What Is and What Can Never Be
Tad watched Granath's back, raptly silent, as the man walked steadfastly away from the group, into the pounding chaos of the battle. A silent intake of breath when he wasn't immediately set upon and swept up by the fury - a breath Tad hadn't been aware he was holding. It seemed like this foolhardy plan might actually work. Granath's step didn't falter at all as stray arrows and deflected sword swings missed him by mere inches, and Tad could do nothing but stand there and stare, unblinkingly following the warrior's progress as he trudged, unhindered, through the writhing mass of bodies all around him, towards a goal even more great and terrible than the undead army he was in the midst of. Chartri, the Dark Lady, surrounded by an aura so infernally terrifying that Tad could not shift his gaze to look at her, even at this distance. So he focused staunchly on Granath - from the warrior, he couldn't tear his eyes away, even if he'd wanted to. The others were all watching, as well, so he knew his riveted attention wasn't so horribly out of place. He'd have to be careful in the future, though. Assuming, of course, that there was one.
He wasn't quite sure when it had happened. After months of traveling together, fighting side by side, getting into and out of more life-and-death scrapes than Tad had any desire to recall.... maybe it had all just finally gotten to him. Was that how this worked? Tad Morrissey wouldn't know. Tad Morrissey was provocative and charismatic, open to anything and everything, and on account of that had never lacked for a bed partner or three. His magnetic personality attracted interest from all walks of life, and he had acquired decades' worth of experience - quite literally under his belt. Sex was an amusing diversion, a respite, a bargaining chip and a weapon. As natural as breathing. Tad Morrissey had fucked his way from one end of this country to the other without batting an eye.
But Tad Morrissey had never been in love.
Nor in his wildest dreams had he entertained the notion that he ever could be.
Was that what this was? Tad was plenty familiar with lust, having succumbed to his own on more occasions than was probably healthy, and he couldn't deny its presence when he looked at Granath - he bit his tongue gently, trying not to imagine those thick, rippling muscles beneath the man's armor as he watched, enraptured, from afar. But it was more than that. Granath was alluring in a way that was more than just physical. Every time the man spoke, Tad found his own self struck strangely dumb, hanging on every word like it was some secret treasure. There was an incongruous but undeniable eloquence about him; Tad had realized very early on that there was much more to Granath than met the eye. The man was in no way the big dumb animal a glance could easily mistake him for. He was much, much smarter than he wanted people to think. And infinitely more complicated.
Tad had to admit that he'd been fascinated by the young warrior ever since they'd met. It started as just a healthy curiosity - or unhealthy, he supposed, depending on how you looked at it - for a man whose reputation for singlehandedly turning the tide of battle preceded him. Curiosity for a man so entirely comfortable in his own disfigured skin, who wore such terrible scars like they were trophies, and yet remained absolutely tight-lipped about the circumstances by which he'd acquired them. Tad pushed that button relentlessly, although his dogged determination to receive an actual answer had diminished over the course of their travels; he kept at it now simply out of habit, rewarded by every annoyed glare the warrior shot him, every irritated eye roll, every sigh of exasperation.
Granath was an enigma: callous and battle-hardened on the outside, but every now and then would allow glimpses of something....if not necessarily softer, then at least.... ardent. Passionate. Fervidly intense. There were a great many things Granath didn't care one whit about, but those few that he did he held fast and close to his heart. His childhood heroes, for one. When he'd finally met the Six, witnessed their flaws and, well, their humanity.... Tad had seen Granath run through with swords, seen him burned with ethereal fire, beaten by boulder-fisted trolls and tossed down the side of a mountain. But he had never seen him wounded so badly as he was then, finding out that his heroes were perhaps not so heroic, the figures on pedestals come crashing down under the weight of his not unlofty expectations.
It made Tad feel like a jaded old man, for not being shocked that the Six Heroes were still just people, not so different from the rest of them, really. Made him realize how naive Granath truly was - how utterly and amazingly special - to have withstood a life of war and conflict without having that bitter idealism of youth extinguished. Made him long to somehow protect that spark, to keep that secret tender core of his from calcifying into just another layer of armor, stony and impregnable.
It was the duality Tad found so captivating - poetic, almost - that a fortress nigh on invincible could house something so immeasurably fragile, that a man who dealt in death and destruction could still reflect innocence, if you caught him in just the right light.
It was all nonsense, was what it was. Tad's restless mind wouldn't stop chattering at him, spouting all kinds of ridiculous drivel he could never now unhear, even as he watched Granath turn and begin leading the Dark Lady back towards their awaiting party. Whatever this feeling was - love, infatuation, or something else - he just had to ride it out and wait for it to pass. Tad had a better chance of growing wings and learning to fly than of having Granath return it. The man would murder him - just flat-out murder him - for even suggesting such a thing. Come to think of it, Tad had never seen the warrior show an interest in any sort of amorous company, female or male, and the gods above knew there'd been ample opportunities. But surely, the man had to have needs. Tad supposed that Granath's own big, powerful hands were enough to take care of....
He shook his head fiercely, desperate to dislodge that thought before it could take root in his brain. When it didn't work, tried to discourage any sort of sexual fantasy involving Granath by injecting a much needed dose of realism. The man would tear him in half - if not considerably more pieces - without even trying. Possibly without even noticing, and that was not the way Tad Morrissey wanted to go out. Well.... No, no it wasn't.
Knuckles whitened as fingers curled into clenched fists around his staff. Tad cursed almost silently, suddenly glad for the loose folds of wizards' robes and their penchant for concealing all manner of embarrassing things. What was he, sixteen again? "Get a grip, Tadpole," he muttered heatedly under his breath, forcing his gaze to shift from the broad-shouldered warrior to the nightmare-inducing entity following behind him. There, that did it.
With a sigh of relief he turned his face to the ground, sweat beading up on his forehead that he could and would attribute to the aura of terror surrounding Chartri.
Shit.
Granath was leading the Dark Lady straight towards them, and Tad wasn't sure which one of them he was less eager to face.