Self-preservation

Martel still felt odd the next morning, waking up to an ordinary day of routines. He had experienced this before, of course; evenings spent in danger, replaced by mornings of schoolwork. Somehow, it hit him harder this time. Maybe because he felt increasingly isolated; most of his recent endeavours had been with temporary allies, people he did not share much of a bond with. He knew that he had to keep Maximilian and Eleanor separate from his many ventures, for their own sake, but it was still difficult keeping quiet about so much he had experienced.

Gathering his wits, Martel stared at the equipment in front of him. Thanks to Master Jerome's kindness, he had another bell of enchantment practice ahead of him, rather than doing his usual Solday chore.

Another reason to be annoyed about yesterday's failed outing; it had taken place during his regular lesson with Master Alastair, keeping Martel from asking for help with enchanting fire. He could seek out his teacher outside of class, of course, but since the Master of Elements taught every novice at the Lyceum, he was usually busy; when he was not, such as late evenings, Martel felt a little guilty for intruding, since Master Alastair was already generous with his time, giving extra lessons to the acolyte.

Of course, it was silly to let that keep him from asking for help; he was not making much progress with enchantment, and time was not infinite. Since he was going to the library this afternoon anyway for his meeting with Eleanor, he could stay afterwards and look up enchantment in the tomes; if nothing proved useful, he would look for Master Alastair tomorrow.

***

"Hey there," Martel spoke in greeting. As always, Eleanor had arrived before him and already gathered materials to their usual table.

"I wondered if you would make an appearance today," she remarked without looking up from her notes.

He frowned a little, noticing an accusatory tone in her voice. "Why not? I said I would."

She finally looked at him, and her expression flickered from annoyed to worried. "I am sorry. I should not say it that way. But I have been concerned since yesterday, and seeing you walk in here so casually – I do not know what to think."

Martel sat down, keeping eye contact; he could not imagine what gave her cause for concern. "Concerned about what?"

"I heard a rumour that a whole patrol of inquisitors marched off with you. It sounded ridiculous, but I went to your room more than once, receiving no answer." She spoke swiftly, the words almost tripping over each other.

Right, that. Someone must have seen him leave the square with the mage hunters, Martel guessed; easy to draw the wrong conclusions. He had not considered what others would think. "It's true, but they didn't arrest me or anything. I just helped them with their hunt for the maleficar."

She took a deep breath, and a few moments passed before she spoke again. "Why?" Her tone was almost neutral.

His turn to inhale and exhale. She always had to know. She could never just let something rest. This friendship would be easier if Martel felt comfortable lying to her. "You remember the creature we faced when I dragged you and Maximilian to the catacombs. How its presence could be felt."

"Not something I am likely to forget." Discomfort was briefly visible on her face. "What about it?"

"I told the inquisitors about it. They couldn't find it, so I went with them to search. It takes someone with magical sense to track magic, after all."

She stared at him with the disappointed expression he had expected. "Martel, why? I – no, never mind. You will not change. No point chastising you. Your life is yours to toss around or throw away as you please."

"It's not gone wrong for me so far," Martel replied with feigned nonchalance. It had been close on more than one occasion.

"Which worries me. At this point, I fear that nothing short of death will make you consider your ways, in which case, it would be rather too late." She spoke in a neutral voice, almost as if merely jesting about the prospect of his demise.

But she was probably being earnest; certainly she was right, he knew. Only a few fivedays prior, someone had plotted his assassination and almost succeeded. But what were his chances of surviving the Khivan war? At least now, it was his own choice to take risks, seeking outcomes he cared about. Stopping the maleficar would make the people of Morcaster a little safer, even if it claimed Martel's life. Dying to a Khivan bullet accomplished nothing.

"I'll try to do better," he finally said. It was the best he could offer while still being truthful.

"I believe I told you long ago to at least seek advice before going on these foolhardy errands," Eleanor pointed out. "Is it because you already know that you will disregard my counsel that you never ask?"

"It's too dangerous, telling you about my schemes." Martel allowed himself a smile. "You're one of the few people who could talk me out of them."

"I highly doubt that." She took a deep breath. "Anyway, you are here to help me. I should not give you trouble for your decisions. Time is also wasting, and I have practice after this bell." Demonstratively, she picked up the nearest book and began reading.

Martel did the same. Perhaps that was one argument for why he should display a stronger sense of self-preservation; should the worst happen, he could not help Eleanor find a remedy for her sister. Nor teach Sparrow magic, keep a roof over Julia's head, or make potions that would let her sleep. He had about six months left before he would be deployed at the front; rather than chasing ghosts among skeletons, maybe he should spend that remaining time doing what he could for the living.