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STOLEN BY THE PAST Chapter Two: Looking up at the tavern, Tajar's eyes could barely be recognised as his own. Although they were still smooth like glass and as brown as the chestnuts growing in the trees, they were now filled with worry and nerves - even fear. Gone had their usual softness; the laugh that never left had retreated into hiding. The moment had finally arrived. There was one last cord that needed cutting. He was here to break Deilan's heart. His eyes betrayed him, the way they always did when he sat outside the tavern. On summer evenings with the flies buzzing around his face and a glass of red wine in his hands, even when laughing with friends. Always he would look up, back to that place that had changed everything. Sandpoint. He shuddered and let his eyes drop away again. Two men had died up there - two men Tajar had liked. Crispin he had even tried to love. Blonde and strong, rough-handed, just like the man inside the tavern. He hesitated. He didn't feel ready to face Deilan. But would he ever? He had delayed this meeting for too long already. It had been four weeks since he had walked out on Deilan and their two-year-long relationship. Suddenly, he wished that his friends were with him. How he missed them all. The horrendous noise that only Silas could make, Had'Rian's adult and mature comfort. He missed Behan - all of him. His sad, soulful eyes, his hesitant smile; the way his hair always smelt of the earth. But he'd sent them all away. Telling them that he was brave enough to face Deilan alone. Perhaps he wasn't. The doorway opened before him. A middle-aged mortal couple moved through it. Tajar knew their faces but not their names. The man - not unattractive in his own farm-hand way - held the door open for Tajar to take. He was forced to accept. |
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Immediately, he was met with the familiar smells and sounds of his old home. The room was filled with the loud sounds of the band and of laughter and shouting. The air was thick with smoke and the strong smell of alcohol. He had missed it. The rowdiness of a tavern on a weeknight always made him come alive, reminding him of the times when he'd been able to take any man or woman he wished to bed with him. Back then he'd been able to wake the next morning and ride onto the next town, and the next man or woman. Moving through the crowd, Tajar called greetings to those in town who had not labelled him a heartbreaker and a swine. The ending of his relationship with Deilan had become such a public affair. For a private person like Tajar it had become almost unbearable. People whispered behind their hands whenever he approached and he could see the hatred in their eyes. It was he, Tajar, who had been blamed by most. A young coltish out-of-town immortal who had swept Deilan up with his stories of apocalypses and Lucretious, and then cruelly dumped him when he had grown bored. For two years now Tajar had lived in this town so he had friends but Deilan had been in residence for centuries, therefore most people remained loyal to him. As far as the people of Fhen were concerned Tajar was the enemy; it was he who had hurt Deilan. He wondered who was in fact to blame or if blame could ever be decided in these matters. At the bar, he leaned forward and waited for Deilan to see him. He supposed he should call out but he didn't want to. Let Deilan find him - Deilan liked being the one in control.
He eyed his old lover for a while. He asked himself how it had changed between them, and why. He remembered returning from Sandpoint - how could he forget? Beaten and tired, carrying a badly scarred Silas in his arms. Deilan had taken him in - he'd taken them all. Opening up his doors to the company, letting them stay for free in the rooms above. Tajar smiled to himself. For he had not spent even one night in his room; instead, he had descended the stairs, invited himself into Deilan's personal quarters and not left again.
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