Steal a Little Shut-Eye

 Mochrie’s brows arched in surprise for the briefest of moments.

 He knew the cloak wasn’t for him– nor was the amulet. Even the hair might have been more for Lasair’s need to keep up appearances, rather than anything meant for him; even so, the gentle touch from the noble’s hands made his throat tight, his heart sore. It had been a long, long time since he had received any sort of physical kindness. He gritted his teeth behind closed lips and bowed his head, letting his patron lead.

 After a grueling climb up the entryway stairs, he followed her inside; he moved through the dark halls in silence, following her like a wary cat. She met with someone– tall, blonde, stoic, a man who paid Mochrie no mind– and the two of them talked as all three weaved through corridor after corridor. Mochrie didn’t listen– their words didn’t matter. Lasair was simply keeping up appearances, coating the scene with her emotional alibi; Mochrie instead used the time to map the route out in his head, drumming out a tune with his fingertips to use later when he’d pull it from his memory. Eventually, Mochrie and Lasair were handed off; another guard of Namarast led them down below.

 The roots of the great tree were carriage-wide, bark thicker than plate, and the gaps between them formed the halls of Namarast’s prisons, the roots themselves reinforced with iron and steel and stone to carve out the cells. The floor was hard stone as well, each piece compactly placed, and well-cleaned; busy as it was, now, it seemed even the typically-overlooked aspects of the prison had been given more attention. The prison teemed with guards like an anthill, but Mochrie knew their cycles had short moments where overlap was lost. It would be during one of these moments, these losses of overlap, that the great escape would be made.

 Their shoes clipped along the floor as they began to approach the cell at which Lasair’s to-be was held; she paused before it, twirling toward Mochrie with a desperate expression– one she clearly hoped the guard would catch.

 “Oh, please– be a dear and find us lodging for tonight, would you?” She wiped at an eye. “I won’t have the heart to send you off during my– my final goodbye.” Mochrie knew the drama was for show, for cover– but he could still hear the hint of honesty in the back of her throat, her fear that this goodbye might truly be the last.

 “Of course, my lady,” Mochrie answered, bowing his head. Doing so made him utterly incensed, and the acidic fire burned at the edges of his tongue– but he kept his tone proper, and maintained the façade. “I’ll be off at once.”

 With that he left, happy to drop the servant act as quickly as possible, though he only did once he was out of sight of the guards below. He slipped a hand beneath the dark cloak while he was alone, still trotting through the halls, and withdrew a note; on it Lasair had written a name, and the number of a teacher’s office, in which he would find their contact. Kerelas, the name read.

 Mochrie’s stomach rolled, flinging up bile in the back of his throat; he swallowed it back down and pocketed the scrap of paper a bit forcefully. It was too difficult not to be bitter about his experiences at the school, even now, so many years later.

 It took nearly an hour to slither his way through the halls of the city, then into the school, and up to the office in question; a mix of exertion and panic made his shirt damp. He hoped it wouldn’t affect the beautiful cloak Lasair had fashioned overnight.

 The cloak was dark, near-black– at its collar, short fur circled Mochrie’s throat, clasped together by fang-like, bone buttons. Looking closely, a slightly lighter shade of embroidery followed the fabric’s edge, an elegant shape, like the corners of a tapestry. Mochrie mindlessly rubbed at the design with a thumb, wondering if it was the magical seal that contained Lasair’s magic.

 He trotted up to a heavy wooden door and checked the slip again; same number. He’d been told not to knock– just to enter. He did.

 As soon as he stepped foot in the room, he froze. A chill prickled at his cheeks, at the base of his throat, as he looked at the contact he’d been assigned to partner with.

 Waiting at the desk was a mage– an older man, dark-haired, with bags under his eyes and gritty stubble, and the exhausted aura of someone who hadn’t gotten a proper night’s rest. Someone incredibly familiar.

 Mochrie stared, blankly, then shook his head, attempting to wrestle off the unsettling feeling stuck in his chest. The man at the desk was so, so familiar, and though Mochrie couldn’t remember much, there was one thing he knew– this man was one of Namarast’s healers, doctors, one of the group that had denied him help.

 Now wasn’t the time to ask questions, not any more than were necessary, though Mochrie knew the mess of emotions boiling inside him had most certainly surfaced in his expression. “Ah, so. Kerelas, right?”