Prince of Time

Chapter Thirty-Six - Plans That Went Swiftly Wrong

Tobiah raged through the camp. Crowds parted before him. People stepped away, stunned into deference by his aura of black hatred. All the while, he was cursing himself under his breath.

 Tobiah wasn’t one to admit to weakness but he knew that his decision, and his anger, were weak. He hated himself for it. He hated himself for caring.

 This was what happened when you let the walls down. What had he been thinking? That he could have friends? And then along came the wound that made you remember why you ever wore the armour.

  It was too late now. Too late to put the armour back on, too late to strengthen the walls that had always kept him safe. One stupid, impulsive action and he was bleeding again, feeling his world crumbling.

  As he stormed through the regiments, a picture of fury, he tried to bandage his wounded soul. That was all he could do now. Try and patch it up, repair the damage, hope the scars held everything tightly locked up behind their bars.

  It was times like this, the rare times when he came inches from losing control, that his gift seemed the most dangerous. It swelled inside him, an impossible power, the ability to do anything he liked with the world people lived in.

  It was tempting now. It was oh-so-tempting to bury the humiliation and shame and misery and the oceans of pain. It would be desperately easy to do it, to destroy the world.

 But he didn’t. He couldn’t. There were rules against it, rules he had made. He couldn’t afford to be weak. He wasn’t at liberty to break. He had to be strong and, when the choice is between strength you don’t have and absolute destruction, you have to find the ability, even if you steal it from yourself.

  Tobiah couldn’t say what he felt for Zeno. Words seemed far too superficial, far too dramatic, far too floral and posturing. It wasn’t anything, really. Or perhaps it was everything. It hurt in ways Tobiah hadn’t known hurting was possible.

  It felt like burning, like dying, like being reborn.

It took some time for Tobiah to collect himself enough to feel ready to face his friends. He disliked the term now, wished he’d never used it. It meant inconvenient loyalties and more ways to be damaged. There was enough scar tissue on his soul that you would think it would withstand anything, but there were always new ways to get through.

 By consequence, he was the last to arrive in the shadows around the tent of the blue-plumed Harian general. The others were waiting out of sight, armed and carrying provisions on their backs. Tobiah gave them a cursory nod of greeting.

“I’ve mislaid the watchdogs,” he said, in an undertone. “If we head east for a mile, we shall be sufficiently beyond the camp to begin the journey northwards.”

He didn’t look at Zeno but he could feel the boy’s gaze burning into his skull.

“Let’s begin,” Pepper hopped once or twice in eagerness. “We’ve a long way to go.”

“Yeah,” Tobiah muttered. “Let’s begin.”

Maple cast him a sharp look and Tobiah regretted all the things he had revealed to her about himself. At the time, telling all had felt good. Now he could sense her making guesses, jumping to conclusions, figuring him out.

“Finem?” she whispered, falling into step beside him.

Tobiah leapt on the excuse. “Dreams. He’s…not given up.”

Maple patted his shoulder. “If you need me, I’m here.”

It was a good thing lies had never hurt Tobiah. The guilt he already felt was punishment enough.