[TomBrady12]

Marsillion slowly walked the sweat soaked Kariborim toward the stables, wondering why he hadn't thought of riding to the harbor himself. Tiru would have prefered to stay and tend to the horses, Marsillion did not doubt that. When it came to the care of the Kariborim, Marsillion knew he was not above the rebuke of the dark little man, despite their obvious class difference. It was well known that concerning the Kariborim, Tiru had authority over all save Abârpânaru. Marsillion himself had been on the receiving end of more than one tongue lashing at the hands of the passionate foreigner when care that, while good, was not quite adequate to satisfy Tiru's standards. Today; however, Marsillion would risk the little man's wrath. He quickly removed the ornate saddles and bridles, and turned the magnificent animals loose in the paddock alongside the roadway.

Marsillion's ride had been a difficult one. The weather had been enjoyable throughout the morning of his departure, but that afternoon he encountered a wild hail storm, incomparable to any weather he had ever seen. Hail stones the size of his fist were hurled from the bubbling sky, leaving both Marsillion and his horse bloodied. The weather streaked between warm sun, and dangerous storms throughout the duration of the journey, weather that would baffle even the most salted sea captain. Sleep was a luxury too rich for Marsillion's purse, and food was difficult to gather quickly, so it was quickly forgotten.

Marsillion's long strides carried him quickly across the distance to the house, where he was encountered by his mother, Ziraphel, before he was able to eat, bathe, and dress, as he would have liked. Marsillion could see lines in his mother's face which he had never noticed before. Where they new, or had he just been too preoccupied to notice them before? Marsillion opened his mouth to speak, but found no words willing to come forth.

Ziraphel saw pain written across her hulking son's face, and saw an unformiliar sag in his broad shoulders which discomforted her.

“Nimi,” she said, almost to herself. “You're bleeding.”

“Nimi,” Marsillion muttered aloud, recalling the name his mother had called him throughout his childhood. He had not heard it for years, but hearing it now somehow brought hope. “I was battered with hail,” this time when he spoke, the words were strong and powerful. “Do not trouble over mere scratches. They make good reminders that bones could have been broken.”

Ziraphel smiled slightly to see her son back to himself. She felt almost as if she were speaking with Azaruth, as she had years before. The thought of her murdered husband, coupled with the capture of her brother and the imminent departure into the east was too much for even wise Ziraphel to handle. Her lips trembled and she wept openly. Marsillion hadn't seen his mother cry since his father's capture, and was taken slightly aback. He quickly recovered and pulled the quaking women into his arms. “Do not worry,” he said in the sturdiest voice he could muster. “I will fix this, I promise. I will go to Armenelos and bring Abârpânaru home. I will bring him home for you mother. For you, and Kâthaanî, and aunt Inzi. I'll bring him home because I could not bring home father. I will bring him home,” Marsillion assured her, as he pulled one of his long finger across his eyes, wiping away the fear and doubt that must be kept hidden.

Ziraphel slowly let go of her son's muscular shoulders, and managed a slight smile. “Oh Nimilroth,” she said, no longer feeling the need to speak to him as a child. “You remind me so much of your father sometimes. Come, let us go find Inzillomi and Kâthaanî. You must be hungry, I'll have food brought into the sitting room where we can begin to make plans.”

Hungry as he was, Marsillion insisted on washing and putting on fresh cloths before he did anything else. When the dirt and dried blood was cleansed from his fair skin, and a fresh light blue tunic was belted comfortably around his waste, he went and joined the rest of the family in the sitting room.