Tracer

3: Offerings

Desmon blinked when Jymke moved away and knew he was not accepting him as Champion. He couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.

"What would Myron do, then," Jymke mused, "if his heir threw off the shackles of Packing to chase the Wastes with a lone Tracer?"

Desmon grinned. "He'd probably be jealous as hell." Myron's lifelong ambition was to retire to a small cottage with Jylke. Aside from that, Myron barely tolerated most Top-Siders, even though he was born to them.

Jymke laughed again. "That is Truth, indeed," he agreed. "Jylke honors him. Their time together has always been cherished."

The Tracer stepped behind a dressing screen but came out the other side, holding light leggings and soft sock-like boots. He'd left the robe and the muted light from oil lamps lit the narrow purple lines that followed the contours of his muscles. They outlined his ribs and ran down to follow the long, lean lines of his legs.

Jymke's arms, feet, and hands bore the marks, as well. They ran up along his shoulders and collarbone, culminating in a spiral pattern at the hollow of his throat. Curving marks followed his cheeks and arched over and under his eyes, but these weren't currently as visible as the rest.

While Jymke sat to dress, Desmon fought the pain that struck him at the sight of the Tracer's ruined hair. They could cut his hair and chase him away from the Clanlands, but they couldn't take away his knowledge, or those marks. Only those who faced the Truth bore them, and Jymke bore more than any other Tracer Desmon had ever seen.

"How do you manage alone?" he found himself asking.

Jymke peered up at him as he slipped his foot into a boot. They were softened Duster-hide, lined with fur, and trimmed with glass beads and feathers.

"Jylke trained me well for Champion, and the hounds are as loyal as the Dusters bequeathed to me. I am as well unknown among the Clans, born of Truthed parents. Perhaps my madness is not as consuming, because I have always lived with the shadow of it in my blood."

"They said you were there over a week."

Desmon bitterly regretted missing Jymke's Descent. Myron's insisted on sending him to university and refused to allow him to miss class.

At least he got a handful of relevant degrees out of it.

"The Ultimate Truth held me in the Pits a full ten days," he nodded, lacing the boot to his knee, then reached for the other. "The Ultimate Truth is made up of many, and they are profound Truths, Desmon, horrific and exquisite, agonizing and uplifting. I understand why some chose to remain."

Desmon stepped close and sank to his knees as Jymke laced up his boot. "I want our time together to be cherished," he said, breathless and hopeful.

Jymke touched his lips with the tip of one long, black nail. "It ever has been."

Desmon closed his eyes and sighed. A low, humming energy flowed into him from that touch. He blinked to awareness when Jymke stood, looking down at him.

"I hate what they did to your hair," Desmon growled, anger rising anew. He didn't mean to nag, but it was tragic.

"Such is the way of exile," Jymke answered with a shrug. "All ties to Clan are forfeit. Only shame remains."

"You did nothing wrong!" Desmon cried, trying to keep his voice down.

Jymke shook his head slowly as Desmon stood, nearly vibrating in anger. "The headman spoke. He cannot undo what his grief has wrought."

"How can you accept this?" Desmon was confused.

Desmon knew most Tracers had a hair-trigger temper, but he never saw Jymke angry, even as an impetuous child.