In Which Searle Is Flung

January 3, 1174

Searle had once overheard Ietrin confide in Leara that he found the baron rather terrifying. Up until now, Searle hadn't believed him--but here the man was, intruded upon in his own home at a difficult time, face unfathomable and eyes inscrutable, every ounce the unpredictable nightmare Ietrin made him out to be. "Haven't seen you around in a while."

It was almost an accusation. He'd been a lousy friend and Sparron's father knew it. He should have ridden over the day Camaline had told him. He should have tried to figure out what was keeping Sparron's family occupied earlier. Hell, he should have called months ago, just to give Sparron those little reminders--that he loved him, that things didn't have to change. He could have fanned the flames at any time, but instead he'd let the fire die.

"I'm sorry, my lord. I should have come earlier."

The baron's stare seemed to say he shouldn't have bothered coming at all. "He's well enough now--for the most part."

"Can I see him?"

Perhaps it had been a presumptuous question; 'for the most part', after all, was not a 'yes'. Sighing, the baron turned around and stepped toward the couch, setting himself at the center of it. "Sit down, Searle."

He did as he was told. He was confused and betrayed and the last thing he needed was to make an enemy out of someone on a similar quest for answers. "Sir?"

The baron's hazel eyes vanished behind their lids. It was several long breaths before they returned. "Did you know that you're the only one of his friends who still puts up with him?

"He never used to be so troubled, you know. He's always been a little neurotic and somewhat obsessive, but he was a happy enough boy until you two started spending so much time together."

The reigns of Searle's heart gave a sudden tug. It halted and reared and flung him flying, and this was the moment when his head hit the tree trunk. "Sir..."

"I'm not blaming you." The baron placed his hands to his knees and slid himself forward, eyes fixed on a grain in the flooring. Searle knew what it was to study the hardwood. Sometimes, dark flecks were all that kept one sane. "I just want my son to be happy again. I want to know what's going on and I want to understand it."

In that case, he wanted too much--but Searle didn't have the heart to say that, especially not when Sparron's own lip was pouting toward him. "Searle, I'm going to ask you this and I'm only going to ask it once: do you know what's troubling him?"

Searle shook his head. "No, my lord." The lie was out of his mouth, but its aftertaste would linger. The baron wasn't the only one who wished for Sparron's recovery, but the man's own uninformed state was the only thing keeping Searle's best-beloved from going off the deep end. One day, perhaps, he would know and understand, but that day was not in this lifetime.

But if the baron suspected a lie, he didn't mention it. "I see. Can I trust you to inform me if you figure it out?"

It was a cruel world indeed if the collision of two loves meant the destruction of a soul. It was even crueler if the only things that held those forces at bay were lies. "I'll keep you posted, sir."

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