Chapter Text
The boy practically ran out of the war tent once his message had been delivered, barely even waiting to see if his Commander wanted to send a response back. He didn't, as it happened, but still. Very unprofessional.
"You know," Carthian murmured, resting his chin in his hand. "I keep forgetting how people react to you. Normal people, I mean."
Spindle stepped forward from the corner he'd been not-so-inconspicuously lurking in, looking down at the seated man with something that might, possibly, have been amusement. Or perhaps anger. Hard to tell, sometimes.
"Implying that you are not normal?" the half-demon asked archly, raising something that, had it had hair, would have been an eyebrow. As it was, it was a smooth arch of paper-white skin over bone, over eyes as washed-out and cold as spring waters. Eyes that Carthian rather fancied currently shone with humour.
"I spend quite a large portion of what little free time I have with you, don't I?" He smiled, waving a hand absently. "My reputation for sanity is rapidly approaching the negative. I do hope you're happy, by the way."
Spindle grinned, with a lot of teeth, setting his hip against the edge of the desk. Which, thankfully, was solid enough to bear it. An extravagant luxury on campaign, such a piece of furniture, but, well, Carthian was a Lord, and moderately well off. "I was under the impression that insanity was more or less promised to you, when your god sent you to join me."
"It was mentioned once or twice, yes. Or perhaps twenty." He flashed a grin, letting it take the edge off, and sat back in his (unfortunately rather more rickety) chair. He was tempted to prop his boots on the desk, but decided he'd rather not risk it. Neither the chair nor, perhaps, Spindle would take it well. "Though really. How am I supposed to get any work done, when all my subordinates practically piss themselves in terror whenever you're in a room with me?"
The half-demon looked at him for a second, eyes suddenly narrowing, and Carthian carefully let no change flicker over his expression. Not even when Spindle stood and twisted towards him in one fluid, oddly angular movement, leaning suddenly and somewhat menacingly over him. He settled for raising a questioning eyebrow instead, and taking a quiet moment to be grateful that he hadn't put his feet up.
"And you ... aren't? Afraid of me?" Spindle rumbled, leaning close with a sharp little grin, his tongue flickering out briefly as though to test the air for the scent of Carthian's fear. Which was present, certainly. But nowhere near as much as outsiders, and perhaps sanity, might suggest.
"Absolutely terrified," he deadpanned, mild as milk and very carefully, very visibly, not smiling. "I tremble in terror whenever you're near me."
Spindle blinked at him, studying him. Then laughed faintly, like the sound of crumbling bone, and reached to touch lightly at Carthian's knee with one silver fingertip, just over his boot. His weapon hand, bright and gleaming above the leather. "Trembling in your boots, are you?" he murmured. "And here I thought servants of the Danfar were supposed to be honest ..."
"Now see here!" Carthian shot back, in a very credible impression of offense. "I'll have you know my god has never once complained about my service!" Not within mortal hearing, at any rate. Whatever the gods said to each other was another matter entirely. "It's the truth, sir!" A grin, flickering there and gone again. "Do I not seem frightened to you?"
The half-demon smiled at him, a shattered gleam of teeth. "I'm not sure," he mused, watching Carthian thoughtfully. "Perhaps you believe you have your god's favour, and are in no danger?"
And that ... that was a rather more serious accusation. A rather more serious and dangerous implication. Best to nip that one in the bud, Carthian thought. Best to stop that right there.
"In my experience," he said, and for once there was no humour in his voice, "men who walk to battle sure in the knowledge that their god will not let them be hurt tend to get killed rather shortly afterwards. By their own stupidity as much as anything else." And then, a small smile, to lighten it. "Gods are lazy, you see. The less work you make them do, the more they favour you. So, yes. I think I have my god's favour." A sharp, deadly little grin. "For however long I can make sure he doesn't have to show it."
Spindle laughed at that. Threw back his head, long and harsh. At the sound of it, outside the tent, someone dropped something that sounded heavy and full of tools. Carthian winced mildly. Really, his men simply must start acting professionally around the demon.
"Your god must be very tolerant," Spindle noted, when the laughter had died back, still chuckling intermittently. "I didn't know the Danfar let such cavalier men be his soldiers."
Carthian waved a hand lightly. "Troubled times," he dismissed. "Though, admittedly, it might have something to do with the fact that I am the oldest servant of any god still in active service and not tied to a desk. Mostly because I'm the oldest soldier still alive to be in active service." A rueful twist of his mouth. "At a doddering 48 years old. Heh. Most of the war servants tend to be dead before they're forty, these days."
Spindle tilted his head, frowned down at him. "Good at it, then?" he asked casually. "Staying alive?"
Carthian smiled thinly up at him. "I have been moderately successful," he agreed. "Some luck, some judgement. The occasional flash of insanity in the right places." He shrugged. "As I said. The gods mostly favour those who favour themselves. I have yet to have any god need to show me overt favour."
Silence, for a second. Then Spindlebone leaned close again. Touched that deadly silver arm to his knee once more. Just gently. "And what of demons?" he asked, very softly. "Have there been any demons, to show you favour?"
Carthian froze for a small second. Uncertain. Was that ...? But no. Certainly not. And irrelevant either way.
"Not to my knowledge," he answered shortly. In part an answer to Spindle's nature. Not the demon. The treachery. Letting the half-demon know he was not depended upon, so that he need not yet betray them. And partly honestly, because after forty eight years he was still alive, and for a reason. "I imagine, though, that the favour of demons would be much like the favour of gods." A small, faintly cynical little smile. "There largely so long as it is not needed?"
Spindle looked thoughtful, for a second. Thoughtful and dangerous, an angular, deadly figure leaning over Carthian, that cold, metallic hand still hovering at his leg. A hand that could sprout a blade the way a seed sprouted a vine, in far shorter a time. But fair enough. Carthian had had his own small blade in his sleeve since first he had been assigned to the half-demon. Well, no. Since after his first battle with the forces of darkness, really, some thirty-five odd years ago.
He'd always been something of a fast learner. And a knife no-one expected you to have was always a bonus to a situation.
"Much like the favour of gods, yes," the half-demon said at last. Musing, light. Almost, Carthian thought, amused at the thought, that gods and demons should be so alike. Or, perhaps, that gods and half-demons should be so alike. Pale eyes flicking towards Carthian with a gleam of suspicion and a grudging flare of amused respect. "Though you really should show your fear more, if that's the case. Wouldn't do to look overconfident, now would it?" A smile like a blade of ice, but there was challenge in winter eyes, and almost anticipation. Almost hope.
Carthian grinned, bladed all his own, and reached down to tap the back of a silver hand imperiously. "Where would the fun be in that?" he asked. And then grimaced, mildly. "Besides. It seems my men will be showing enough fear for all of us, at least where you're concerned."
Spindlebone laughed, pulling himself to his feet and standing back from the desk. Back towards his favourite corner. "Maybe they're smarter than you are," he opinioned. "Or saner."
Carthian shrugged, smiling lightly. "Perhaps," he agreed, and settled his chin back in his hand.