He’s been alive since the early 1800s.
Jarl scrubs a little too roughly at Dory and Sheryl’s stew container. He’s back in the kitchen, washing dishes, after storming out of Father Gianni’s guestroom with frigid fear in his mind and fiery fury in his stomach.
MANUS IS OVER A HUNDRED YEARS OLD.
Shantown’s holy man trembles as he tries to wrap his mind around that, shaking hand turning off the tap. This man, who’s already a blasphemous magician with daemonic friends trying to seduce away his little Jasey, is literally OVER A CENTURY OLD.
“O-oh God…”
For yet a second time, Jarl speaks the Lord’s name in vain, swearing to him without reason or purpose and speaking His name with zero reverence like some sacrilegious heathen—like Manus and Áesta, themselves, whom have done nothing but taint and torment him since they met; done nothing but corrupt him and Jasey and Hagen and the whole parish and everyone that they meet—
~
“Wh-when I let you go, all those centuries ago, I-I found myself alone. …
“Wandering around with n-no one… Until I met this child: Jasey. … He filled my world with joy, Áes.” Jarl glances at Manus in surprise. The softness with which he spoke is a tone he’s never heard before; one filled with some strange aggregation of love, joy, sorrow, and longing—yearning, even.
What is this?
“So much joy—and wonder. He was not afraid—of anything. He looked at me and saw no monster—no mage tainted by a daemon.” Manus laughs, dry and hysterically empty, “He wanted to meet you, too—thank you.” … Jarl and Áesta both stare at him, surprised; and, perhaps, even a little frightened. There’s just something eerie about someone normally so chipper and charming loosing themselves like this. (Just how deeply does he care for Jasey?) … “I need Jasey back. Please.”
The daemon bares his teeth, “W’y?”
Honestly, Jarl thinks that’s a very good question. The reason he wants Jasey back is pretty simple: they’re brothers. But Manus… Well, they’re just friends, right? Manus is just the weirdo mage Jasey found in the woods one day and brought home despite all of Jarl’s arguing. Why does Manus want him back so badly? How deeply does he care???
“H-he is very dear to me.”
“O?” Áesta raises a brow; and there’s something about it that’s almost playful. Purely mischievous. Cute. “‘Ow dear?”
“W-well, I…”
The green being cants its head while leaning forward, bright orange eyes rimmed in lime glancing down at the picture still displayed on the bedsheets before boring holes in Manus’ mind, “How dear, Manus.”
“… I love him dearly, Áesta.”
~
The group turns to see Manus struggling to get up from the couch adjacent. Alarmed, Jarl and Hagen both get up to help or hinder him—they aren’t even sure which—but end up halted by the stubborn magician’s hand.
“There’s no way I’m just… sitting here while Jasey’s in trouble!”
The mage stands, fueled by fury and feist, and Jarl suddenly feels better, less alone, and stronger somehow. This person who can undo even a daemon’s magic, who can teleport through time and space (if unhindered), and who isn’t just knowledgeable in the strange things Jarl’s about to walk into but also loves Jasey dearly…
If he’s on Jarl’s side…
This can be done.
~
“hWhen daemons miss each ot’er, we nest: jus’ bundle up in t’e ot’er’s stuff—t’eir smell.” Áesta buries half his face in Jarl’s pillow, as though demonstrating what he means, “T’at’s hwat Handsy needs.”
~
“‘E’s yer friend, Ah get it.
“But ‘e’s also failed ye—and yer brot’er! If ye’re hurtin’—and Ah know ye are; we all do—t’en HURT.
“‘Urt ‘im: yell, rage, scream; t’reatin’ ‘im if ye have ta; cuss if ye must, too!
“Just let it out; don’ keep t’at pain inside ye: ‘e’ll understand.”
~
“Yea…” Jarl stares down at Manus, noting his pallid face but thankfully not flushed cheeks. He isn’t sick, but he definitely got close. Too close. Jarl needs to take better care of him—for Jasey’s sake. “He’s helping me.”
Father Gianni smiles, “Then he is a good friend.”
“He is.” Shantown’s holy man smiles briefly, warmly…
~
Jarl gasps as an overwhelming onslaught of memories slam into him and wage war in his heart, “W-why…?”
He bursts into sobs, breaking down as the past few days of affection clash ruthlessly with today’s revelation: the knowledge that Manus is far older than any human being should be and yet also… truly cares for Jasey.
The collision makes him sick, depriving him of air and vision until he’s sweating and panicking into the sink.
He can’t breathe and everything seems to be collapsing around him as he realizes he’s having an attack.
~
“Oh, God…”
Crouched against the kitchen counter, now, Jarl realizes some other things as his panic attack slowly fades. Like: how irrational, bigoted, and close to forgetting the truth he’d just been.
And how neither daemon nor mage deserved such unbridled hate.
Manus, for example, HAD ALWAYS JOKED ABOUT HIS AGE: citing
everything from a decade to a millennia. They Jarl had always just
assumed it was a game he played: a joke he maintained to upkeep his reputation
and undeniable air of mystery and intrigue, of other worldliness and
uniqueness, of magic and power.
But it wasn’t.
At least not really. Jarl actually thinks, now, that Jasey may have been right: “He does it to protect people, deartháir; those he cares for.” Because, really, what would people do if they knew the truth? Rage? Fear?
Hate like he has?
The more Jarl thinks about it, while calming down, the more he realizes he can’t really blame Manus; especially since he had never once really lied about being too old for Jasey.
(In fact…)
~
“I don’t like how you look at my brother.”
“Hm~?” Manus doesn’t even pause as he grinds herbs into his mortar. The head of his pestle is stained green with the blood of leaves and Jarl can’t help but wonder what ever possessed him to get WHITE equipment. Probably a devil.
“He’s only a child and you… WATCH him.”
“So do you,” the mage says, having the gall to insinuate that Jarl would ever be perverse towards his blood. Golden eyes pierce his sky blue ones with shrewdness and sincerity; it sends spines up his back.
“Because I care!!!”
“So do I.” The magician sighs as he sets his pestle down. He then cleans his hands with a clothe, quiet. “… I… care for him very much.” He frowns, seeming unhappy with this (And maybe he is: he’s something of a drifter, after all; surely… caring for someone… makes that difficult… harder to NOT stay.); then, “But I won’t touch him.”
Jarl frowns, too, unsure, “… You… won’t?”
Manus shakes his head, “I’m too old.”
~
Manus had never truly denied it, never truly tricked him, never truly tainted or tormented him.
Even though he’d never actually stated his true age (which he still hasn’t), it was still all Jarl—all in his head. All his panicking and worrying and overprotecting.
All his lack of TRUSTING.
Not just with Manus but Áesta, too. He realizes this now as he remembers the times the daemon was kind, patient, and understanding even when he, a PRIEST, was somehow not. Áesta had been wonderful, still is, and even managed to finally give him an approximate age for Manus when the mage never did.
And how does he repay that?
By calling him corrupting.
~
“Why do you do this to me, Father???” Jarl weeps under his breath, soapy hands carding through his hair.
The detergent stings his eyes but he doesn’t do anything about it—it’s hard to tell the difference, anyway, between that and his burning tears.
He sniffs, trying to think of what to do, how to apologize (because priests don’t usually ask for forgiveness), when a voice answers his vain prayer.
“Do what?”
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