Nothing makes sense anymore.

:- But it might’ve just happened. I - why is it silly…?:

:Gods don't assassinate Heralds!:

(an echo of a memory - a phrase exchanged once, twice, between his Chosen and Herald Vanyel -)

All information is worth having. 

:Why do you believe that?: Delian asks.

:Well, if gods assassinated Heralds that would be PRETTY FUCKED UP, now, wouldn't it:

Everything hurts.

:I…mean…yes. It - would be. That. Right. It’d be…:

:…It’d be - pretty fucked up;

:I think it was demons but Minhal says it could have been elemental spirits. Like vrondi only evil:

Believing that would be such a relief.

But.

:But - are the vrondi that, that powerful - or smart - enough to, to possess a person? I - I never heard of that, before..:

:Not vrondi specifically! They're not the most powerful kind of elemental, right, there are other ones. And even a vrondi can make somebody tell the truth!:

For some reason this conversation keeps being intensely frustrating. Delian isn't sure why it's irritating him so much. He's tempted to storm off in disgust, but...well, for one, that would be unconscionably rude and there's no reason for it, and two, then he would be alone with his thoughts. 

:Did you hear what happened when our weird visitor went to Sunhame?: he asks. It's probably classified information among the Heralds, but the Companion herd tends to gossip constantly. 

:Apparently the Son of the Sun set him on FIRE. It didn't hurt him though because of how he is WEIRD:

:...That's weird, right? That's a strange thing to happen, just, why...: 

Delian's sentence trails off, clearly incomplete, there's more ahead but for some reason he can't think it. It's too big to hold onto, and so it gets stuck on that endless plaintive question. Why? 

:Maybe the Son of the Sun thought he was working with our army? He's not though:

:No, he's not: Delian answers, absently. He's not really thinking about the Son of the Sun anymore. 

...He's not sure what he is thinking about. There's an odd blank spot, and he's trying to answer a question, over and over, but he's not sure what the question even is. 

Focus. 

:Something else happened in k'Treva: he muses, half to himself. (THAT part, he suspects is classified even among the Companions, and the update he got from Taver was...confusing. Probably he shouldn't be having this conversation with a young unbonded Companion, but he can't THINK unless he's talking about it, and even then it's hard.)

:He went there to try to talk to the Star-Eyed. Because...we think the Son of the Sun had gotten a Foresight vision? Of bad things happening because of him being here?: 

:Huh. Well, I hope that's solved now. Foresight's one of the least helpful Gifts, I'd rather be a Fetcher:

Why is this so INFURIATING. Normally Delian enjoys mentoring the youngsters, and he's good at it, he can be patient and helpful. He has a lot of free time for it, after all, and lots of field experience to share with them. 

Right now, though, he wants to kick the young Companion across the river. It's a bafflingly disproportionate reaction. He doesn't understand it. 

He remembers when he learned of Vanyel's Foresight dream. Secondhand, because by then he was already separated from Tran. Tran was upset about it. Back in the early days of the war, when he still came to the stables often to visit, he would hug Delian and sometimes cry a little where no one could see.

He never talked about it, though. Delian just knew what was bothering him, because he knows Tran. Even now, after years apart, he does. The war changed him, but not that much. 

Not yet. 

...Damn it, but he misses Tran. 

He tries not to be bitter. Or, at the very least, not to dwell on it, or show it in front of the youngsters. But it's hard, right now. 

And none of that is even the point.

The point is...what? It's right there, he can feel it, something hanging on the edge of his awareness, but he can't put words to it. 

Karis. 

Vanyel. 

Vkandis. 

Fire. 

:I'm worried it's not over: he says, distantly. :I - I have a bad feeling. Things could get worse: 

:Oh no, should we tell Taver?:

Delian tries to ignore the sting. The young Companion has no way of knowing his own complicated history with Taver; he's private about it. 

:Maybe. I don't know. I - suspect he's got a bad feeling of his own. And he's been very busy: 

:Yeah, he has a lot to do. I think his Herald is helping question Karis:

Delian kicks the air with one of his back hooves, before he can catch and stop himself. 

:Yes: 

He misses Tran and there's a dull simmering pit of some emotion he isn't ready to name, and that's still not the goddamned point. The point is that - what - he's so scared - the point is that it could happen again. And they don't understand it, and it seems like he can't even think about it.

He wonders if Taver can think any better. 

He kind of doubts it. Which isn't a reassuring thought at ALL. 

:I liked her: he muses. :Karis, I mean. It - took courage, to do what she did. To get out of Karse alive at all, and to walk right up to our King and propose an alliance: Grief and confusion in his mindvoice. :I...wish this hadn't happened. I wish she could be on our side: 

:Atsari thinks that she was actually just planning to double cross us the whole time and is actually working WITH the Son of the Sun:

:- Gods, you're so young: Delian didn't quite mean to say that, but it slipped out anyway. :Was I ever that young? ...I don't know. I wish I believed that, it'd be simpler, but it doesn't– did you ever see her? I did: If only through Taver's eyes, while he whiled away another long day in the stables. :She meant what she said. Confirmed with Truth Spell: 

He tosses his head, snorting. :Besides, nobody sane would try to kill Herald-Mage Vanyel with an ordinary dagger. She's not even Gifted! It's a wonder he didn't turn her into a smear on the ground: 

:Well, he was asleep:

:I hear he's killed Karsites half in his sleep before. Out on the Border: 

:Wow, he's so amazing!:

Delian shares a mental chuckle. A sad one. :Don't let that slip in front of him. He hated it. Hates being reminded of it. War's awful. You'd best pray to all the gods that the Herald you'll Choose someday won't ever be in that position: 

All the gods. 

There's a note of wrongness there, something off-kilter. Like a foundation, stable for years under the house it supports, but gradually wearing away under the rain and wind, in autumn floods and winter ice and summer heat. Unnoticed until now, and it's too late, the caulk between stones is rotten and crumbling and he's tiptoeing inside his own damned mind, for fear of sending it all tumbling down. 

And he still can't think it. Whatever 'it' even is. It's driving him mad with frustration. So is the young Companion who cannot seem to stay on a topic for longer than five seconds, but he still prefers the company over being alone.