#juzmik

Revantusk Village Late night

Taz grinned as he walked back towards camp, shaking the briny ocean water from his hair. Truth be told, he hadn’t really stopped grinning since Gor’Watha had arrived in Revantusk. It wasn’t the lush, wet jungle he called home, but the air was clean here, honest and natural, and the peculiar combination of sea salt and pine on the breeze was rapidly growing on him. His only real complaint was that it got much colder at night than he would prefer, especially after a swim. The warm fire waiting for him made it almost worth the chilly trek from the shore to the—

His subconscious picked it up before his nose did, and he was already frozen silently in place, crouched in the shadows, before his mind registered the scent of rot, and death, and…wrongness that suddenly permeated the air, along with an unnatural, but all too familiar, chill. He blinked, and the warm green grass beneath his feet became an icy Northrend glacier, and the eyes of the thing seated at his fire glowed blue with the supernatural  frozen light of a soul snatched from Bwonsamdi and—and—

Taz blinked again, hard, and willed his breathing to slow from the silent gasp it was to a more reasonable, or at least less panicked, pace. The thing at the fire did stink of undeath and frost, and its’ eyes did glow with the Lich King’s evil voodoo. But this one was no threat, not anymore. It was only Sarjen.

Sarjen. And Juzmik. Taz’s lips curled back in involuntary disgust as his General smiled up at the dead thing in a way that made Taz’s stomach lurch. He was about to come out of the shadows and join them, when  higher pitched voice, raised in protest, pricked his ears forward, and made him crack a smile.Umcha.

And so it was. The lanky young troll was perched atop the large wall by the fire, frowning down at the other two. “De only ting my ma ever tell me about my dad was dat he was REAL tall. Dunno where he be from doe. I nevah met ‘im. Ma said 'e had a real pretty necklace, and dat was all she wanted from 'im. I don’ tink she even learned 'is name. She traded ‘im fer de necklace, be how she got it.”

Taz’s brow furrowed. As much as he disliked eavesdropping—well, eavesdropping out of purse curiosity anyway—this was the first time he had ever heard the kid mention his family, at least in that level of detail. Approaching now would surely break whatever moment was occurring here. And Taz wasn’t about to do it that.

“Your mother was a prostitute?” Sarjen asked.

“Uh. Not exactly.”

“Den what?” Juzmik jumped in, grinning up at the boy with the obnoxious sort of look that had gotten Taz thrown out of more than one bar… when I was his age. He’s not much older than Umcha, really. General in name, but a boy in all the ways that really matter.

Umcha continued. “ She uh. Well, she traded de sex fa tings she wanted or needed, not fa gold. I dunno if dat still counts.”

“So she was a hooka.” Juzmik bobbed his head knowingly.  

Umcha shrugged. “Ma traded fa a necklace an’ got me on top’a it.”

“She made out pretty good den.” Juzmik smiled up at the younger troll, and in that instant, Taz would have been willing to forgive the general for almost anything the quick-tongued boy had ever said. This is why you’re going to be a great leader one day, Juz. Because of moments like this.

Umcha  grinned bashfully. “She din’ tink so, Juz. But tank ya.”

“Well, ya mom’s shit den, Umcha.”

Something about the frankness of Umcha’s admission, and the equal frankness of Juzmik’s assessment, made Taz’s heart ache in a way it hadn’t in…in a very long time. They were so very much like the fresh faced, eager boys he had led into battle first in Outland, then in Northrend—Northrend—

He gasped silently again as Sarjen’s precise, otherworldly voice cut through the night. “How many people in this Warband have good mothers?”

“Uh.” Juzmik paused, apparently as confused by the rather odd question as Taz was. “…Rasek, n’ Yarbo n’…not Kirkal…or me…or…you…”  He paused again, and shrugged. “Taz’jin, prolly.”

Taz could see Sarjen’s amused snort of chilled air from across the Revantusk courtyard. “He seems like a family man.”

Taz felt the impact of those words as surely as a fist to his stomach. They didn’t know. Well of course they don’t KNOW, jackass. You’ve never told them.Never told them he had no family; that he and his sister were orphans, and that even his sister had stopped speaking to him when he had signed up with the wrong crowds in Booty Bay. Twenty years since he had heard from her at least, if not more. And Sarjen though he was a ‘family man?’

He laughed, silently and bitterly, but the chuckle caught in his throat as he watched Umcha shift into his cat—well, cub—form, and clamber down off the wall to lay down next to Juzmik. The general patted him absently, and then Taz could almost see the others sitting around the fire with them: Tiombi and Rasek, Janzo, Zinki (especially Zinki), even Immy—they were all there in his mind, laughing, drinking, smoking, talking, fighting. Almost like—

Almost like a family.

But not almost, he realized in that moment. Exactly like. Isn’t that what he always told the new recruits? That the Warband was a family? Weren't Juz and Ras an Umcha, all of them really, his ‘little bruddahs and sistahs,’ even if he knew better than to call them that to their faces?

It was true. A family. A family he was a part of, not because he had been born to it, but because they cared about him. And because he cared about them fiercely in return. Better than blood is the family that’s chosen—and Gor’Watha had chosen him.

These thoughts, as well as the sight of Juzmik gently stroking Umcha’s fur, was enough to nearly make Taz burst out of the shadows with joy, and crush every single one of them in a huge bear hug. Fel, he was so happy he’d even hug Sarjen!

By the time he looked again, Juzmik was gone—retired to bed, most likely, and Umcha was back to looking like himself and staring moodily into the fire. Taz smiled a little in sympathy. Oh, to be eighteen again, and to believe the world has reached its limit in complexity.

“He seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Taz was jerked out of his reverie by Sarjen’s silky voice, and the crack of the ice on his armor as he shifted positions. Umcha was apparently just as startled, and jumped at the Death Knight’s words. “Who? Juz?  Ya tink so?”

“I do.”

Taz’s blood ran cold as his eyes flitted to the Death Knight’s face, and for once it wasn’t the instinctive cringe that so many veterans of the Northrend campaign shared. There was something in Sarjen’s face Taz had never seen before—he knew the look well enough, but he had never, ever seen such raw…emotion  on the face of a Death Knight before. It was only there for a split second, and would have been utterly unnoticeable if Taz hadn’t been looking at him at that precise moment…but there was no denying it.

It was impossible. But Sarjen…was jealous.

Taz’s perception of the scene before him shifted suddenly, almost violently. This wasn’t his friend Umcha, and an undead warrior, sitting around the fire. It was a young boy, and an old man. An old man threatened by the other’s affection for his lover.

Why in the name of all the holy and unholy loa do I get dragged in to this kind of shit?!

It had been a rhetorical snarl to himself, and so Taz was quite shocked—enough to nearly fall out of the foliage he was crouched in—when an answer echoed through his mind. Because you can change it.

Taz’s eyes narrowed, and he felt the silent growl of a predator in his throat as he slid deeper into the shadows, watching and listening with a new clarity of purpose and instinct.

“It isn’t subtle,” Sarjen continued dismissively. “You curled right up against him when you were a cat.”

“What’s dat got ta do wid anytin’?”

The head of Sarjen’s axe slammed down between the two suddenly, and Taz coiled himself for a leap at Sarjen’s throat—but it was merely for effect as the Death Knight answered, “Nothing,” with admittedly impressive nonchalance. “I’m glad you’re making friends, Umcha.  Juzmik is a good person to make friends with.” Sarjen shouldered his axe abruptly, and fixed the boy with an overly-amused gaze. “Would you say you’re an affectionate person, Umcha?”

“I dunno.” Scared. Nervous. Not hiding it well. “Not really.”

“Does sitting close to people bother you?”

“Uh. It ain’ sometin’ I’m used ta.”

“But you do it so easily with the Major General.”

“Dat’s differen’.”

"Oh?” Sarjen’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, close. Too close. “How?”

“It’s jus’—” Panic. Fear. Hold it together, kid, let him dig his own grave.

The boy shuddered, knocking himself off balance just enough to put out a hand, knocking his elbow against the Death Knight’s knee. Sarjen’s hand shot out, grabbing Umcha’s arm…quite unnecessarily.

“Careful.”

“Sorry. I—uh. Sorry…”

Sarjen’s grip tightened for the briefest moment, before releasing the boy. “Not a problem.” The boy’s arm was red, and Taz couldn’t help but white-knuckle the hilt of his dagger as Sarjen spoke again. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What?”

“Why is it different?”

“I dunno. It jus’ is.”

“I see.” An amused smile played on the snow-white lips as he added, “Regardless, I encourage it.  He is a good friend to have.”

Umcha’s head jerked up, and he met Sarjen’s eyes, confused. “But ya jus’…”

“What?” Sarjen cocked his head, unsmiling, eyes never leaving the boy’s.

“Nevah min’.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Did I make you nervous?”

“No, uh. I’m fine.”

Sarjen peered a few seconds more, then sat back, and gazed into the fire. “Juzmik had a friend about your age, maybe two years ago. He was a good boy.  Got himself mixed up in some terrible business. Juzmik stuck up for him; got him off the hook.  He was very kind. Nervous.  Young.” Sarjen sighed, and glanced over at Umcha. “The point is, Juzmik easily befriends people like you.”

“What ya tryin’ ta say, den?”

“I was just curious.”

“Is dere anytin’ else ya were trying ta say?”

“No.”

“Ya wan’ me an’ Juzmik ta be uh. Friends?”

“Yes.”

“An’, uh. Sorry I got all nervous. Ya don’ scare me, promise. …I just was tinkin’ I saw sometin’ I didn’.”

“I see.”

“Ya ain’ mad a’ me, righ’?”

“No.”

Liar, Taz thought. You can fool boys, you old corpse, but I see through you. I know you now.

His stomach twisted again at the thought of this…thing…crawling into bed next to Juzmik.  Next to his little brother. His teeth ground involuntarily, and he was torn between the need to end the life of the dead creature that dared assume it had a claim on Juzmik, and the need to wash himself, vigorously, after being in proximity to such filth.

Sarjen had threatened Umcha. He had threatened him. Umcha might have misunderstood it, or denied it, but a predator knows a predator—and Sarjen was as dangerous a one as Taz had ever seen.

And he threatens my family.

Taz allowed himself to breathe again once the courtyard was empty, and he carefully made his way out of the shadows, and back down towards the water. It had been years, many, many years, since he had killed outside of war—killed in a way that covered his tracks. That left no suspicion. But his skills were still sharp, and his will was sharper still, now. And the Warband—well…Juzmik—would never understand. So they could never know. They could never know what he had done. What he was going to do. If they found out—it would probably be his life. Or worse, they would turn their backs on him. But even if the worst happened, and it came to that—he could live with that outcome. As long as Sarjen was gone, he could live with it. Because—

Why the fel did I agree to this? Why did I agree to this?! 

Oh right. Adeverick was off in Krasarang for the last time and Van said Theidran was out. I'm sure he takes me for an idiot these days, some poor lost soul in the world. Seeing that dumb grin on his face only made me want to punch it. 

Light be damned why did I agree to this?!