Tyrael wriggled his hands and feet a bit, trying to figure out how strong the restraints were without grabbing the attention of his captors. What he found from this wasn't exactly groundbreaking. If anything, it was just irritating.

He was tied up, presumably above some sort of fire or something. Whoever tied him did it well, too, as he couldn't move or see at all.

Pleasant.

Carawin and Swallowtail were similarly tied up behind him, but they weren't moving. They weren't dead, that much was evident by their heavy breathing, but they were quite clearly unconscious. Anyone with half a brain could tell that much. And honestly, Tyrael was glad that he wouldn't have to hear their mocking sneers as he burned alive.

Oh, right. He was going to burn alive, wasn't he. Die and all that. Right, he'd forgotten about that part.

Death didn't entirely scare Tyrael. He had long since accepted that he'd probably die out in the wilds, and he had somehow managed to make it this far. Plus, not like there was anyone to mourn him. Everyone he had thought an acquaintance had left him, most not caring in the first place.

His father had left him years ago.

His old friend Mikirven wished he was dead.

Kedia, who he'd stupidly grown attached to, couldn't care less about him.

And his brother was

No one cared about him, not anymore. No one would mourn his death.

Not even him.

A nearby goblin called out, "Hey Throx, you didn't hit hard enough. Elf's awake."

Their voice echoed, becoming painfully loud and adding to Tyrael's headache. Things like that were, as always, extremely pleasant. He didn't think anything could get any better, even if the sky turned black and the rain started to boil. That would be amazing, of course, but never as great as this.

Another goblin, presumably Throx, sighed. "But why would we even bother putting him to sleep again? If he shall soon fall into the sweet, eternal sleep of death?"

Tyrael heard a loud thud and assumed Throx had gotten hit with the club. Poor guy, he didn't deserve it. Honestly he had a pretty good point. Although maybe he did deserve it, he was trying to kill people and all... still. He seemed pretty nice.

He felt a bit of boiling water jump up from the pot. It somehow managed to jump all the way up to his neck, landing on the spot where his head met his neck. It burned, making Tyrael feel like his skin was melting. He let out a quiet hiss. He'd forgotten how much burns hurt, since they weren't exactly the most common injuries out there. Why did no one ever talk about that, anyways? Some people complained that no one talked about simple things like how irritating long hair was, so why not talk about burns? Sure, Tyrael remembered all too clearly how much of a chore brushing his hair every day was, but that didn't mean it was worse than this!

The elf thought about it for a moment longer. As irritating as long hair was, it had benefits. He recalled someone he hadn't talked to before walking through town with some sort of weird dye in their hair. It shimmered in the light, and they changed the colors every few months.

Maybe he would do that sometime if he ever got out of this.

He coughed awkwardly, then raised his head slightly and looked around. It was mostly for show, sure, but he did it nonetheless.

"Hey, uh, can I please have a glass of water? Or something?" the elf called out, with the mindset that hey, if he was going to die either way, they couldn't exactly kill him if he did something wrong.

He heard a grunt from somewhere nearby – directions were tricky, considering he was slowly spinning while hanging from the ceiling – and then footsteps leaving the area. Although there was still someone in the room, seemingly walking towards him. Shoot.

"Do you think that I'm an idiot?" the voice was Throx.

'What.'

"No, no, if anything the other guy you were talking to's the idiot. You're smart, Throx! Or at least smarter than that other guy."

Was he really going to give philosophical advice to someone currently cooking him?

Of course he was.

"But the other people all talk the same, and I don't... And frankly, what are the chances that dozens of people are the weird ones and I'm just the exception?"

Tyrael awkwardly coughed. He was almost certain it was the steam getting into his lungs, but hey. Again. Couldn't care less about death. And at least he'd make someone else happy.

"Listen, Throx, if I'm being honest I don't understand half of what you just said, but you're smart. Trust me. I may not know what it's like to be smarter than other people, but I do know what it's like to be different. A, uh, outcast, if you will. So, again, trust me. You're smart." Tyrael, even though he still couldn't see, was dead serious.

"Promise?"

"I promise, Throx."

There was a noise somewhere around where Throx's voice was coming from, footsteps.

"Here the drink. Wear blindfold."

Tyrael clenched his eyes shut and waited for the rag to be taken off of his head and replaced with the apparent blindfold. He waited, waited some more...

A grunt followed by harsh clinking caught the short elf's attention. 'What's going on?'

There was a loud scraping sound. Then, there was a clash. After that there was only silence.

More silence.

Even more silence.

Deafening silence.

Deafening silence that wasn't going away and that was all too familiar and that needed to be stopped now.

"Throx?" Tyrael called out, now grateful for the echoing nature of wherever he was.

Even though it was no longer silent, due to the echoes, it was quiet. For a few moments at the very least.

Tyrael felt hands pulling off the rag and closed his eyes again. He'd changed his mind at this point. He didn't want to get in trouble.

"Thank you, my elven acquaintance. Let us take our leave." Throx offered.

'It's a lie for sure. Way too good to be true. Some sort of test, to see if I'm a good or bad prisoner.' Tyrael thought to himself. He'd just stay put, and maybe they'd increase the heat on the boiling water or something. Make his death a bit quicker, maybe even less painful.

"Do your eyes not open? Are you in pain?"

The elf didn't know what to do at this point. Hells, what could he do? Oh, right. Assessing the situation would probably be smart.

First, the pros of trusting Throx. He might escape. That'd be nice, burns really hurt. It'd be cool if he could avoid getting any.

And next, the cons. If he does escape, they could get caught. And then Throx would be in trouble as well, instead of just Tyrael. Additionally, there's the absolutely humongous chance that it was a lie, and then Tyrael would just be stuck in the same situation for longer.

Eh, why not.

The young boy opened an eye, the one that didn't have dried blood from his nose on it. That one stayed firmly shut, to his annoyance.

Before him stood a short goblin, Throx.

'Why's he standing on the ceil- oh right I'm upside down that explains it.' He tilted his head to the side a bit, to get a slightly more accurate angle.

So, Throx wasn't lying. Tyrael could tell that much by the hopefully passed out body right in front of him.

"Sincerest apologies that I hit you with a club. Similar apologies for the broken nose. And also for, wel-"

"It's fine, it's fine. I can handle it."

A moment of awkward not-quite-silence passed, before Throx spoke up again.

"So my friend, are you coming down? Or will you stay hanging like a bat for the rest of your days?" he asked surprisingly poetically.

"I don't really know how to get down, sorry."

Throx had a sort of 'oh yeah' moment, then quickly brought Tyrael back down to the ground.

Now that he was standing up and not upside down, he noticed how short Throx was. And sure, goblins were short, but most were around Tyrael's height.

'Must be a younger one then.'

The goblin, obviously feeling awkward, tried to prompt conversation with Tyrael. "So, are you banished from somewhere or is the earring a choice?"

"I'm sorry but I don't really talk a lot, I was just kind of talking cause I thought I was gonna die and was bored... I'm sorry." Tyrael muttered so quietly that even a tabaxi would've had a hard time hearing it.

But apparently goblins had amazing hearing, because Throx replied relatively quickly, "It's alright my acquaintance, I am much the same."

'Well that's a relief. Least I'm not the only awkward one here.'

Throx continued, "Am I correct in assuming that we shan't talk that often, other than the present?"

'Sure it's true but I'm not gonna just say it like that! That'd be rude!' So, instead, Tyrael simply nodded his head, looking off to the side. It was the only way he could agree without risking hurting his new travel companion's feelings. And, frankly, he didn't want to lose him.

Was he really already attached to someone who, just moments ago, was happy with having him on an elf sandwich?

Of course he was.

What else would he do?

The elf gave a short glance over his shoulder. Shoot. Carawin was at this point very obviously awake, and seemingly glaring at Tyrael from behind the cloth. His head was much bigger than his two travel companions', so his rag only covered his eyes and half of his oversized nose. Noticing he was mouthing something, Tyrael tilted his head to the side more than a little bit.

"I'll kill you. Sleep with one eye open, Pipsqueak." Carawin grinned, but it was much too wide to be a smile. Especially a real one, although considering who it was coming from, that was already the case. It looked unnatural, like someone had crudely drawn a friend's face from memory onto a sheet of paper, with their eyes closed. Especially if in this situation the artist had then proceeded to tear the piece of paper it was drawn on into shreds, throw them into a river, dump blue paint into the river, then redraw again what they saw with their non-dominant hand.

Pleasant experience all around.

The young boy quickly stood upright again, pulled his hood up again, and ran back to Throx's side.

He was not ready for this.

~~~

Throx and Tyrael were anything but chatty on the walk out. They didn't walk in silence, per se, just pleasant quietness. It was nice.

The elf tried to remember all that his newfound friend had told him.

This was a smaller dwelling for goblins, like an outpost. There were half a dozen people there at any given time, a dozen at its busiest. So no one really cared as one of the workers escorted a prisoner out of the building. They just sort of... stared. It was exceedingly eerie, and Tyrael would have a hard time forgetting it for sure, but he was glad Throx wasn't getting in trouble at the very least.

When they were finally outside, the small elf immediately shivered.

"Are you cold?" Throx asked, offering a coat that he pulled out from seemingly nowhere.

Tyrael tried to smile reassuringly but almost definitely failed, which was pretty obvious by the flinch that it prompted. "A bit, but I'll be fine. Lived on a mountain when I was younger."

The pair nodded, then both fell silent as they walked again.

Sweet, elegant birdsong filled the dreamy forest as little glowing bugs lit up the path. It was beautiful. If only there were someone to paint such a scene. Trees – if they could be called such a thing – were so tightly packed together, one could easily assume they were a single being. They ranged from pink like the sunset to a weird shade of bluish purple that Tyrael didn't think he had seen before but instantly loved. Another thing about them was how they seemed to have faces, each one etched into an eternal wail of agony.

Peculiar.

"So, where are we going again?" Tyrael questioned.

"You said you had a dragon to fight, am I correct?"

"Yeah?"

"We are currently walking towards a dragon that is known to be residing near Ghoulcrest. That is the town that you had mentioned, right?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

Tyrael had expected some sort of confirmation from Throx, but he was met with silence. It was starting to become a bit irritating.

The walk was no longer calming. He didn't know where he was expecting Throx to take him, but it certainly wasn't... that. The very thing that had been giving him anxiety for hours, even before the whole goblin stew event. But at least the trees stayed intriguing, so they held the small boy's attention for quite a while.

Whatever the glowing bugs were, they continued glowing. It felt like a scene out of one of the scrolls that would be read to a young child. Saying that they danced elegantly would be the understatement of any creature's lifetime, even that of the oldest of elves. The small creatures swirled freely around everything that they could reach. And if they couldn't reach it, they'd do it anyways. Their colors ranged from dull blue to bright green to deep yellow to light red to any other color Tyrael could possibly imagine. And then, just to add that extra level of awe, a few more. It was truly something that sounded like it was straight out of a scroll or something, Tyrael wouldn't have even believed it existed if he didn't see it for himself.

He was so distracted that he didn't notice Throx was on the floor until he was as well.

For a brief moment, Tyrael's vision went blank and his head felt like it was cut in half it hurt so much. But, just as suddenly as the pain had arrived, it left. It was unsettling, to say the very least. He'd had many headaches. First of all, they weren't supposed to hurt that much unless you had fallen onto a sharp rock. Secondly, he hadn't fallen onto any rocks this time, so the amount of pain was completely uncalled for. Thirdly, for some reason the headache didn't even feel like a headache caused by falling, or rocks. It was more like how Tyrael imagined getting stabbed through the back of your neck felt like.

A brief shudder went down his spine.

Maybe it was because of his nose, which was also hurting way more than he thought it should've, but then why did the headache feel like it was coming from the back of his head? Which, as far as Tyrael was aware, was not on the back of one's head? Finally, why was it so short? That wasn't how headaches worked. Especially non-rock related headaches. Which this supposedly was, but he was starting to question if that was the case. This whole situation was confusing.

Trying to ignore the weird phenomena that was his previous headache, the peeved elf opened his eyes,

His left eye still stayed annoyingly shut, so Tyrael's sight was slightly blurry. Plus, he still had all of his injuries from before, each one hurting quite a lot. Including his broken nose, which was just thrown into the ground, and hurt. A lot. Apparently the list of irritations was growing. Plus now his knees were grazed, stinging not very painfully but extremely irritatingly. His already ruined pants now had not only even more dirt, but weird things that weren't quite holes but were bigger than scratches in the fabric on top of his knees. So in a way, both he and the fabric were grazed.

But anyways, to top it all off, he didn't know how to fight.

So yeah, a few minor inconveniences.

The small elf got up, noting he now had a tear in his coat. Pleasant. He shivered a bit, now exposed to the coldness of the forest. He heard a slightly unsettling, very unfamiliar voice call out from the dark.

"Wow, you are messed up!"

Tyrael shivered again, but this time not from the cold. "What?"

The voice stayed faceless, but sounded like it was coming from... Tyrael turned to the left, but found nothing.

The stranger continued.

"I feel bad for doing this! Like seriously, kid, you need therapy! But, to be overly honest with you, Maktiem's busy and I need to stop getting attached to travelers, so, uh, that's the real reason. Sorry in advance, kid."

Tyrael thought he heard the voice to his right and turned again. But, as last time, nothing was there.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned one final time to his left and saw that a tall, purple figure with tall deer antlers and bright yellow eyes stood before him. He had sad but kind eyes, and his pearl white hair fell messily in front of his face. He had deep purplish-blue freckles, but they were barely visible since they weren't much darker than his regular skin tone. No one could possibly disagree he was quite handsome.

He grinned.

"Boo."

Tyrael's eyes widened to the size of small stars.

The figure's hand crept into his pocket, but he didn't notice or care.

The short elf's eyesight seemed to shift between this image and another that was far too f̷̫̫̯͑̈̆̌̓͂͋̆̆͆̈́̐͛̚ä̸̛̰͋̾̔͌͘͜͠͝͠ḿ̶̙̲̖͐̾̌̈́̂̄͌̿̆̈́̕i̵͂̍̋̈̐̑͐̒̽ľ̷̥̇͐̊̓̎͗̈́̃̋͐͛́̀ḯ̸̌̆̃͐̕ą̴̬̥͑̄͘r̵̲͚͒̈́̈̍̈́͒̀͋̐̅.

His eyes were now painfully focused. The tears had already washed away the dried blood from his eye, leaving him horrifyingly open to the sight before him.

The same figure as before stood before him, he had something sharp in his hand that Tyrael couldn't quite see. He brandished the makeshift weapon, eyes a color that they shouldn't have ever been. He kept talking in a language that he didn't know, and he kept attacking. He was scaring his little brother. A lot.

He was swinging the sharp thing – a piece of glass – and gripping it far too tightly. There was blood dripping down his hand, but he didn't seem to care, instead choosing to continue trying to attack.

He grabbed Tyrael's neck. Squeezed. Grinned far too wide. Laughed. All things he would never do.

And then he was suddenly several tones paler than he should've been. He was slouched on the floor and had the sharp piece of glass from the kitchen window clutched in his hand. And lodged into his neck, holding him in place against the wall he was slouched against, was the very sword that he had bought for his younger brother so he could be an adventurer like he'd always wanted.

Fyrdra tried to open his mouth to say something, but he was choking. He coughed and sputtered and there was blood coming out of his mouth and then he stopped. He stopped. He stopped breathing, he stopped moving, he just stopped. And the room went deathly silent as a paper thin trail of blood dripped out of his mouth and onto his far-too-red shirt. It wasn't a red shirt. It was a cream shirt, wasn't it? It was a cream shirt, a color that Tyrael had always thought was stupid. It was too dark to be white but too much of a coward to just be yellow or brown or whatever it was pretending to be.

He supposed that didn't exactly matter much anymore.

There was blood. A lot of it. There was a lot of blood and he didn't know if it was his or not but it was too much blood than could ever be good. It was red and it was sticky and it was absolutely everywhere.

The elf fell to the floor. He put his hands over his eyes because if they were even a little bit open he'd see

No.

Tyrael curled his hands, not noticing that he was accidentally digging into his eyebrows and cheeks with his nails. Air firmly refused to stay in his lungs, making him gasp and wheeze just to stay conscious.

He was crying. He was painfully aware of that fact. But he couldn't stop. He thought he'd buried this deep down inside of him and would never have to deal with it again but now Fyrdra was here and he missed him but at the same time he didn't want to see him again. He felt a hand on his shoulder again but didn't dare to look up. It was cold, too cold. Like an all-too-familiar ice. He flinched further into a ball on the ground.

The voice cursed, then muttered something, then continued.

"Hells, kid, I wouldn't have done it if I knew... uhh... Ok, uh... look up. It's me! Not your brother!" the shape of the hand shifted; a bit bigger now. Warmer. More reassuring. "It's ok, I promise. I'm so so sorry, just, uhh..." they trailed off, probably waiting for him to do something.

Tyrael opened his eyes and looked up and behind him, expecting to see something that he didn't want to see. He didn't. A kind-looking figure was kneeling before him, completely unfamiliar. They had longer, darker hair, like coal, and pale skin. No freckles, no horns. And their eyes were a cloudy gray, and more impatient than sad. Maybe even nervous, given their glancing around every few seconds. Their ears were round and much shorter, as was their overall figure.

Again, completely unfamiliar.

Good.

"Good! You've stopped crying... So, uh, you want a flower? Do you like flowers? There's heaps of flowers here so if you like flowers you can, uhh... Oh, um, do you want the goblin? I can tell Maktiem to bring 'em back if you want?"

Tyrael continued staring up at the figure, wiping his eye with the back of his wrist. He didn't know what to do at this point.

What could he do, even? Firstly, there was the option where he could pretend none of this had ever happened. He could walk away, maybe use the back of his sword to knock them out or something so he could get away. Like what he did at the tavern.

He thought back, remembering what actually happened, and internally cringed. Not an option. That just ended up being... awkward. Less than ideal, to say the very least.

Tyrael had always been told by his friends that when you did something wrong, you had to cover it up. Like when his old best friend Zenoré got some paint on her dress, she buried it behind her older sister's house. She kept telling Tyrael that no, he shouldn't tell her sister; yes, it would get them both in trouble; and no, he couldn't tell his brother.

After that she kept just repeating the fact that when you did something wrong, you need to hide it so you don't get in trouble. Over and over and over again.

Then again, Zenoré never was the most... happy person. A few months after that had happened, she suddenly started acting really weird, talking about things that were supposedly behind other people and freaking everyone out. Then she left town, and everyone was really sad for a while. They also all kept saying that Tyrael should be sadder, and then trying to comfort him. Especially Zenoré's older sister. She really hated their dad for a while, and kept coming over to Tyrael's house to draw with him.

He thought for a minute. Why did all of his friends leave town when he was younger?

Either way, Zenoré was right. No one ever figured out that she'd gotten paint on her dress, and neither of them had ever gotten in trouble for it. Which meant she was probably right, lying was supposedly bad but it was still useful at times.

But he couldn't just leave.

...He was going to regret this, wasn't he.

The small, shivering elf hesitantly placed his arms around the stranger. He was scared. He was lonely. So, even if this person had just tried to attack him, they could ignore that for a minute and just have some common decency.

He heard them utter another curse word then awkwardly pat him on the back.

A few peaceful moments passed as the pair sat in silence.

Tyrael stopped crying after a while, sitting up and away from the person. "I-I'm sorry, I don't know why I-"

"It's fine! It's fine! No need to worry!"

Ok, this person was definitely trying to sound less intimidating. Tyrael tried to get a better look. They were smiling, but whether it was genuine or not was another matter. But any way you look at it, they were being nice. Nicer than almost everyone he'd met so far.

"That's better! Now, what's your name?" they asked, smiling wider.

"I'm Tyrael." He muttered, feeling his eyes start to dry. It left a weird feeling he couldn't quite describe, but was kind of weird. He didn't like it, so he wiped away the warm tears with the edge of his cloak.

"No surname?"

"No..."

"Hey! We're buddies then!" they showed the small elf an earring, similar to his own. And, just like his, the skin around it was red and scarred from trying to go inside the barrier. "My name's Felamir. Nice to meetcha." They offered out a bandaged hand, presumably for Tyrael to shake.

And he did.

"Do you have anywhere you're trying to go? Or are you just wandering?" Felamir asked as politely as they could, but a bit of awkwardness and nervousness still crept through.

Not a lot, though.

They were seemingly quite good at this.

"There's a dragon I'm meant to be fighting for a commission, but I'm, um, lost." Tyrael replied awkwardly, hanging his head and looking slightly away from Felamir in shame as he did. 'Wow, can't even follow a path correctly! Idiot.'

"Hey, hey, uh... the dragon of Ghoulcrest? I know where to find it! Hells, I could even help you fight it if you want?"

Tyrael stared up at them. Their eyes were still nervous, worried, guilty. They looked like they were trying to smile, too, but didn't seem to have the energy. Smiling didn't take a lot of energy. Lying did.

They were telling the truth.

They would actually help.

They were nice.

They were alive.

Felamir stood up, wincing a bit as they did. They offered Tyrael a hand to get up, and so he did.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

The kind stranger advised Tyrael to wait where he was for a moment, and went off to tell their friend Maktiem that they were going to be away for a while. She apparently didn't take it too well, considering the yelling that ensued, but Tyrael saw the pair hug.

Felamir walked back to him, a grin on their face. It was large, but looked completely normal on them. Like the smile of a hero from a children's scroll when they tell the person they're saving that they're safe now. A bit funny sure, but completely natural.

And it probably was natural, too, given the lines around their eyes and mouth that Tyrael knew must've been from smiling often.

It was official.

This dragon was done for.

a/n
4454 words

fourth chapter! what are your thoughts?

question 4: what do you think of Felamir? (trustworthy, suspicous?)

i don't really have much to say, other than the usual...

see you next time!