Nevermore

Chapter Seven - Unencumbered Struggles

Their walk to Aethon's tent was quiet, and Aethon saw how supressed the sadness was in Xoren's face, though it was silent and emotionless. 

        "You know," said Aethon, as light as he could possibly utter "The king was right."

      Xoren managed a snort, and Aethon did not dare continue their talk until they reached the white canopy of his quarters. A map was laid out across a spare table in the middle of the room, and on the bed at the far corner sat a girl, perhaps of Persian descent by the looks of her. When she saw the two entering, she bowed low and went to a corner in silence by herself. 

        Xoren stared at her with mind elsewhere. Mind emptied here and at war, to where all the important things were. Aethon glanced at him and smiled. 

        "How are you liking my present, so far?"

        His words seemed distant, as though Xoren was hearing it from miles away, all the way from Rome. When he realized his momentary absence he sucked himself back to this world and stared blankly at Aethon. "What?"

        "I said 'how are you liking my present so far?'" Aethon repeated, patiently, fiddling with the little figurines pinned on the map.

        "What present?" Xoren asked. 

        "Well, the girl," said Aethon "Is she better than a dog?"

      With the statement, Xoren laughed "More like fiestier than a dog. I thought presents are supposed to be for my benefit?"

      "Why, isn't she?"

        Suddenly Xoren thought of her, perhaps not in sudden gesture, but he actually allowed his mind to focus on something rather than at war. He imagined the green eyes, the black velvet hair. And of that sharp mouth, he laughed again. 

        "I'll give it time," Xoren said, "Maybe she'll serve as benefit to me after all while I'm in Rome."

        Aethon looked up slowly, but his eyes were still on the map "Armenia seemed rather far away from home, though."

        "It's easy to say that when you've never been anywhere but here," Xoren stated.

        "I'm not a warrior, Xoren, I'm a thinker. Rome needs me," Aethon replied "But I daresay it needs you more. You could be a great philosopher, or a politician."

        "I was not made to sit on cold thrones."

        "Sitting on cold thrones is one of it's benefits. And another, to manipulate the king."

        Aethon tried to tell the last lines as irresistable to Xoren's ears. Trying to figure out his inner darkness, his inner ruler. But Xoren remained unmoved and unvexxed.

        "Had the warrior had gone stiff from all those years?" 

        "I care not for the king," Xoren said "There would be no strict hand to manipulate his big head, including yours, Aethon. I saw how you remained complacent last night."

        "I was...cautious." was Aethon's say.

        "Cautious for whom?" Xoren asked accusingly "Your skin?"

        "For my men's sake. If I retort, if I ever so slightly react, he would strip me of my titles, which, of course, you're too gallant to care less."

        "What kind of titles could ever compare to your right to speak."

        "I speak with care, Lord Xoren." Aethon said, his voice more clear,and his eyes looking straight at Xoren's. "The new king is not keen with oppositions. I study him while I have the time. While all of us has the time. And you casually regard him as nonesense in his presence."