THOTH & MORVEREN
They stopped. Thoth had guessed that something wasn't right in his friend, and in some ways it was a relief to hear it verbalised than to have to wonder about it – but, equally, he secretly wished Tris could have waited until after they'd dried off before he decided to get everything off his chest. For the thousandth time since the ancient creature had invaded Shaman, Thoth wished he still had his water magic. He'd long since mastered the art of being able to dry himself and others magically; being without his water-bending powers was like being without an arm or a leg. He crossed his arms across his chest and tried to ignore the wet and the cold, and the pain in his broken limbs as the painkiller remedies began to wear off.
He stayed quiet while Tristan ranted, both wanting to let him run out of steam and also not quite sure how to respond. Why was he making such a fuss? Tris knew what Tarquin and the others were like. He knew that Thoth had been the subject of bullying ever since he'd first started visiting the castle as a young child. How was this any different to all those other times – or somehow worse than the times when Tarquin had actually broken his bones? He wouldn't have died. Thoth only leant out of the window in the first place because Tristan was there, to try and get Tristan to see what was happening, and he didn't believe for a second that his friend would have let him fall and die. It was highly doubtful that Tarquin entered the ward with intent to murder; he likely just got over-excited and went a bit far, and then had to keep face in front of his friends.
In fact, in some ways, it was a relief. Whenever Tarquin went too far, he knew it and tended to leave Thoth alone for a while. The young demigod could now look forward to a good few Tarquin-free weeks.
His forehead creased into a slight frown and, after Tristan had finished speaking, silence hung in the air for a moment. Thoth had never been good at hiding his feelings; his face showed clearly that he was trying to work out how to word his response. His vocabulary was wide enough, but his experience with being tactful not so much.
“I don't think you're being selfish,” he said at last, sounding ever so slightly stung. “I think you're reacting emotionally instead of thinking it through.”
Silence fell again. Thoth glanced up the corridor, half-hoping a guard would come down and order them both off to go and towel themselves down, but no such luck. He pushed his wet hair back and scratched at the ruined cast on his arm, which was starting to itch.
“Yeah, you have a responsibility to do something when people get hurt,” he began. “But what you do is just as important as the doing. Would your dad go and beat him up?” He let the question hang for a second, before pressing, “kings don't solve their problems by hitting people. Princes shouldn't either. I can go and punch Tarquin but you can't, because you have a responsibility to your position as the future king.” There was yet another silence while he let that sink in, avoiding looking his friend in the eye. He had a feeling this was the exact opposite of what Tristan wanted to hear. “If you think something should be done then maybe you should go and talk to your dad, but punching him won't help me – it didn't last time – and it might make you feel better in the short term, but it'll come back and bite you in the ass later. And honestly, Tris...” he shrugged helplessly. “He was just being Tarquin. He's always pushing me around.”
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