The Fearful and The Lonely

“You know how dangerous that is, right?” A fifteen year old Wyntier asked, perched on a chair in the corner of Silas’ bedroom. He occasionally plucked a few strings on the acoustic guitar he had in his hands, and absentmindedly played chords without reason. Silas sat across the room from him, pouring over some documents on his desk, facing away from him.

“And? You know milk comes from a cow, right?” Came the reply from his friend. Wyn huffed from his chair, sticking his tongue out, although he knew Silas wouldn’t see.

“But what if you get hurt? Then what?” Wyn asked, concern laced into his voice.

“Then I heal and take another shot later, it’s not a huge deal.”

“What if you die?! I’ll never get to see you again. I’ll be alone forever.” Wyn’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the guitar tightly. A thousand bloody scenarios ran through his head, making it spin.

Silas turned around, leaning on the back on his chair as he rested his chin on his arms. “Wyntier. I’m not going anywhere, relax.” He smiled slightly. “You’re like, my brother. I’m not just gonna leave you here.”

Wyn looked at him. “Promise?”

“Of course.”

“Say it. Swear it with me.” Wyn frowned, and held out his pinky. “You gotta pinky promise, you can’t break them.”

Silas snorted, but leaned over and accepted his hand. “I promise.”

Wyn relaxed, and after a few moments went back to plucking at his guitar.

He still never slept soundly on the nights before Silas fought in the arena. And he sure as hell wasn’t sleeping alone the night after. But a year later he signed up himself, and his nerves calmed slightly.

Of course, it didn’t hurt any less when a year after that, Silas left without anything more then a note.