he'd met a lot of women in Kurast, everywhere really, but not even a single name would come to him. “I don't think I remember a blacksmith,” he finished a bit awkwardly. “Who else?”
“I imagine some Viz'jerei mages can. Priests of Rathma, Eirena knows many minor weapon enchants,” Jack rattled off, smudging the sigil he'd drawn into the snow and carefully picking up his leftover materials. "Some fletchers in the Dreadlands."
“Other Demon Hunters?”
“Yes.”
“Friends of yours?”
Jack paused at that, as though he had to think on the meaning of the word. “I suppose,” he said eventually. Their talk shriveled and died after that, and sleep followed shortly after.
Lyndon was a little disappointed at the loss of the infinitely more interesting shadow arrows, but Jack more than made up for it by teaching him how to make grenades, bola shots and some explosive traps, and of course, elemental arrows were promised to follow. Lyndon had to admit it was most interesting. It kept him busy. It was exciting. It was fun.
Nothing demonic though, no shadow. The hunter would not be swayed on that.
=+=+=+=+=
In time, they left the frozen slopes of Mt. Arreat and put the western kingdoms behind them in exchange for a pleasant boat ride across the seas, which delivered them into the warmth of Caldeum's gentler late autumn sun. Lyndon had lost most of the warm tan color of his skin from their time in the north, having gone all pale like the soft underbelly of a fish, or like something lying dead in a cave. He was eager to be baked by the heat of the sun until the thought of snow and cold was nothing more than a shriveled dream.
They settled in the now not-so-hidden camp once more, Kormac and Eirena joining them there. And it was fun for a while, the four of them helping to clean up the great desert city and the surrounding country. Soon there was little left to do and Eirena and Kormac spent more time in the great library than out of it, and the Demon Hunter's enchanting lessons resumed. This time with Lyndon's full participation.
"We'll start with ice first, I think that will be easiest, and they might work better with your crossbow now." Jack explained, drawing a chalk circle upon a flat rock, then filling it with lines, other circles and strange arcane symbols Lyndon had never seen before. Was he supposed to draw that?
A few yards away, the young merchant girl "Squirt" watched them skeptically from the front of her unfolded shop wagon, hands firmly planted upon her small hips, blonde hair braided and draped over one bare, sun-kissed shoulder. She had started wearing her hair that way ever since Leah had braided it for her their last visit. It felt like a lifetime ago. The thought caused a small pang in Lyndon's chest, so he quickly moved on from it.
Squirt was joined by another young girl, one they had discovered in the cellar of an abandoned home on their last visit. Larra, her name was. Lyndon remembered this time. For being a couple of snot-nosed little brats, they were alright. More easily tolerated than most children he'd met, and they were clever too; Lyndon liked that. He was glad to see that they both seemed to be doing well. Thick as thieves. It was good to find someone to stick with and watch your back when you lived on the street, and especially when you ran your very own lucrative and somewhat illegal merchant business. Ha!
Gods knew they ought to be doing well, what with all the gold Jack dumped on them in return for minor repairs and useless trinkets he usually wouldn't have looked at twice. The Demon Hunter was probably their best customer on this sandy little plateau. He never asked where they got their wares from and neither did Lyndon. They agreed that sometimes it was just best not to know.
Why the pair had decided to keep their shop here was a mystery to most, since there were so many more customers to be had within Caldeum's great Bazaar, but Lyndon had immediately guessed that half the goods were stolen or “rare.” It was smarter for the girls to look for a more unique clientele here, outside the border of the city's walls and away from the watchful eyes of the Iron Wolves. There were other merchants here too, mostly of ill repute, but Lyndon felt more at ease here than he ever would have in the crowded Bazaar.
Nothing like a bit of ill-gotten gain to make him feel right at home, thick as thieves indeed.
When Jack had told the young merchant pair what had become of Leah, both girls had cried, Larra more painfully and openly than Squirt, who'd put on a brave face and scrubbed her tears away with all the violence of a thrown fist. Neither Jack nor Lyndon had known what to say to comfort them. It had been distinctly awful. The Demon Hunter disappeared for a while after that, and Lyndon had spent the night at the Searing Sands Inn within the city. He played cards with the locals (with some sleight of hand thrown in to keep things from growing too dull), and indulged in the sweet smoky relaxation of hookah pipes that tasted of fine sugared cherry, making every breath sweeter than the one before it. The hours had dwindled away through round after round of tequila shots until he could confidently say he'd forgotten his own sadness and guilt, and indeed could confidently say a great deal many other things.
How well it had actually worked, he couldn't quite puzzle out the following morning, nursing a debilitating hangover (why, oh why did he always pick tequila? Stupid) and avoiding the Demon Hunter's annoyed gaze, which really was just the normal way his face always looked, but there were other distractions to be had, and if he hadn't forgotten it by now, he would soon enough.
"It would be advantageous for you to memorize this, but you can use mine as a reference for now," Jack said, standing and dusting white, powdery sand from his knees. The only concessions the hunter made to the heat were to lose the heavy black cloak he always wore, and to sweep the mess of hair out of his face. Lyndon was stripped down to his favorite cream tunic and trousers and was considering losing the tunic altogether. He thought to mention to Jack that he might be happier with that thick black hair up off his neck, but didn't fancy another boring argument about “minding his own business.” Whatever. If he was going to be so insistently stubborn than he could sweat and suffer.
The chalk sigil drawn upon the rock practically glowed in the light of the beating sun. He handed Lyndon the piece of chalk. "Try."
Lyndon stared at the chalk stick like it might bite him, there was a light breeze and the clime was just about perfect, here in the desert warmth, ice was the furthest thing from his mind. "You know, I'm not a very good artist," he said, kneeling in front of the rock and drawing a somewhat wobbly circle to the left of Jack's, then another closer to the center of the first.
"But your handwriting is very neat."
Lyndon beamed, flattered. "Why thank you!"
"This isn't much different than writing."
Lyndon caressed his mustache with pointer finger and thumb, frowning at the pile of complex looking shapes and symbols to the right of his own soon-to-be shoddy chalk disaster. "I'll take your word for it."
After several exceedingly painful minutes of intense concentration, scrubbing away bits he'd botched up, and Jack doing a very poor job of pretending he wasn't looking over his shoulder— Lyndon stood up, rubbed the crick out of his neck, and inspected his work.
Squirt chose that moment to wander over, no doubt intrigued, with Larra trailing behind her. One of the awful weasel things was cradled in Larra's arms while the other bounced along at her feet. The girl spoiled those furry beasts, there'd be no living with them after this. The four of them looked between each circle, comparing them. Lyndon felt that his was... well, not great but alright, not as nice as Jack's certainly, but the symbols that needed to be there were there (probably) and that's what mattered, right?
"Well, it's not very good is it?" Squirt offered critically, a frown firmly planted upon her little face.
Lyndon rolled his eyes. "And I suppose you think you could do better?!" he squawked.
“I bet I could!” Squirt insisted.
“Well I bet I could run your sorry little excuse for a business right into the ground, girl! You can't steal for shit!” Lyndon hissed, and the furious look on her face was worth everything.
Jack tapped Lyndon's foot with the toe of his boot firmly, then shook his head at him when Lyndon looked, as if to say 'we don't fight with children.' Lyndon glared back at him, arse, he could fight with whoever he pleased!
“Oh, pay him no mind Squirt, I like our shop,” Larra offered gently, rocking the nasty rat thing in her arms like an overly spoiled baby. Wretched.
"And a fine shop it is.” Jack directed at the girls, inspecting Lyndon's sigil with an unblinking critical eye. “Respectable business practices will earn you a reputation more valuable than gold," he said, effectively dispelling the argument.
Jack caught Lyndon's eye again."You'll improve with regular practice."
"Great, thanks, just tell me it's rubbish already," Lyndon said with a sullen air, settling himself into the warm sand so he could sulk more comfortably.
"It is only your first try," Jack amended. “They say that ten thousand hours is enough to master any skill.”
Lyndon tipped his head back, throwing his face towards the sun and groaned, "Gods, are you serious? That's like... for-fucking-ever!"
“Lyndon!” Jack hissed, eyes darting to the girls. “They're ten.”
“I'm eleven!” Squirt said insistently, while Larra smiled rather indulgently at her.
“Oh, who cares how old they are? They already curse all the time, isn't that right ladies?”
“You're damn right we do!” the girls chimed in unison.
“Ha!”
And so it went that Lyndon re-drew the circle and its accompanying symbols at least twelve more times (with much complaining, because who wouldn't) before he managed to get it right. The girls had long since gone to nap somewhere in the shade, something Lyndon desperately wished he was also doing. Feeling the beginning of a sunburn on the back of his neck, he was finally, finally ready (with Jack's graciously received approval) to move ahead and actually try to use the wretched sigil to actually fucking enchant something.
“Remember, it isn't about creating what isn't there, you're just using the symbols as a way to draw it out of hiding, changing its direction, convincing it to attach to something else,” Jack explained, in that ridiculously cryptic and unhelpful way of his.
“What does that even mean?” Lyndon asked, annoyed and tired by this point.
“It means you're tricking the elements to sit on your arrows instead of wherever else they'd like to go,” Jack said.
“Well why didn't you just say that then?”
A sigh. “Because I enjoy repeating myself.”
"Ha, too right," Lyndon said with a cheeky grin, then piled a few fresh bolts in the center of the sigil.
There wasn't any blood or hair or nasty demon bits this time, just a fine blue powder in a vial that glittered and smelled rather oddly when he gave an experimental sniff, a bit like the smell before a thunderstorm. He tipped the vial over a few times, watching it sparkle prettily in the sunlight.
“I just pour this on top then?” Lyndon asked, and not for the first time, he was worried he might have forgotten the instructions again.
“Yes. With intent,” Jack said.
“What's 'with intent' mean?”
“It means that you think about making ice arrows while you pour the powder over the bolts.”
“You know, it might help if you just spoke commonly like everybody else, instead of in some bizarre cipher,” Lyndon offered irritably.
“Forgive me for assuming that you were already well-versed in doublespeak.”
If that wasn't a deliberate jab, then Lyndon didn't know what was,“I suppose I'm just not as smart as you,” he deflected. You cryptic fuck.
Another sigh, this time infused with an air of general impatience. “Just pour the powder and don't forget to think about what you're trying to make.”
“What if I wanted to make a nice icy bed to sleep on instead?” Lyndon teased, “It's terribly hot out here and long past my nap time.”
“Lyndon, please.”
“Alright, alright! Gods, you're so boring,” he muttered, then leaned away as he up-ended the vial over the arrows, as though he were afraid some of it might get on him.
He sat there, tired and hot, thinking quite hard about nice icy arrows— and shaved ice with sweet lemon or lime syrup that Kingsport always had for sale in the summer months. Nice as the desert heat could be, he'd kill for even a spoonful of it. He thought of a cool dip in a pool of crystalline water, or a swim in the ocean, and then a long nap afterwards on an empty dock with the tide rolling in beneath him. Seagulls calling, maybe even a pretty girl to swim with. Skinny dipping. That'd be nice too, but oh, shit. Right. Arrows, arrows, icy bloody arrows! It wouldn't do to become distracted and likely have to start all over again. Cold things. Bastion's Keep came to mind immediately, of running around on the ramparts wishing he'd had a pair of mittens at least, fingers so cold he could hardly fire his crossbow, and he'd complained enough that Jack eventually waited with him while he warmed himself, teeth chattering, by a recently lit signal fire. In hindsight, it had been the coldest weather he'd ever experienced, and as the memory came to him, the sigil upon the rock seemed to begin to subtly increase in brightness. Either that, or he was suffering the sudden onset of a sun sickness.
But between one breath and the next, the insistent glow changed to a soft blue and the very air seemed to cool around them all at once. Lyndon's breath steamed in front of his face, and he could see frost creeping slowly over the rock's surface and forming on the arrow points. He was stunned silent.
It— had it actually worked?
Unthinkingly, he picked up one of the frosty bolts, and the chill of it numbed the tips of his fingers. He felt a silly grin spread over his face and he looked up at the Demon Hunter and found him smiling too. Jack had a very nice smile with nice teeth Lyndon noted, but he couldn't remember if he'd ever seen him do it before.
“And you said I wasn't magical,” Lyndon whispered, almost breathless with the excitement of what he'd managed to do.
“I lied,” Jack said.
And they existed there, smiling at each other like loons.
=+=+=+=+=+=
Lyndon blinked and the daydream faded. He was once more in Khanduras in the wet foggy forest, following Jack like a stray dog, hoping for a scrap of positive attention. A far cry from the amiable back and forth they'd kept up even just a few short weeks ago.
Maybe he was just being silly about all this, Jack wouldn't have bothered to do all those nice things for him if he didn't genuinely like him. The Demon Hunter was just bad at being friendly.
Maybe he was just upset about something, though exactly what Lyndon could only guess. They never talked about Diablo or Leah or any of that. Jack had seemed to really like her, more than he seemed to like most people anyway, and as far as Lyndon had been able to tell, she had really liked Jack too. Hell, the whole time they'd traveled together, Lyndon had half expected that they were going to end up together. The true romantic happy-sappy ending that you read about in fairy tale storybooks, almost sweet enough to make him sick.
Maybe that was it? Not that Lyndon was going to bring that up, he wasn't a bloody idiot. "Hey Jacky, curious, are you being such a spectacular bastard lately because you're upset about the gruesome death of our mutual friend?" Yeah. That'd go over brilliantly.
Something else perhaps?
A real bloody mystery to be sure, and it wasn't like Lyndon could just ask him what the matter was, now could he? He'd probably clam up and make it awkward and never speak to Lyndon again. A stupid idea.
Lyndon glanced at the back of Jack's head again. He seemed to look alright, at least, he didn't look any worse as the days went on. He'd always had dark circles under his eyes, sure, and there wasn't the slow deterioration he'd observed while they'd been at Bastion's keep, fighting demons for days on end with less than six hours of sleep between them. Still, Jack seemed tired, drawn somehow when he shouldn't have been. It wasn't like wandering around in the wilderness was difficult, at least it wasn't when compared to what they'd been doing the past couple of months.
Maybe he was just hungry and angry because of it. Hangry, ha!
Jack must have also been cold, wet and miserable, just the same as Lyndon was (how could he fucking not, he would have to be inhuman) but he never said a word to indicate that he was anything other than "fine.” But the black mood followed him like a storm cloud, shitting all over his hollow, insistent reassurances. Lyndon could not be sure if the other man even slept at all, even though he had hardly left the other's side in weeks. Jack was always still awake when Lyndon dropped off to sleep and was up and about long before Lyndon could even begin to contemplate dragging himself out of his bedroll every morning. Sometimes, Lyndon thought Jack might just be setting his bedroll on the ground simply to keep up a veil of normalcy, just to ease Lyndon's small worries.
Even with more dark business looming ahead of them, Lyndon felt good to be back in the forests, meadows and moors he was so familiar with. Many of their recent days had consisted of trekking through misty green fields, over rock walls, and sprawling sheep-speckled farmland. The spidery dark forests that fenced the land went on and on forever. The one they were in currently bordered the eastern shore of the Gulf of Westmarch and moisture from the cold, steel-colored ocean dampened every corner. It was just miles of this. Miles and miles of cold, foggy, wet country. Lyndon didn't like the wet and cold part so much, and this certainly wasn't Kingsport's sapphire blue seas, sunny shores and grass-frosted dunes, but after spending so long in burning deserts, the frozen north, and even Hell itself, it was definitely good to be home.
It was twilight now, the sun gone from view, but there was enough light to still see by. Ahead the forest opened up and dwindled, and Lyndon held his breath, expecting trickery, expecting another impenetrable wall of black trees to slog through, but Akarat's blessed balls, it seemed they'd finally reached the end of it. Seven long, wet days traveling through it and Lyndon's suffering was almost over because there would be a fucking town!
A small group of deer, four or five, pranced into the forest upon seeing them enter the field, leaping high over a crumbling, moss-covered rock wall that bordered the treeline. The most animals they had seen in one place for a long time. Lyndon's stomach growled, and he again thought about how hungry he was, and how little food they had left. The taste of cured venison was no longer as appealing as it had once been and Lyndon's stomach growled for hot stew, fresh bread and most importantly, good wine.
As they crested the hill at the end of the field, they could see the warm lights of a small village about a mile from where they stood. Lyndon was beyond relieved. "Ah! Oh thank Akarat! Our troubles are over!"
Just then, as if in direct opposition to his exuberance, the light rain they had been in all week grew noticeably heavier, fat drops striking the already waterlogged soil.
“Fuck!” He was so eager to reach beckoning warmth of the village that he almost forgotten his annoyingly grim companion.
“Lyndon, where are you going?” Jack asked him with what sounded like genuine curiosity. Hilarious!
“Where am I- ugh, to that fucking town, obviously, what are you still standing around for?!” Lyndon shouted, then again when Jack didn't make any move to follow. He could barely see through the heavy rainfall and could feel the cold water soaking into his hair uncomfortably. Great.
"We're not staying here, we'll stop at the next town," Jack said, his voice taking on an icy tone, then, amazingly, he turned away.
What—What in the burning Hells?
"Excuse me Jacky. Did I hear you correctly? Because I do believe you just said, that even though there is a town right down there, with an Inn that has a roof, and food, and warm beds, and cozy fires that actually produce heat, you want to camp outside again in this shit rain with no food and wet clothes, and freeze and possibly catch our deaths?" Lyndon listed with as much sarcasm as he could possibly inject.
"Yes," Jack said, deadpanned, utterly serious.
Lyndon's face screwed up in fury, unable to believe it. "Just what is your bloody problem anyway?!"
Jack inclined his head, as though listening more intently than he had been before, and narrowed his eyes. "No problem, it just isn't safe." A dark mood seemed to have swiftly enveloped the hunter for no apparent reason, unless the rain had upset Jack more than it had Lyndon, which Lyndon highly fucking doubted.
"Safe? Are you stupid or something?!" Lyndon spluttered, amazed, "it's a town, with walls. Not a corpse infested cemetery or a cave filled with nasty little demons. We're in more danger standing here outside than we would be in there!" he insisted. "Did I mention the part about the cozy fires and food?"
"I have my reasons."
"How cryptic. What are they then?"
Jack didn't say anything, instead he scanned the horizon and the path leading away into another nightmarish looking patch of forest with the same inscrutable facial expression he always wore.
“You know what else isn't safe?” Lyndon rattled on, edging beneath the meager protection of a nearby oak tree and shaking water from his coat, “Getting a lung fever from the damp, lingering for a few months, then dying before being dumped into a shallow grave.”
Jack eyed the merrily blinking lights of Havenwood with open contempt. "You'll live. Forget it. Let's keep moving, it's getting dark."
Lyndon was getting tired of secrets, tired of guessing and tired of walking on eggshells around him. Water was dripping into his boots from his soaked pants, and he just wanted to get inside and sit by a roaring fire for the rest of the evening and he'd be thrice damned if this grim, sour-faced bastard was going to keep that from him. If Jack wasn't going to give Lyndon any real answers then he could just piss right the fuck off.
Lyndon grit his teeth and began to pace. “Oh no. No, no, no, no no.”
"No?" Jack's eyebrows rose slightly as if he couldn't quite absorb the statement.
“Yeah, fucking no, you great scarecrow, I'm not doing it!”
“Doing what?”
“Sleeping outside, in this!” he gestured emphatically at the sky. “It isn't fair!”
"Life isn't fair. You don't always get every little desire met."
"I just want to be warm, and dry and sleep in a real bed, is that such an egregious luxury? Out of all the things I usually pine after, is this really such a selfish thing to ask for?!"
"Sometimes it is," Jack said. “Besides, it wouldn't be a good time,” he added awkwardly.
“Right, because it's been a real laugh a minute up til now, who are you trying to convince?”
“I mean... we will not be well received,” the hunter amended.
“But why?”
“It's not something you'd understand.”
Lyndon certainly didn't understand, none of this made any sense, but he was now too frustrated to bother trying to puzzle through it, unable to muster up the energy to even care. He was cold, he was wet, he was angry.
“How am I supposed to understand anything when all you do is sit in your own dark little corner with your own bloody little rain cloud, and mope about like somebody's pissed in your oatmeal? We've been racing around the world like chickens with our heads cut-off, chasing ghosts, and not once did I complain, but you— ”
Jack jerked his head with all the quickness of a predatory bird and looked at him with the filthiest expression Lyndon had ever seen on his face. If looks could kill, surely he would have been set alight then and there beneath the tree and burnt to a smoldering ruin. "You complained! You complained every single day and I got to listen to it! You've never not complained. I believe I could sustain myself alone, on the fathomless font of your complaints! You don't care about anything, you don't care about the work, about finding Adria, or—
“Oh, here we fucking go. If I didn't care, I wouldn't have agreed to be here, I just know how to care and live at the same bloody time! Something you've yet to grasp, since you're opting to sleep outside in the cold and damp when you don't even need to for some sort of ridiculous self-flagellation!” Lyndon snapped. “Now I know why you and Kormac always got on so well.”
It stung. Well, more than just a sting, it hurt honestly. It hurt, that even after all this time, after everything Lyndon had done, Jack still thought that he didn't care.
“Remember that little talk we had about speaking commonly?” Lyndon asked, swallowing the hurt, letting it mold into anger instead, because it was so much easier to stomach. “You pretend that nobody cares but you, but really, you're just so fucking vague that nobody knows what they're supposed to even care about.”
“I'm not vague— ”
Yes you are! Yes you're fucking vague! Do you think you're the only one who's suffered? You think you're the only one who's had a 'bad time' of it? Well guess what, you're not fucking special, everybody's miserable.”
Jack stared at him, face screwed up into a furiously defiant expression. “I'm not going.”
Well, isn't that just the way.
"Fine then, fuck you.” Lyndon spat, “Stay here for all I care, which is of course not very much at all because apparently 'I don't care about anything'.” He pushed past the Demon Hunter and paused at the crest of the hill.
“I'm going to go stay in whatever wretched structure they have that can be called an inn. See you later. Or never," Lyndon finished with a sarcastic two-fingered salute, then started walking towards those merry little lights. Let him, he thought bitterly. Just let him stay out here and drown in a bloody mud puddle.
It was then that the sky decided to shit on him just one more time, opening the clouds and letting the rain come down in buckets, because of course it would. Of-fucking-course.
“We should stay together,” Jack called after him, merely a distant bird call over the roar of raindrops, “It's not— ”
“Safe. Right. Whatever.” Lyndon kept walking. Why bother running? He was soaked through anyway.
The nerve. The gall. He could scarcely believe it. What a fucking prick.
Jack lingered on the hill behind him for almost a full minute before Lyndon could hear familiar, long-strided footfalls coming up behind him. It was almost amusing how quickly he'd caved. Lyndon thought he could have easily rubbed that right in his stupid face, but found that, for once, he didn't have anything at all to say.
They marched down the hill, wet, furious, and exchanging filthy glances without speaking to each other. Black cloaks and coats wrapped tightly against the driving rain, that special brand of Khanduran darkness nipping at their heels.