Totally deanon'd again from the kinkmeme.
Original prompt: Kadar didn't die. He was brought back to Templar's HQs and treated back to life because De Sable really was only after Altaïr and Al Mualim and thus wasn't really interested in harming innocents.

This could almost be taken as an AU of A Thousand Sordid Images, considering my OC knight Jacques de Sonnac has wormed his way in once more. Hopefully this fic will help expand Robert's character, as well as the image of the Templar knights in general. Gosh, I don't know of any other AC writer that loves Templars as much as I do. Anyway, I absolutely love Kadar (he gets scammed too much in my other works), so let's see what happens if he lives. I don't think there will be slash, but who knows?

The Exception

He kept throwing himself at them with the ignorant passion of youth. It was unfortunate, but Robert had neither the time nor space to feel sorry when he sliced through the boy's leg. While he was distracted by the pain and sudden splashing of blood everywhere, the Templar Grand Master drew back his sword and hit him with its hilt- a crack was heard, and then the assassin collapsed in a growing pool of his own blood. The other Saracen shouted something unintelligible, and Robert swerved his head from side to side to look for his interpreter and emergency mediator…

"Sir Jacques!" he called out, and then remembered that said knight did not come with them this day.

The remaining assassin fought with all his fury and burning, going on the offensive and flinging himself against the knights, who parried and absorbed the flurry of blows. Amidst the whirling, rattling blows of swords, his knights yelled for his guidance, "Monsieur de Sable, this man is suicidal!"

And so he was. For one Saracen to battle eight of the most feared warriors in all the world- it was nothing short of self-destruction. Robert was a soldier, a monk, and a knight. He was a knight of the Temple. He was not a cruel man. "Draw back your arms and see if he surrenders," he ordered his men in Frankish, and then in broken Arabic in hopes the man would understand. He'd only wanted to scare them, to make them run. Never in a million years would Robert have thought that these Saracens would actually fight back against such impossible odds. Riding through the desert, just the sight of a single Templar knight could send an entire Saracen section running for the hills. Robert couldn't come to terms with why these men were fighting back.

Obediently, all his knights lowered their swords at the same time, keeping their sights tight on every nuance of shifting balance from the attacking assassin. Still, the Saracen did not seem to notice, and saw it as an opening to swing himself in full pirouette- he nearly struck one of the knights, but the Frank was better trained and was able to block the attack at the last moment, pushing his sword around in a giant circular motion. With a flick of his wrist, the knight disarmed the assassin in more than one way. "Your companion is dead, assassin!" One knight shouted in heavily accented Arabic, "surrender!"

The assassin again cried something unintelligible… but the words themselves sounded like open wounds. Then he scurried away to grab the treasure that was at the root of all this conflict. As he climbed the rubble, he was an absolutely miserable sight- sobbing with grief, gasping for breath, whimpering from the pain of his injuries. Eight knights below watched him, fully armed and none injured. If they wanted, they could crush him with a thought.

"Monsieur-" gasped one of the knights, already loading an arbalest with a steel tipped bolt and looking at Robert for the permission to fire.

"Non," Robert barked back, "let him take it. Those jackals at Masyaf will know the true fury of Christendom."

His knight nodded then, silently realizing the strategy of their inaction. To the Templars, the assassins at Masyaf posed an issue due to their expansive power, influence, connections with outposts in the Holy Land, and their dangerously ambiguous intentions. Yet King Richard, the figurehead of the Christian forces, was indifferent towards them and regarded them as mere pests. The knights Templar knew better. To have an assassin run off with the Ark of the Covenant would solidify in Richard's mind the need to lay siege on Masyaf and destroy these assassins at last. The King would not stand for such a humiliation against Christianity, and laying siege to Masyaf to regain the Holy Relic should prove motivation enough.

So they turned their backs and let the scoundrel assassin plunder his share and scramble his way out of the temple's ruins. After he'd gone, they came over the bleeding boy, and quickly realized that their assumption was wrong... but now he was abandoned by his brethren and cast away to die.

The one Hospitaller with them removed his helmet and began tending to him at once, muttering all the while about cruel Saracens, their barbaric manners of treating their comrades, their stupidity. "God's throat," he sighed under his breath when he saw that the cut did not sever any major arteries. The young man would live, given the appropriate care. "Why in the world did they keep fighting?"

"I know not, Sir Alexander," Robert replied with a shrug, removing his bloodied leather gloves and slapping them against a rock nearby to clean them. "Can you save his life?"

By this time the other Templars were also gathered around the bleeding youth, murmuring uninformed pieces of advice to the Hospitaller (who did not listen because he obviously knew better). "Tie his leg up," one said. "No, no, pour some flour into his wounds, I hear it helps with clotting," another rebuked. "Are you all idiots? Cut the leg off," suggested another. In the end they all fell quiet and watched the skilled Hospitaller knight tie a strip of cloth around the leg to slow the blood flow and apply a thick pad of gauze.

"God willing, he will live for now," said Sir Alexander, removing his glove and pressing the back of his hand against the sweating boy's forehead to check his temperature. "But where will we take him?"

"With us, back to Acre," Robert nodded for two men to help carry the assassin. "Load him on a spare horse, with that dead soldier in the upper chamber, and let us make haste before night falls."

They were eight knights crossing a difficult wadi on the path to Acre, their plumed helms reflecting the soft moonlight and their mantles fluttering in the wind behind them. Seven knights were cloaked in white, with the red Templar cross displayed prominently over their breasts and shields, while one knight was clad in black with the white Hospitaller cross embroidered into the shoulder of his mantle. Normally they would be camped and sleeping by now, but Robert wanted to press on while the weather was good.

"How is the Saracen?"

The Hospitaller appeared concerned. "My lord, I suspect he has a concussion, and maybe a broken rib or two. But his leg is still bleeding… if he loses more blood or becomes feverish, he will surely die."

Robert narrowed his eyes and nodded his acknowledgement, drawing the reins of his horse up and rising in the stirrups. "Then we will ride faster. Hyah!" He dug his heels unto the horse's flanks and urged the beast to move faster. If there was one thing he detested most, it was youths dying needlessly- pointlessly. Their work caused much inevitable bloodshed, but Robert avoided it when he could. This young assassin was a Saracen but he was not an enemy, and he did not deserve to die. God's fury be upon his soul if Robert let him perish. In Kadar's dying breaths Robert saw and felt the last moments of the innumerable children and youths whose deaths the Templars were responsible for… to save one life might not save his own soul, but Robert was saving Kadar for God.

Eventually, however, they had to stop to feed their horses and take a rest. With the crescent moon hanging over the night sky, the knights quickly set up camp. They laid down their bedrolls and quilts, hastily assembling makeshift overhead coverings. Robert dismounted from his horse and let the beast be led away by a knight designated to feed and groom them. Sir Alexander gingerly manoeuvred the wounded assassin into his arms, carrying him like how a man would carry his wife to their marriage bed. Robert sniggered, and this drew a look of poison from the English Hospitaller.

They set him down on a bedroll and Sir Alexander kneeled beside his head, carefully lifting the assassin's head and resting it over his thighs. Robert undid his own canteen, a leather horn, and carefully began to pour a steady flow of water between the youth's cracked lips. He was an attractive boy, with a well-proportioned face and noble features. A little wiry, but Robert suspected that if he were trained and fed well he could become a terrifying warrior.

"Sir Robert, forgive me for asking…" Sir Alexander and Robert worked together in perfect harmony, the Hospitaller reaching into one of his numerous pouches strapped to his waist and withdrawing a pinch of salt, which he dropped in Robert's water skin.

"Ask what you wish, friend," said Robert, shaking his water skin to dissolve the salt before repeating the action of slowly pouring it into the Saracen's mouth while the other massaged his throat to induce swallowing.

"Why didn't you leave him to die?"

"Because he is a Saracen?"

"Aye Sir. We Hospitallers rarely get involved in armed battles, but is it not the Templar custom to slay Saracens? They are not even human beings, but devils in human form. They impale Christian babies over fires and eat them, they fornicate with animals; they are the scum of the earth." As the words tumbled out of his mouth, Sir Alexander's tone rose- he could no longer hide his own growing disbelief at Robert's orders.

"Sir Hospitaller," Robert chuckled warmly, "do not forget that you were the first to kneel yourself down to tend to his wounds."

"Aye," Alexander was caught unawares, "but blood is blood, and torn flesh is just that. I was trained to treat wounds when I saw them. I acted without thinking."

"And so you were trained well. Sometimes thinking too much can lead to more harm than good." Robert strapped his water skin to his waist again and brushed the sand off his steel mail and surcoat.

Needless to say, the other knight was confused. "But the Pope-"

"The Pope is in Rome, and this is Outremer. Does a snail know how it got its shell?" Robert clapped Alexander on the back and waved to where the rest of the knights were congregating and sharing their rations. "Come on now, come eat with us."

Reluctantly, the conflicted Hospitaller left his patient and joined the Templars in their very late meal.

When Kadar awoke, for some reason he thought himself at home in Masyaf. But then as consciousness leeched back into him, he became aware of the stark differences- the air smelled like burnt basil, not frankincense. There was too much light, and the blankets were not as soft… He slowly blinked his eyes open as they adjusted to the brightness-

Suddenly a blue eyed man leaned over him and smiled.

"Ahhh!"

"Salaam aleikum!" The blue eyed man -such a startling sight- said with the widest smile. His shoulder length blond hair, the color of wheat, was tied back and his chin was neatly shaved. Even worse, he wore the chain and surcoat of a Templar knight.

Kadar blinked his eyes hard, then shook his head and blinked again. Was he dreaming? Was this Christian infidel actually speaking to him in the tongue of the Faithful? This surely must be some sort of cruel joke. "R-robert de Sable," Kadar stammered, because that was all he knew to say… Then he whimpered, because the act of speaking caused pain to lace up his side. Was he injured? He couldn't remember anything. Kadar ripped away the white sheets covering his body and raised himself up on a breath- only to have all of it forced out of his lungs by the sheer magnitude of the pain and nausea that flooded him.

"Do not move," the infidel said in fluent Arabic, "I will call for the Grand Master." He tucked Kadar's sheets in with those pale hands, the same hands that have killed so many… And he was gone.

Kadar sank back into the white cotton sheets and trembled. Where was he? Who was that man? Why was he here? Why wasn't he dead?

They were going to torture him. That had to be it. They were going to torture and interrogate him so he'd spill all the secrets of the Order, and then they were going to kill him. But what could he do? Kadar tried to turn on his side, but that again resulted in a wave of nausea that forced him onto his back again. The room spun around him, but he caught sight of a lot of brown… wood. Well, what did he expect? Gold? His right leg felt very warm, like it was being soaked and waved around in warm water. The sensation was not unpleasant, and before long Kadar found himself drifting off again…

Until, of course, he heard Robert de Sable's voice in the halls. Kadar quickly shut his eyes and pretended to be sleeping- too afraid to want to deal with the consequences of being awake.

Robert entered the room and paused, utterly silent. A shuffle of robes and then more footsteps. He was not alone.

"T'as dit qu'il reveillé." That was Robert's voice, though Kadar couldn't understand what was being said since the Templar spoke in Frankish.

"Oui, c'est vrai," someone else replied, again in Frankish. Kadar was beginning to sweat and took slightly deeper breaths to calm down his racing heart. Taking deeper breaths made him dizzy with pain too- his ribs!

"I have no …time to play this game," Robert said in very broken Arabic, pointedly for Kadar to hear. "Sir Jacques, your grasp of his language is better than mine. You tell him what he needs to know."

"No," Kadar spoke up suddenly, opening his eyes and slowly turning his head to the side to catch sight of Robert and his companion- the same blue eyed knight that was there when he woke. "I want to hear it from you, de Sable," he spat, "what have you done with my brother? What are you going to do with me?" He was no longer afraid, because he knew in his heart that he was going to die anyways. There was no way they were going to let him go now… now all that mattered was knowing if Malik was safe.

Robert looked down on him, and by the sight of his clothes Kadar realized some time must have passed since the incident at Solomon's Temple. For one, the Templar was cleaned and was clad in a suit of supple mail, over which he wore the mantle of the Knights Templar. His mailed hood hung down at his back, leaving his shaven head uncovered. Aside from a longsword strapped to his waist, Robert de Sable appeared unarmed. How long had it been? A day? Two?

"Fine," said the knight, and said something in Frankish to his companion. The man nodded and went out of Kadar's periphery. The sound of a chair being dragged across the ground, some creaking as the man sat down. Papers being flipped, and Kadar couldn't even move his head to look at what he was doing! He felt so weak… never had he felt so useless. Robert, on the other hand, was kind enough to stay in Kadar's field of vision, stepping over to a counter where he took a sip out of a goblet of wine. Kadar waited, every hair on his body standing on its end. Slowly, he was gaining his bearings again. He was on a bed. He was in a guestroom of some sort, since this appeared to be the only bed in the room. There was a desk now- he could see it while managing to keep Robert in the corner of his vision. The blond knight was writing something in a giant book. A little like a Rafiq or a Dai as he ran the bureaus… No. Kadar could not make that comparison! There were a number of shelves lining the wall, stacked with papers, writing utensils, inks, supplies, and the like. It was an office. What was a bed doing in an office? More importantly, why was Kadar on it? He looked back to Robert and swallowed his light-headedness. "What are you going to do to me?"

Instead of answering, Robert lowered his brass goblet and wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, motioning to where the blond knight was working. "That man there," he said carefully, "is the Seneschal. He works the books, handles the movement of men, the… ueeuh" he grasped for the right Arabic words, "… pack trains, the food… He took care of you for the last two days while you slept."

Stunned and confused, Kadar could only nod and remember to close his mouth. Thankfully, Robert did not need further prompting to continue. "I am the Grand Master of the Templar Order, as you know. But I bet you didn't know…" he touched the edge of Kadar's bed to make sure there was nothing under the blankets before he sat himself down on the bed and started to undo the heavy sword at his waist. Kadar's breath caught in his throat… he tried to move his legs but the Templar's wait pulled on the sheets and it literally sealed his body to the bed. "I bet you didn't know," said Robert, "that I was a shipmaster before this?"

That was unexpected. "Uh?" Kadar didn't know if he should be speaking. This tension, this not knowing, it was exhausting. What was he supposed to say anyway when the enemy started to talk about his past? Certainly no one instructed him on what to do in this situation. Kadar quickly looked around for anything he could use as a weapon- nothing in his reach…

"That's right," Robert passed the goblet to Kadar, the heady scent of wine wafting over the rim. "Until recently, my council assigned task was to tend to the trading ventures of… certain families… friendly to each other. I handled shipping and cargoes, I learned navigation and the mathematics of commanding ships at sea. I never dreamed I'd become Grand Master of the Templar Knights, you see?" He paused, wondering why Kadar was acting so dumbstruck. "Oh, my apologies," he withdrew the goblet and set it on a table to his side, "I forgot that wine is forbidden for you."

Blinking wasn't doing it. Surreptitiously pinching himself wasn't doing it either. How was Kadar supposed to wake from this insane dream? "What are you trying to get at?"

"What's your name?"

"Stop dodging my questions, you son of a whore!"

The scratching by the desk suddenly stopped- the room grew so quiet that Kadar could hear Robert's every measured breath. Be angry! He wished, because seeing Robert like this was scaring him even more. Templars were not supposed to be kind people. They were not supposed to nurse assassins back to life and speak to them as equals. Robert de Sable was not supposed to apologize for accidentally offering Kadar wine.

Sadly, it did not evoke any reaction from Robert other than a few slow, menacing blinks. "I think you are forgetting who holds the power here, my friend. I am not dodging your questions, merely entertaining them. What am I to do while my men are on the march to Masyaf?"

"You-"

"That's right," Robert rubbed his temple and cringed "Two thousand men are about to lay siege to your fortress in Masyaf, and I am not with them."

"Why?!" Kadar demanded, his spittle flying out in his uncontainable rage, "why didn't you go with them, you fiend? Are you afraid that my brothers will cut you down like the rotten curd you are?!"

"I couldn't go with them because the operation was deemed simple enough for a lesser commander to take my place and use it as training."

That was a truly devastating blow. "You-!"

"William de Rochforte, that's his name…"

"I don't care! I'll kill you!"

Robert laughed, and so did the knight at the ledgers. "That's a heavy statement for you, my friend, considering we had to bathe you and wipe you when you soiled yourself-"

"Why?" he cried, desperate, clutching at his sheets and gasping for breath under the constriction of his wounded lungs. "Why would you do this?"

"Because I didn't want you to die," the Grand Master simply said in heavily accented Arabic, looking down at his calloused hands.

"Why am I here, then? Why not throw me with the rest of your Saracen prisoners in the damned dungeons?"

"Because you aren't a Saracen prisoner. You do not fight under Saladin, correct?"

"I fight for the Order, for Al Mualim."

Robert had surprisingly clear eyes, and Kadar noticed that they were not in fact completely brown. They were amber in this light, glowing with slight fragments of gold and near-green. His face was set like a spade, very angular and strikingly well-proportioned with the innate look of a warrior and leader in his prime. The man was looking at him now, hearing his words but not quite being moved. "Right, anyway- if all goes well it will be an Order no more."

"Then why did you keep me alive if not to torture me?"

"I told you already," Robert stood up and stretched his arms above his head, completely at ease. Then he even had the audacity to yawn! "You are a warrior, or at least you are training to become one. I am a warrior. We have no wrong between us and I have no cause to kill you."

Incredulous, Kadar nearly shouted, "I attacked you!"

"Because you were an idiot, nothing more. We are going to treat your wounds."

"To use me as ransom?"

"…seeing how your companion was so eager to leave without you, I'm not quite sold on your worth."

No, no… it couldn't be… "Malik?" His brother was eager to leave him? He was injured and close to death, and Malik simply… left? Part of him was glad that Malik was alive and able to flee, but the feeling of being abandoned by his own brother was an even worse insult than having been rescued by Templars. "My brother wouldn't…"

"His brother's name is Malik," Robert said to Sir Jacques, who jotted it down without a word.

"What- what are you doing, you bastard?" So they were interrogating him after all!

Suddenly aggravated, Robert unknowingly reverted back to his native tongue, shouting "Tais-toi!" and then corrected himself, "my patience is wearing thin, assassin. I kept you safe, treated your wounds, I answered your questions, and you won't even tell me your name! Putain de Saracen," he swore, then threw a look at Jacques, "I will be in the courtyard if you need me."

Sir Jacques stood and brought his fist to his left breast in a salute, which Robert returned. Then the Grand Master retrieved his sword from Kadar's bedside (had that been there this whole time?!) and strode out of the room without a look back, shutting the door behind him.

Curiously exhausted, Kadar collapsed in on himself and tried to make sense of what'd just happened. He couldn't remember who cut him or injured him, though he did recall falling and praying to Allah that he'd live. Because there was so much more for him to do- to become a real assassin, maybe even a Master assassin, to get his own hidden blade… And now a Christian army was on their way to lay siege to Masyaf. Did they know? Is Malik there?

Altair.

Where was he? Was he alive? Kadar's thoughts slowed to a crawl. All of this was Altair's fault, wasn't it? But no, if Kadar hadn't egged him on, fed his ego, then all of this wouldn't have happened.

The knight at the desk coughed.

"Please," Kadar whispered to him, and then had to repeat it louder until he finally got the older man's attention. The slate blue eyes that rose to meet his were disgustingly kind for a Templar. Where were all these men before? How come Kadar had never heard of Templars with eyes like an April day? Kadar had seen Altair and Malik kill a number of Templars, all of them wearing their metal helms. What kind of men were they underneath?

"Yes?" prompted the knight, and Kadar had to snap himself out of his thoughts.

"Is my brother alive?"

Sir Jacques lowered his gaze and sighed quietly, just the barest expulsion of breath. "I cannot say, since I was not there with Sir Robert when he took on the expedition to Solomon's Temple." His Arabic was perfect, and Kadar couldn't help but marvel at it. "I should have come. If I'd come, maybe I could have convinced you to stop fighting. We had no desire to hurt you."

Kadar found that exceedingly hard to believe. "Don't lie to me, Templar."

"No, truly." Jacques turned a page and trained his eyes on that, and Kadar thought he was done speaking. But then the knight's brows abruptly furrowed and he slammed the thick ledger shut. "Sir Robert hadn't thought you'd fight back. Insha'Allah, God willing, you will forgive him."

If there was any testament to be found for the transformative powers of faith, it was this. In a moment, in a second, Kadar knew he trusted this strange knight completely. The tears came unbidden to his eyes, and he blinked out the evidence of his grief and pain. "If you were there, if you'd said that, I would have stopped. If not for trust, then for shock." To hear a knight speak the name of Allah would have made anyone –even Altair- drop their sword in surprise.

Jacques didn't reply, didn't apologize. He just took several deep breaths, and then opened the ledger again.

Knowing that the knight must feel some amount of guilt, Kadar decided to take advantage of their time alone to ask the questions he could not ask Robert. The knight answered all of his inquiries briskly.

"Are they really marching on Masyaf?"

"Yes."

"How many men?"

"Two thousand."

"Why?"

"The long term cause or the immediate cause?"

"Both."

"As you know, your Order has been causing much trouble with… with the Crusading cause. Your brothers have killed a number of mine, and we don't like each other." And then he added bitterly, "you know this."

Kadar swallowed nervously, because somehow in the last few minutes he'd forgotten that he was speaking to a highly trained and dangerous knight. Jacques really had no reason to feel guilty because the assassins have killed so many Templars! Kadar really had no leverage at all. "…and the immediate cause?"

"Your brother Malik took the Holy Relic we were searching for. The King wants it."

"Who?"

"The King."

"What King?"

"King Richard."

"...who...?"

"Richard Plantagenet is the King of England."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Where am I?"

"Acre, the Templar fortress."

"…am I bothering you?" Even though Kadar was in a sticky situation, he was still childish at heart. The words fell out without him realizing, and he closed his mouth immediately.

Jacques showed no sign of being affected, and just continued on scribing in his ledger. "I am not used to people sleeping in my workroom."

"Then why did they put me here?"

"Because if we put you anywhere else, someone might murder you while you slept."

"O-oh."

Silence for a while, and then the pressing issue of Masayf kicked Kadar in the back of the head. "I need to go back to Masyaf."

Jacques blinked. "You'd be an idiot. It'll be days and maybe weeks before you can walk again."

"…" Kadar didn't even know what to think. It was just one shock after the other. He lifted the sheets up and saw that his two legs were whole, but his right leg was badly swollen in the thigh, and it wasn't just the bandaging. As though seeing the wound made him suddenly aware of it, that leg began to throb steadily. There was absolutely no conceivable way that he was going to escape on this leg... and if Malik thought he was dead, then no one was going to look for him.

Even if, my some miracle, he managed to escape. would Masyaf even take him back? Would Malik survive the siege? Was the siege real or a lie? It was too late now. Did anyone even know he was alive? Kadar couldn't breathe, so he drew the blankets over his head with leaden arms and closed his eyes, praying to God that when he opened them, he'd be back at home.

He must have gone to sleep, because when he opened his eyes again he was assaulted by a raving hunger. Something delicious was in the air, like nothing he'd ever smelled. He couldn't even describe it. Was it Frankish food? Despite himself, he tried to prop himself up as much as possible on his elbows and locate the source of the delectable smell. He certainly hadn't expected to lay eyes on Robert de Sable again so soon.

This time Robert was speaking to another knight that Kadar did not recognize. The knight was carrying two plates of hot food, and seemed to be calmly arguing something. It was strange to see the enemy interact with each other in some civil terms. If not for the chain mail and swords, the scene would have looked somewhat domestic. Their conversation was carried out in a fast, guttural Frankish. It was the lesser knight who saw Kadar was awake first, and his thick brows immediately knitted in distaste. As soon as Robert noticed Kadar, he took both plates of food from his hands and immediately dismissed him.

The young assassin desperately searched the room for the familiar blond haired knight, but there was no sign of him. Kadar was completely alone now with Robert, and he didn't like it one bit.

It was clear to him that Robert was upset at something, since he looked like someone hit him in the face or something of the sort. Kadar shook his head- no, he could not lower his guard. The moment he started to make jokes at Robert, all would be lost. He'd made peace (somewhat) with the fact that he was going to be stuck here until he recovered enough to walk, and he had to rely on the enemy for his survival. He had to keep hope that Masyaf would survive, that somehow Malik was alive, that there was still a place for him in the Order despite the prospects looking more and more glum. Two thousand well trained soldiers and knights would surely wipe out Masyaf as he knew it- no amount of preparation or warning could save them now… now only Allah could save them.

...So he might as well suck up his pride and eat something.

Robert set down the two plates of food on Jacques' work desk, and now Kadar could see what was on them. Each plate held a roll or bread of some sort, half a game bird, boiled vegetables, and a bean mash. It smelled divine to Kadar's empty stomach, even though he'd had grander feasts at Masyaf. But Robert just stood there with his back to Kadar, unhooking his thick white mantle, unbuckling his gear, unstrapping his sword… it was like he was pointedly ignoring him. Kadar wasn't about to beg him for food, so he too played the game of silence.

Until, of course, his stomach betrayed him by growling feeeeeed meeeee.

Damn.

End of Ch 1.

Good job, Kadar. Good job... (I so love to mess with him.) I'm going to post this in parts as I write them because I think otherwise my fics are too much to read all at once. For anyone who's read my other works, please let me know if cutting it up into chapters helps.

Please leave your feedback, critique, and thoughts! Next chapter will be out hopefully very soon. Thank you C: