Gareth was out for only a moment, opening his eyes again to find Tag standing over him with the knife. He came to quickly after that, scrambling back and holding out a plaintive hand. “Don’t!” he slurred. “Don’t kill me. Please let me live.”

“Why should we?” the man with Gareth's cigarette case asked.

Gareth stared at the muddy ground, blinking back tears. “My sister has money. She works for Unity. Spare me and she’ll reward you, but if I die, there'll be trouble.”

“How do we know you’re even tellin’ the tru—”

He cut off with a gasp, the glimmer of a blade protruding from his chest. As it retracted, a spreading stain took its place and the man's gasp turned into a gurgle. His knees buckled, but before he could drop, a hand wrapped around his head from behind and slammed him sideways into the wall; skull hit brick, and Gareth winced at the sound it made. The man fell, leaving a stranger with a bloodied sword standing over his body.

“Knife,” Gareth mumbled from the ground. Somehow, the stranger understood his warning: when Tag charged him, he dropped his sword and easily sidestepped the other man's smaller blade. He then caught Tag’s forearm and twisted, graceful as a dancer, until Tag cried out and dropped the knife. He moved confidently, swiftly, only as needed to get the necessary leverage.

The stranger grabbed Tag by the hair, yanked his head down, and brought his knee up until it met Tag’s face. And just like that, Gareth’s second assailant fell to the ground, motionless. Gareth squinted in the dark. “Did you kill him?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the stranger said in a gentler voice than Gareth expected. He glanced at the other's body, where spindles of blood spread over cold cement. “I only allow myself one murder a day.”

Gareth stared at him.

“Just a joke,” he said when the silence stretched on. “A poor one, maybe. Sorry. Are you alright?”

His accent was soft, the vowels round. Northern, Gareth thought, though thinking was hard with the way the world tipped around him. “I feel sick,” he said.

Gareth shrank back when the stranger moved to approach, so the stranger stopped and held his hands up innocently. “Come on, it's alright. I only want to check your injuries.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Sorry, but you don't really have a choice,” the stranger said, far too cheerfully.

He was right, though. When the man kneeled beside him, Gareth allowed it, though he flinched at his gentle touch. “I'm looking for Kramer Street,” he mumbled.

The stranger tutted. “Poor thing. You're a long ways off, you know. It's too dark to see here — let's get out of this alley before your friend wakes,” the man said. He retrieved his sword, wiping it off before slipping it into a sheath at his hip, then helped Gareth to his feet. Gareth shrugged him off and took several stumbling steps on his own, but when he fell, the man was there to catch him.

“Woozy,” Gareth said.

“I bet.” The man bent to retrieve Gareth's cigarette case and pocketbook.

“Are you going to rob me, too?” Gareth asked, watching.

The man snorted and rifled through the pocketbook, slipping Gareth's displaced ID back inside in the process. He then opened Gareth's suit-coat and tucked it into the inner pocket, giving Gaeth's chest a friendly pat when he'd finished. “Nah. There's not enough in there to make it worth my time.”

“Uh,” Gareth said, awkwardly. “Thank…you?”

“Anytime.”

Gareth squinted at the stranger. With one of his eyes beginning to swell shut, he couldn't make out any features in the darkness. “Should we, erm...alert the authorities? Surely we can't just leave them here.”

He could feel the stranger's stare, even if he couldn't see it. He fidgeted, uncomfortable, when the stranger let out a disbelieving laugh. “The authorities? Really?”

“Is that so strange?”

“In this neighborhood, yes,” the stranger said. “They're not even guaranteed to come. Mind if I ask your name?”

“Gareth Ranulf.”

After a pause, “Not Ranulf as in the Magistrate of Unity Ranulf, I hope.” There was something strange in the man's voice, but Gareth couldn't place it.

“My sister,” Gareth said.

“Of all the rotten twists of fate,” the stranger sighed. “Hold on.”

And with that, the man turned on his heel and left Gareth alone in the dark. Immediately, he began to panic. He was alone and injured, what else was he to do? He held onto the wall, grimacing at the grime under his fingers. In this state, he wouldn’t even make it to the end of the alley on his own, let alone home. What was he supposed to do now? Was he going to die in this reeking alley? While he was still deciding what to do, his stranger returned: he heard boots on gravel first, and then that soft voice again. “I left a message with the shopkeep next door. They'll call the cops, or they won't. Now, come on.”

Gareth gratefully leaned on the man for support as they hobbled to the end of the alley, where they emerged onto a sparsely crowded street, lit by rows of street lamps. The man pushed Gareth onto the closest bench. “Sit. Let me look at you.” He knelt in front of Gareth, studied his face. Gareth shut his eyes, fighting another wave of nausea. “Atiuh and the Three, you’re lucky I was following you.”

“Pardon?” Gareth asked.

“I said you’re lucky I found you,” the man said with an easy smile. “I’m Roman, by the way! Roman Hallisey. I’d say it’s a pleasure, Mr. Ranulf, but I’m not sure the circumstances warrant it.”

“Have we met before? You seem terribly familiar.”

“I don’t think so,” Roman said. “How could I forget such a pretty face?”

“Is that some sort of jest?” Gareth reached up to touch his nose, but Roman batted his hand away.

“Don’t touch. You're swollen and battered. Looks like your nose has stopped bleeding, at least.”

“Is it broken?”

“I can’t tell. I don’t think so.”

“And my eye? Is it bad that it’s swollen like this?”

“You have a strange idea of good if you even have to ask. But you’ll live, if that’s what you mean,” Roman said. “It’ll stay swollen a few days, then you'll have a nasty bruise for a while.”

“You seem to know a lot about how this works.”

“I've seen a black eye or two in my time,” Roman said brightly.

“Right,” Gaeth said, unsure how to respond to that. “Thank you for the help.”

Roman patted Gareth’s knee. “Of course. Anywhere else hurt? They didn’t stab you or anything, did they? I assume you would’ve mentioned it already.”

“No, they just…hit me a few times.”

“Are you still dizzy?”

“No. Yes. Maybe a little,” Gareth admitted.

“You might have a concussion. Or be in shock.” Roman tilted his head to one side, his dark eyes wide. “I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. How about we get you home so you can call one?”

“Please,” Gareth said. He hadn’t been on his feet even ten seconds before he turned to the side and hurled.

Roman wrinkled his nose. “Strike that, we’re going to a hospital now. There’s one on the way.”

Gareth nodded, the taste of bile too fresh on his tongue to argue, and let Roman lead him down the street. Walking helped clear the nausea some, letting him think again. He eyed the young man's back. “Roman’s an interesting name. Where’s it from?” he asked, to distract himself.

“Interesting,” Roman repeated. Gareth could hear the grin in his voice. “Thanks, I think. Technically, it's my middle name. My mother was a bit fanciful, with particular ideas about who she wanted me to be. Romanos is a spirit in Troasian mythology, Ro- meaning 'above' and -manos meaning all personkind, or the like,” Roman said, waving his hand grandly. He seemed to do a lot of that. “She thought 'Roman' was a name for someone who'd do great things.”

“And have you done great things?”

Roman's smile fell. “That depends on how you define great, I suppose.”

“I'd say saving a man's life qualifies.”

 “Those men wouldn't have killed you,” Roman said. Despite his flippant tone, he looked away from Gareth, embarrassed. “Probably.”

They walked in silence a moment, until Gareth asked, “Then why did you do it?”

“What, save you?”

“Yes. I doubt anyone else would have.”

Roman shrugged. “I was there; I heard you shout. I had time to investigate.” He looked over at Gareth, then laughed at the man's affronted expression. “Were you expecting something more storybook?”

“No,” Gaeth lied, feeling his cheeks flush. “It's just strange to know I'm only alive because a young man was bored.”

Roman steered Gareth away from a hole in the pavement. “Sorry, sorry! Let me try again.” Clearing his throat and deepening his voice, he said, “And when the fearless hero Roman heard the man's calls for succor, he could not help but render aid, slaying the wrongdoers and single-handedly snatching Gareth Ranulf from death's icy grip! Such is a hero's duty! There, how's that? Better?”

Gareth hid his face behind a hand. “I'm sorry I asked,” he said, answered again by Roman's bright, boyish laughter. “But I'm glad you did it, anyhow.”

“Anytime, Gareth. Really,” Roman said. He stopped walking, and Gareth followed his gaze to a squat, prison-like building. “Well, that's it.”

“That's the hospital?” Gareth asked. It looked dirty. “Are you sure it's safe?”

“In this part of Gallontea, Gareth, it's the best you're going to find.”

Gareth wished he could see better. He reached up to touch his swollen eye, but Roman batted his hand away again. Gareth scowled at him.

“Are you touching just to touch, or do you need something?” Roman asked.

“I just...can't read the signs. I can't even tell what you look like.”

“Yeah, hence the hospital. If it makes you feel any better, Gareth, I can't tell what you look like either. You look like you spilled a bucket of red paint on your head then ran into a beehive.”

“That really doesn't make me feel better.”

“Then how about this: I'll read the signs for you. Realistically, they’ll probably just clean you up and give you something for the pain, and at the very least, we can have them call a cab to get you home,” Roman said, dragging Gareth slowly toward the doors.

“You won’t—,” Gareth began, only to bite his tongue.

“Won’t what?”

“You won’t leave me, will you?” Gareth said. Roman paused just long enough to make him self-conscious, so he continued, “Though, if I’m keeping you from anything, I understand if—”

“I’ll stay,” Roman promised. Then, tone turning teasing, he asked, “Do you need me to hold your hand, too?”

“Oh, stop. Just make sure they sterilize everything,” Gareth grumbled, pushing past Roman into the building.

“Sure, but if you need stitches, I’m waiting in the hallway,” Roman called, trailing behind as Gareth led the way into the surprisingly cheerful foyer. He squinted against the lights, wrinkled his nose at the sterile smell. While unpleasant, it seemed perfectly normal, as far as hospitals went. Gareth had expected worse. Seeing him relax, Roman said, “And that's why you don't judge a dragon by the shine of their scales. Sit, I'll talk to the nurse for you.”

Gareth slid into the seat closest to the nurses' desk, grimacing at the pain that raced up his side. He could see well enough in this new light that he watched Roman greet the nurses cheerfully, leaning against the desk like it belonged to him. Gareth couldn’t make out what was being said, but he could hear the songlike cadence of Roman’s accent. Roman Hallisey seemed one of those individuals whose age was hard to place. While he was old enough to be frighteningly competent, fighting like no one had Gareth had ever seen, he radiated an almost childlike exuberance. He was easily younger than Gareth's forty-two, at least, and he was sapien with no signs of any longer-lived heritage. If Gareth was pressed, he’d guess somewhere around thirty.

Roman wore his waistcoat open, with tight-fitting trousers tucked into tall boots. His hair fell between the two currently popular styles— too long to fit the close-cropped style of working men but not long enough to tuck behind his ears, a look currently sported by the upper classd. It was too messy to be fashionable, at any rate. His curls seemed permanently ruffled, and Gareth understood why when he watched Roman tangle a hand through them, pushing them out of his face. Nothing about Roman was fashionable or proper, but he had the charm and natural attraction to excuse it. The nurse nodded at something he said, then looked over to where Gareth sat. Roman beckoned him over.

“Mr. Ranulf?” the nurse asked as Gareth approached, pushing several forms and a pen across the desk toward him. “Sign these for me, please. We can take you back right away, but your friend will have to wait here.”

Gareth’s hand hovered above the signature line. He glanced nervously at Roman. Seeming to guess at his anxieties, Roman said, “I told you I’d wait, Gareth.”

“Thank you. Of course, I'll compensate you for your time.”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m insisting.”

“Even better. Now quit making the poor nurse wait on you; I’ll be here when you get back. You can thank me more then, if you still feel the need.”