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Automaton (AnonymousRaine x Lenaara)

Her words passed through me like a cool breeze. They meant little. Some part of me wondered how she had gotten free, but the sliced rope on the ground behind her and knife in hand gave enough hints to satisfy me. I didn't think it necessary to search her for more weapons. I thought I'd keep my eye on her for as long as necessary, as to stop her from seeking any.


Accidents happen.


It didn't especially seem to bother me right now.


Through a thick layer of apathy I functioned, moving into the shelter of the trees and waiting for her to expose the wound. While she began to disrobe I fetched the rope, cut in two but still usable, and coiled it into my rucksack.


Moving behind her then, I knelt without a sound. The knife was heavy in my hand, and took more control to direct the movements but it was not difficult.


One leg of the 'x' still sat, weeping openly down her back. The arrow looked harmless, innocent, but something kept me from wanting to touch it.


I said nothing. I breathed shallow and soft. Small plumes of moisture escaped into the cold night air - although it was not as dark as it previously seemed - and slowly I moved the blade to her wound.


It was quick. Three more slices completed the action and with nimble fingers plucked the arrow from its found home, gently laying it aside.


It wasn't too deep, in the end. The head had just barely buried itself beneath the surface and extraction was a simple matter. Leaving it imbedded kept further contaminants from entering the wound. Cleaning became the next task and I stood, taking the arrow with me and walking back out into the rain.


She mentioned the walk to Sirdca not being far. Was it really? How much of her trust had truly been earned, been stolen, in the time of need?


The currents of the stream were swift. Placing the arrow in the flow I let loose my grip, allowing the water to take it away. I kept my hand in the water, watching in the surrounding darkness as the fresh blood on my hands was washed away.


How much did I trust her? She had freed herself from her bonds but neglected the opportunity to kill me. To injure me. Granted, were it not for me the arrow would still be infecting her. But if Sirdca were to genuinely be close, would she have made it?


These were questions I saw no point in asking.


Retrieving a small patch of clean gauze from my pack I dipped it into the stream, and taking another I returned behind her.


"Tell me of these Cleansing Pyres you spoke of before. It seems that rumors have been spreading in our absence."


The words were cold and emotionless. The apathy was almost refreshing now, compared to the dismal fear and anger that enveloped me before. My hands moved without thought, gently and briskly cleansing the wound with the wet cloth before packing it firmly with the dry. No doubt contact of any sort in the gash hurt like the hells - but it would keep safe this way until antisceptic and proper medical attention could be found.


I picked up my knife again, using the reverse side of the wetted cloth to clean it while I spoke.


"We have always had those fearful but you make it sound as if your religions have latched onto us as a symbol of evil."


I chose to ignore her comment about sleeping in trees. Partially because of the racist overtones. And partially because, in all honesty, lacking a warm bed and soft sheets, I would.
 
Without being able to see what was happening behind her Irene’s other senses sharpened to accommodate for the lack of sight. She felt a cool breeze against her skin over her exposed scarred forearms roped with lean and strong muscle. The very same breeze ducked into the cut open shirt at the shoulder. The dried blood had kept her warm, but the new streams made the cool breeze ice cold against her exposed skin.


Through the labyrinth of clotted blood, the elf would be able to see old scars criss-crossing her back. They were just white slashes, some long and thin, others wider and older. They faded into her skin with age, but some were still vivid against the tan. One such was visible just at the fresh wound – it was a corner of the scar, either its start or end. Smooth and long, it disappeared beneath her shirt going across and down her back. And then above the fresh wound was the black marking of a tattoo, a fraction of it peeking from over her shoulder. The rest was hidden well by the high collar of her shirt that she pushed even closer to her neck.


She did not hear the elf sit down but rather felt it by the soft breeze that pushed the cloth of her shirt against her back.


Without so much as a word of warning the knife dipped into her skin. Three slices, cut deep enough into her flesh to release the arrow. The pain was blinding. It soared through her body, made her want to flinch away from the blade at her back but Irene kept still. Her shoulders were tense, the muscles of her arms taunt. Soon the tug came against the wooden length of the arrow. Pain was growing steadily and Irene felt her vision blur with tears.


After a pull the arrow was gone from her shoulder and she reminded herself to breathe.


With the arrow gone from her flesh Irene slouched forward, her left arm limp at her side and her right now raised to her shoulder as if having put a hand over it would stop the pain from soaring through her veins. She was panting heavily, her teeth clenched so hard it hurt.


Through the pain she stopped feeling the cold biting her skin. Sweat appeared on her temples and the small of her back; her body suddenly felt very hot.


By the time the elf came back Irene had managed to calm down her breathing and straighten. Her hand slipped from her shoulder and rested on the biceps of her left arm.


“You haven’t seen them?” It was all she managed to say before the cool wet cloth touched the injury. Irene hissed and groaned through gritted teeth and leaned forward, jerking away from the gentle but painful touch. Through sheer force of will she forced herself to sit back and let the man treat her wound.


Moisture blurred her vision and she blinked it away. Tears slid down her cheeks.


Irene had to take a deep shaky breath before she continued to speak and forced her hand to release the steel grip on her bicep. Her knuckles had turned white and deep red marks were left over the skin where she held it.


“I…no. Not religions. The Priests always shouted nonsense on the streets. Only lately people began to listen.” She lifted her right hand and ran it over her face to wipe away the tears and the beads of sweat. “The crops were scarce. The fish was few. Swamps are spreading over the borders, consuming the farmlands. People wanted someone to blame, your people and others were the first ones to be accused. The Blessed took this as an opportunity to preach more and grow in power. I…do not know how it began. I was not here. And when I found out it was after a Priest nearly hauled me off to a Cleansing Pyre to burn the…ah, how did he call me? The Sterile Witch.”


Irene moved to the side and rested her shoulder against the cool stone of the nearby boulder. With one knee pulled up to her chest she rested the back of her head against the stone and angled it to look at the elf. At least now she could look him in the eye as they spoke.


“A Cleansing Pyre is, well, a bunch of wood stacked together and dubbed a pretty name. It is blessed by a Priest from the Church of the Blessed, and then some poor soul is tied to the pole in the middle. Then it is set on fire. It is one of the ways to execute non-humans and all those associated with them. They burn daily in Escus. But not with non-humans. People jump at the opportunity to accuse their neighbour of having longer ears or odd eyes. Everyone with a deformity is accused and then executed. Their belongings go to the Church; coin goes to the ones who yelled the accusation. There is no trial. Not a fair one at least.” Irene’s brows furrowed for a moment. “Last week I was passing through a village by Sidra, the river. I had seen a girl be tied to a large stone with iron chains and then thrown into the river. They said if she was an elf, the current would snap the chain and she would swim to the surface. If she was not, she would drown.”


She clenched her jaw at the memory and pressed her lips into a thin line. “The girl drowned. If she had not, she would have been quartered.”


There was bile in her words and she had to take a deep breath and calm down in case there was something else lurking nearby akin to the bogge. It was hard to speak of such vile things as the Cleansing Pyres without coating the words in poison.


“A boy tried to save her. Her lover, I am assuming. Maybe her husband or even a brother. He was…” Irene felt her stomach turn. “He was forced to sit on a sharp and thick pole. Then it was raised and he…slid down. I left that village the same evening after restocking on provisions. The boy was still alive when I left.”


The rain had nearly stopped as Irene spoke. A cool breeze swept through the forest and sent chills down her bare arms.


“You should return to your home forest. It is not safe for your kind to be here. It was never safe. If you are ever found out your fate will either be a painful death or a life of a slave. Some nobility in Vellanmar bleed your people. They keep you alive for years while taking your blood once in a few weeks. Then they drink it. It is a common legend that your blood lengthens our lives. I do not know if it is true. I do not care. But it is a common practice here and my homeland.”


Slowly Irene reached towards her coat and slipped it onto her right shoulder. The left one proved to me problematic as any movement with her left shoulder sent waves of pain through her entire left arm.


“Humans are…cruel. We are selfish, fearful of all that is not like us. We burn down our own kin for looking too much like something else. We kill for power. We destroy all in our wake to expand. I am not prideful of what my people had done. Shaped by the corrupt and greedy society, we live and poison the lands around us. I choose to think that I am different but…well. I am a sword for hire, not the most honourable of trades.”


When she reached down the collar of her shirt fell, exposing her collarbone for a mere moment. It was not skin that peeked through the fabric but rather a large black tattoo that covered the entirety of her collarbone in an intricate pattern of black ink. Then she leaned back and coiled the belt around her waist.


“I only hope that the item for which you left your forest is worth it. If you are caught, so will I be. And anyone else who ever gave you shelter.” Irene said, her voice calm. “I do not believe that your kind is at fault for what happened. The rumours are just that, rumours. You do not seem half-bad. Apart from being a prick.”
 
In exchange for information - however vile - I gave her four words.


"Your wound will heal."


Is that what the outside world had fallen to in our absence? Blamed for its ills, most of which were brought on by the round-ears themselves? An easy out, the mysterious elves - and likely the other long-lived - the bane of the land, the blight of human existence? Nevermind pestilence or greed or any of that.


"Some of my people,"


My hands were steady and now beneath the tree cover I could feel the gentle breeze that blew. It was cold - damned cold - but I didn't shake or tremble.


"say that we should keep a presence in your lands time and again. A reminder of our existence. Not a threat, just a token for memory that our lands exist and we wish to continue to exist in peace."


How did that saying go again? Shifting away, I leaned against a rock and began to carefully wipe rivulets of water away from my face.


"Others say what we do is the correct course. Leave you to your land, keep us to ours. We send scouts, or we used to, and make sure any who enter the forests know they are being well watched."


Ah, that was it.


"There is a legend we pass that goes thus: when the world was created, the elves were made from the forests. The dwarves, from mountains. Creatures great and small, from the sea. And humans, from the earth itself."


I pictured it as I did when I was young. Each race rising from their respective terrain. The elves forming from old willows and oaks, their trunks taking shape and twisting to life. The dwarves, carving themselves out of rock like golems, shedding the unnecessary until they took form and emerged from the walls. Animals, birds, cats, canines, insects, rising as the crest of a wave tipped in seafoam from which their figures took shape at its peak. One by one they leaped to the shore, running to their homes.


And humans.


"I always imagined humans rising from the earth, like trees grow. Perhaps formed of it by guiding hands."


Ritualistically I pulled the cloth from my bag, still drenched in oil, and began polishing clean my knife. Gradually the sounds of the forest began to return and I breathed a little easier, the feeling of life returning with conversation and distraction.


"These days I see them as the filth. The scum, the putrid bile coughed up from the earth, rejection of raw material even it could not take. Forming themselves through sweat, and blood, until they rose from the ground blackened and dark, tainting everything beautiful they see with each step taken."


Despite the words, there was no malice in them. They were spoken plainly as one may read a signpost.


"These things you tell me do nothing to quell the illusion. I take care to hide my identity for the sake of my people's continued seclusion. Sight breeds curiosity. I do not hide it for my own safety although it appears at some point the purposes may have crossed paths. Unfortunately, I do not yet have the luxury of returning to my people."


The cloth glided noiselessly over the sharp metal, curved elegantly as was our preferred fashion. Just because an object had to be useful, did not mean it had to be crude or unappealing.


"The item taken was not one that can be easily forgotten. It needs to be found, it will be found. And I hope that despite my affectionate title of 'prick', you do not choose to stand in my way."


I thought of the vision the bogge had brought down upon me. Of fires, of burning trees, of my people suffering on the hand of these creatures that dared to call themselves civilized. Of the leaf falling into hands of these priests, or rulers, or anyone in the vaguest modicum of power, and their will being what I feared. In all likelihood...it was.


Everyone feared the unknown. I believed it was only humans that actively sought to destroy it.


"It is an inadvisable action that may not see your life fit to continue much further. I will not bind you again. I see no point, nothing to be gained from it than perhaps another follower - in woods that harbor one being as such there are doubtlessly more to accompany it. I hope you will continue to lead me to Sidca. I hope there you do not see it fitting to tell of my race in attempts, potentially vain, to condemn me to a fate other than that which I craft for myself."


I paused in thought. The blade was clean, sharp, it gleamed once more fitfully polished.


"I hope you value your existence more than that."
 
The muscles in her arms ached uncomfortably after hours of being bound. Irene stretched out her right arm, curious to see how much strength was left in her muscles. She flexed her fingers, bent her arm at the elbow, rolled her shoulder. It moved, not as gracefully as she’d have hoped, but it moved. Her left…that one she hoped would heal well. She did not move her left arm, and instead positioned it at her waist with the palm of her hand on her stomach. The shoulder ached, the muscles weak and battered from being prodded not only physically but also by the unnatural corrupted force of the creature that got pulled to the pain like a glutton.


Still weak from being treated Irene did not move from her spot by the boulder. She leaned against it and drank in the coolness of the breeze and the stone. It kept her awake. Reminded her that she was still alive.


It would take days for her to forget that terrifyingly familiar voice.


“Which opinion to you favour?” She asked, her eyes focused on his. “To involve your people with mine, or to stay in our homes in seclusion?”


She watched him clean his knife once again and listened to him speak. The oiled cloth reminded her of the spear by the tree, one that she looked at from time to time as if to assure herself that it was still there. The blade needed to be cleaned, the wood polished.


His words carried no malice or anger, but they felt wrong. Rubbed her the wrong way. And then came the threats. Whatever tension disappeared between them came back, whatever trust she let grow by offering her last line of defence to the elf was gone. Just like that. Irene felt her brows furrow, her eyes narrow for a moment as she looked at the elf with an expression of calm anger.


“Are you so blinded by hatred for my people that you refuse to see good in us?”


Her words had gone from cool to cold. As if to accompany her words a cold breeze moved the pine branches above their heads.


“I met many people. Many cultures, both cruel and kind to their brethren. There are good people, kind and wise. There are bad people, corrupt and greedy. There are those who live to learn more of the world. And those who live to fuck and steal coin. I despise what my people had done as a whole, but I am not naïve enough to objectify the entire race based on the actions of a majority. We live how we can. The only way we can, really.


“But not all are born and moulded by filth and bile. I met people who were destined for greatness, who were far too good to walk this earth. Who were kind and selfless, strong and compassionate. But what do you know? You – not your people – spend centuries in a forest, blind to the world around you, thinking yourself to be above the mortals who roam outside of your borders.”


The more she spoke the colder her words became. Her heart beat loudly in her chest, one hand coiled into a fist. Irene prided herself with patience, with high tolerance for people and their views that differed from her own. But this elf, this man was infuriating. Blind and narcissistic.


“I lived but a fraction of your life, and yet I had done and seen more than you ever have. Fool.”


Ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder Irene pushed herself away from the stone, braced one hand against her knee and the other against the boulder behind her, and stood up. World swayed from side to side and she shook her head to focus.


“I will lead you to Sirdca and to Oakheart and further, if needed. You fulfilled your part of the deal, the arrow is out of my shoulder. I will fulfil mine. If need be, I will draw you a goddam map on the ground and point you in the right direction. But beyond that? Your business in these lands is none of my concern.”


A step was taken towards the man and she reached above him to the hunting knife which was left as a sign of goodwill on the stone. Slowly she took the knife in case the elf perceived the action to have some malicious undertone, flipped it in her hand to hold it by the leather hilt, and let it sink into its spot within her boot. Then she went towards her spear and let her fingers coil around the smooth lacquered wood.


Caution be damned. If the elf didn’t like her carrying her spear, he can go and eat his own arrow. Or shoot it at her, showing that elven precision of his.


If he said anything she ignored him. If he did not follow her, she did not care. If he watched her every move, what was there for her to do but continue to their destination?


Before they left the area Irene stopped by the stream, knelt before it, and greedily drank the water and splashed it in her face to wash off the dried blood and dirt that clung to her skin.


It was hours until they reached their destination. The moon was high up in the sky. Rain had stopped midway. The forest was cold and wet, the mossy ground damp beneath the soles their boots. The rain had soaked her clothes, wetted her hair, and the cold winds made shivers run down her forearms and spine. With little light to guide her the woman had to slow down her pace. The spear was now used as a walking stick; it prodded the ground with the blunt end from time to time to check a shadow for a root or a broken branch. Being in the middle of the forest so late in the day made her cautious of her surroundings even more. The bogge was not the worst of creatures that prowled these lands.


Thankfully, no creatures were met on the way to Sirdca. The stars allowed for a better sense of direction. The moon was covered from time to time by a stray cloud or another, but enough light shone through the branches above the heads of the travellers.


They walked in silence. Not a single word was uttered by the woman and if the elf said anything she did not pay attention to it. That silence allowed her rapidly beating heart to calm, her irritation to simmer down. In a poor attempt to occupy her mind and stop thinking of the never ending pain in her shoulder, Irene thought the words said to the man. It made her realize their hypocritical nature.


Yes, she spoke of the evils that her people had done. Yes, she spoke of the selfishness that shaped her brethren. Of how they poisoned their lands with greed. But to hear from someone else, someone who knew so little of her people, that all humans were the scum, the filth of the earth was…


Perhaps she defended her own people much more than she realized.


And, perhaps, hearing that all the good people that she met being a rejected filth from the earth was what had sent her off the edge.


Suddenly she felt very ashamed of saying those words to the elf.


The village of Sirdca was a small settlement wedged between large fields of grain and the forest. Located a safe distance from the forest, orchards of apple trees now barren of leaves and fruit spread through the large expanse of land. Then, just beyond the orchard, was the village itself. Small and cluttered, it was just few dozen houses spread over the only three streets within the village. In the distance was a manor, a cluster of five buildings that surrounded a well in the middle, and a dirt road weaved through the fields from the manor and towards Sirdca. The village itself was only a few hours walk from the main road, which could be seen in the far distance across the dark farm fields.


The houses were very small and decrepit. Slated roofs were of darkened hay, the walls of rotting wood. Some of the hovels were surrounded by a thin fence of birch branches; others were as if randomly placed on the land, their doors and windows barely visible from beneath the heavy hay. Only some light could be seen from edge of the forest, the orange candlelight peeking through the thin narrow openings of windows.


They passed through the orchard at first. In the summer it would have been a beautiful sight with the apple trees being in full bloom and the grass a bright green carpet beneath their feet. Now it was like passing through a muddy graveyard. The trees were dark and skeletal, their branches sharp and dark and low. Irene had to duck more than once not to be slapped in the face with a stray branch.


To their right was a barn. It was a huge building with a fallen in roof and a door that barely stayed upright on its hinges. Irene gave it a wary glance. The walls of the barn were dyed black, the remnant of the tongues of a long extinguished fire.


From across the orchard it was hard to see if there was anyone on the dirty and narrow streets of the village. With the moon providing little light Irene couldn’t see anyone on the streets, not a single soul. The houses were quiet, the windows dark but for a few which glowed in a dull orange light. Despite the pour from a few hours ago a stench hung about the village – horse manure, urine, rotted hay and wood. It was a stench that Irene was so accustomed to that she scarcely noticed it and did not flinch when the wind carried the smell towards her and the elf.


It was hard to hear, but somewhere from within the village voices could be heard. Muffled by the thin walls of the larger thatched cottage where they congregated, only a faint word or two drifted on the wind to the human and the elf within the orchard.


Beyond the village across one of the fields to the east were tents of leather. The yurts circled a small clearing in the middle of which a bonfire once stood; now it was but a pile of wet dark kindling. Behind the yurts was an area encased with a fence of thin branches sticking out at odd and awkward angles. The herd of sleeping sheep resembled bright white dots that shone like caps of mushrooms in the moonlight; they gathered close together and hid beneath the few trees in the clearing.


Irene stepped around one of the apple trees and quirked a brow at the yurts. A nomadic tribe this time of the year was rare in these parts.


She stopped midway through the orchard and looked over her shoulder at the elf. They stood within the narrow path between two rows of the skeletal trees. Switching hold on the spear, Irene rested its wooden shaft across the length of her left arm and pressed the palm of her hand against the cold tree bark of the tree to her right. Panting breaths fogged the air before the woman. Fatigue was hard to ignore. The walk had taken its toll on her. More than once she nearly tripped over a stray root within the forest or had to stop for a moment to regain her breath and wipe away the beads of sweat off her forehead. The pain in her shoulder visibly drained her energy.


“As promised,” Irene jerked her chin at the village on the other side of the orchard, “Sirdca. There is a tavern there. I know the owner.”
 
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She spat fire like an enraged dragon. Venomous and vile it spit like poison from her lips, landing on myself with intent to burn. To harm. To maim.


A few words were given in reply.


"When I again see the good shine through the filth, my opinions may change. Until that happens, I judge as I see."


I was silent for the rest of the night.


---


She had fetched her spear before we left the makeshift camp. This I regarded with a wary eye but nothing came of it, and thus I let it lie. Perhaps it was on the third try that it would succeed; her word, that was.


As much as I wished for them to stop, her words rattled around in my head with all the comfort of a pebble in a boot. No matter how many times I took it off to shake it out, it always seemed to be there.


There were people of my own that held such frightenly varying opinions. That had done horrible things. Some were chastised and rejected from the community...way-wanderers, we called them. Those that had lost their path and wandered too far off to find it suitable to continue on. Others...had done the most vile of things, but still held positions of respect in society. Whether by fear or honest admiration they stayed in their houses, their high positions, though they never seemed to stray again.


Humans.


I had known some in my time, both young and old. I had seen them grow from child to adult, to elder, to dust. I had seen more than the quiet hollows of a pleasant forest. More than the most of my brethren, in all likelihood.


What happened to that?


Time.


More humans merged, creating no longer welcoming curiosity of the unknown, but fear. Small towns became small colonies, became cities, became kingdoms. Those I knew and enjoyed the company of perished in their own time and the next generations heard none of their tales, in the fashion of youth they went ignored and unheeded.


Hate grew. Fear climbed. We became reticent to visit, and soon ceased at all.


I recalled my last time in a human village. An old friend I had last seen a year or two before was aging. He was the outcast, perhaps for accepting me, but a kind and gentle man. I remembered him with light brown hair dappled with salt and pepper, a strong face and tired eyes. It always surprised me how many stories he found to tell, for how short a time passed between our meetings.


The last time I came to visit, his home was empty. I was informed - through much seeking in town - that he had died under command of an army. An army, I had thought? There seemed no lands torn by war, no villages ravaged, no buildings burned. All in the span of a year. I was even told it had happened not four months before.


Despite their reassurances he had died in valor, giving his life for his people, it was the reason for it that always tugged at my mind. That a friend had lost his life for a battle that ultimately was over in a matter of weeks. Could something washed away so easily really have been worth the effort, the time, the lives?


It always astonished me how many things humans found to fight about when their time above the ground was so short.


Perhaps that was why there was so much friction. The hurry and the demand to achieve what you could, to gain what you must, in so short a span.


Time changed many things. And now it seemed, for the worse.


I watched her back trudging through the forests, the dark trees that edged on the sky. It was early morning but the time of year still held the dark of winter lingering on.


In such a hurry. Such a quick pace, no time to wonder, to think, to breathe.


Missing all the glorious things in life, in nature. The slow, eventual climb of ivy up an ancient stone wall. Wine casked for not years, nor decades, but centuries. Oh there was a point that too long turned sour, naturally, at least to my palate. Friends, parting ways for decades only to reunite with stories ages long.


She tripped a time or two under a dark root that jutted from the ground, black and twisting in the night. Her gait struggled, slowing to a stagger before picking up in speed in some odd vain attempt to make up for the slow. She was tired; no doubt the injury was sapping her energy, her will.


I breezed gracefully through the woods as if the trees parted for me, retracting their roots and limbs almost in honor.


I had never chosen a side, the more I thought about it. I brushed my bare hand over the cool, wet bark of a slim birch tree, reveling in its smoothness. Of elves and where they should tread...interfering with human matters or not.


We approached the town and I did not stop her. Perhaps I was simply lost in thought. But by the time her walk slowed we were barely on the outskirts, the buildings were in sight from here. They were few but looked well enough lit, a presence definitely sat strongly.


I looked at her in the darkness, my face pale and gaunt.


"I never truly chose."


The words lingered on the cold, drifting away in a cool breeze. How long had we been walking? Hours perhaps? She probably had forgotten...and I had spent an eighth of a day to brew on it while her life ticked away. While she sweat and stumbled, seeking her way in pain and through sheer willpower to crawl with me, to lead me, to what she considered civilization.


There was something to think about in that. I was sure it would return to haunt me the next evening sleep was kept from me.


"Of where our people should stay. Times have changed. For awhile I believed our intervention was healthy, for both of us. A reminder of humanity, however that word varied in meaning depending on from whose lips it came. We did not always hide in our woods, safely nestled away in trees and branches, speaking to the saplings and making jokes at your expense. There was another time I believed we should go so far as to erect walls, with guards at post to keep distances wide. A presence, but one known to be avoided."


I did not shift. My breath was shallow and calm, contemplative. My words lacked inflection but for a brief moment I endeavored to view her as more than a child. Like I used to see Haleth when we would exchange our tales. Perhaps not an elf, not kin, but a distant cousin. Acknowledging the time between our meetings was short, but to him, children were born and friends died. Harvests failed, new sprouted, others succeeded.


I almost smiled, thinking warmly of him. Something tugged at my lips, but nothing quite made it through.


"Now."


Another moment for thought, but I reminded myself I did not have days to gather my opinions.


"Now, I do not know. I wonder if our presence may have prevented these things, or exacerbated them. The nature of being has a way of rejecting what it does not wish to see."


More words to brew on come long nights. I blinked, returning to the darkness of the world around. It smelled like death, fear and excrement, and any semblance of calmness on my face faded once more to hard discomfort.


"You have fulfilled your word. Thank you."


It was harder than I thought it might have been. Her eyes were wide and silver, gathering all the light of the dwindling moon like dying stars themselves. So fleeting, so ephemeral, but so beautiful in that way.


My gaze shifted, not far but far enough, and I returned to the comfort of mental distance.


"I will ask no more of you. If you wish to assist me in reaching Oakheart I will appreciate it and be indebted to you but that was not what we agreed upon. You are correct, in that my burden is not your own."


How much easier, that made things. The orchard was dead in the end of winter but soon it would be blooming and beautiful. The smell of grapes on the vines and fresh apples beneath their blooms would mask the filth of the town in that odd fashion that I missed from my youth in human company. That drastic shift from beauty to true nature, the symbolism it held.


It was no matter, now.


"You need rest and aid, and I would benefit from sleep myself. I welcome direction, or you are welcome to lead. Either will be appreciated."
 
When his words reached her, cool as the early morning’s air, Irene had pushed herself away from the apple tree and halted mid-step towards the village. Her hand lingered on the tree trunk, the tips of her dirtied from the mud and wet bark fingertips brushed over the sleek smoothness of the apple tree. At first she stood there, as if frozen, and slowly turned around to look at the elf.


“What?” She asked, voice quiet to accommodate for the lack of any noise in the orchard. It was an unconscious wish to be as silent as possible in the dead of the night, in case someone or something still lingered around.


Then the man continued to speak and Irene turned to face the elf, the palm of her right hand braced against the apple tree. It was easier to stand like this. Easier to focus on the wet and cool tree bark instead of the nagging pain in her shoulder and the weakness in her limbs. She was used to constant moving, to hour long walks and runs and lack of sustenance, but it still took a toll on her body.


After all, she was not as young as she once were.


At first she did not know what he meant by that one simple phrase. Perhaps he had voiced his thoughts without realizing it, or perhaps he had said something that she did not pay attention to. But then he continued speaking and she listened quietly, watching him from beneath the shadow of the apple tree.


And then he finished the thought, the explanation for why he did not take a choice that his people wondered about for decades if not centuries.


And she did not know what to say.


To agree? To disagree? To offer her own opinion, whatever it may have been?


She knew her people well. She met many people, been to many nations, learnt many traditions and languages and customs. And yet, that was not enough to warrant herself to speak on behalf of a people that was so changing, so diverse.


So instead of offering her own opinion Irene sighed through her nose and looked away from the elf.


“It is not for us to decide such things.” Irene heard herself say quietly, her voice laced with calm. Like a calm breeze it was, with no tint of cool anger that coated her words when she spat her accusations at the elf hours ago.


Us.


Not our people.


Not our races.


What Irene meant was them, as persons, as two individuals pushed together by events that they wished not to be a part of.


Often they spoke of their people, of the Elven and Human race. She only wished that now this man would see the two of them as just two individuals with different personalities and backgrounds, and not as representatives of two races that were so similar and yet so different from one another.


In the bright moonlight the elf looked…different. His skin seemed to almost glow, his hair darkened to match the night sky above. There was no frown creasing his features and Irene could not help herself but admire such a fleeting moment of calmness. But then it was gone and she once again looked away from the elf.


Not in shame but rather not to stand and gape at him like any other mortal would. She knew well enough how such stares felt.


Thank you.


Irene quirked a brow at the phrase. The gratitude was well out of place, considering the circumstances under which she was forced to help the man.


For what seemed like an eternity she was silent. Once again she looked to the side and stared into the distance at a willow by the barn. A soft breeze shifted her clothing and dried her hair, the apple trees moved with the wind, their branches swaying from side to side as if in a dance.


This was it. This was her chance to rid herself of the business that was not her own. That did not involve her in any way. It was only by accident that she met the elf in the first place. She owed him nothing, whatever debt was owed was repaid by leading him to Sirdca and telling him where Richmond had gone. Inquiring about Oakheart was enough to guarantee him a destination and a possible escort from the village.


But something tugged at her gut, made her feel uneasy with the choice that she was about to make.


The bogge’s voice echoed in her mind once again, that deep calming baritone that once made her stomach pleasantly turn. Now it made her clench her jaw.


And with that voice came the elf’s earlier words – about how what mattered was her, her next win and success; how nothing mattered beyond her lifespan.


He was right. That burden was not hers to bear, but his. And she never wished to be forced into a situation which would endanger her life because she chose to associate herself with a person whose life was sought by others.


This was a chance to possibly fulfil that selfish vow from years ago.


“Tomorrow I am going to inquire who can lead us to Oakheart. There is a nomadic tribe here. See?” She let her hand slide from the apple tree and point to the horizon where the leather yurts stuck out of the ground like large stumps. “If we are lucky, they are going further west to seek new pastures. They never camp long in these parts, so they might leave tomorrow and allow us to travel with them in exchange for coin or guarding services.”


Finally, she stepped away from the tree and nodded in the direction of the village. “Let’s go. Perchance the inn owner is still up and has a room for us. Or at least a bench. This is not a place for conversation. We can discuss how to reach Oakheart once we’re by a hearth and with warm food in our hands.”


It was a short walk to the village, just down the row between the apple trees and beyond that thin fence in the distance. Despite being so close to the village Irene felt almost impatient to reach the tavern, take off her damp clothes and wash off the dirt and blood from her body. Perhaps the thought of warm food and bath had lightened her mood and let her forget the aching pain in her shoulder.


“Irene.” She called out over her shoulder as she stepped onto the dirt path between the apple trees and continued towards the village. “My name. Irene Dalaklis. If I am going to be leading you to Oakheart, which is yet days away, it would be best that you stopped calling me child or little one. Even if it does sound flattering.” There was humour in her voice, a barely audible laugh, but it was there.


The stench of urine and rotting hay and wood had intensified the moment Irene and the elf crossed the fence to leave the orchard. The roads were muddy and dotted with murky puddles that glistened in the moonlight. Irene took little care as she continued down the road and did not pay much attention if her boot sunk into a puddle or another. There was no need to be quiet anymore, the villagers were asleep and not many creatures, however foul, dared to cross into the residential areas of human lands. So they continued down one of the roads and turned to the left at a fork. There, so their left, was the thatched cottage.


A thatch roof, stone walls, and a wattle fence around it, the tavern was by far the largest building within the village. It was only one storey tall but wide. Stables were built into one of the tavern’s walls and they occupied the right side of the clearing on which the tavern stood. There was a job notice board nailed to the outside wall of the building just by the door, the wooden tablets all half rotten from the rain that slid down the roof and soaked the board below. The carved words into the tablets were nearly washed out but Irene had still given the tablets a glance out of habit and could read some of the words. However vague, the words conveyed the meaning that gave the woman an impression of what jobs were offered within Sirdca and its surrounding areas. Tailors, blacksmiths, herbalists. There was even an old tablet from a mercenary who had passed the village a month ago and carved his services into the wood with a shaky hand as if he was not used to writing, let alone carving. But what caught her attention the most was the tablet of light birch wood coloured black at the bottom.


That one notice made Irene rub the bridge of her nose. The sole village healer had passed a week ago at the age of fifty-three. As if to remind Irene if its existence, the wound on her shoulder responded with sharp pain to the news of the healer’s death.


“A word of advice,” she began as she stood before the tavern’s entrance, one hand rested against the rough wooden door. “Don’t talk. You sound educated and that means coin for some people. To others it means a headache. Either way, it can lead to a brawl and I know you can get out of it quite fine. They can’t. The less they know that a hooded man is traveling these lands, conducting himself like a noble would and fights like an army of men, the better.”


Without waiting for an answer or even a nod of acknowledgement, Irene pushed open the door.
 
It is not for us to decide such things.


The thought was humbling. For a moment it soured my brow, the idea that I could simply toss away a thought or concern because I may not be the first word to make the decision...


Further bitternesses I swallowed. She meant well. How was it that Haleth and I first met? He was a child. Perhaps six summers had passed his brow. Playing with a small leather ball, seeing a new participant for his games, it came sailing towards my face with surprising power...


He meant well.


It was hard to feign ambivalence through bitter thoughts and feelings. But I managed. And she...seemed to make a decision. One without my assistance, or request. She would inquire for a guide to Oakheart, perhaps in company of another caravan. Nomads always seemed kinder towards the plight of other races, perhaps because they saw so many in their travels, so the idea was not one I would spurn at a glance.


She turned, facing the village, and began to lead the way in.


Something she as well had no cause to do.


I watched her walk, an uneven gait likely from exhaustion. Two days without sleep was no small feat for an elf but it was something we were much more acclimated to doing. Sometimes by accident, even. I was tired myself but for reasons other than needing sleep.


I would doubtlessly have to question her on it come food and drink to fill our stomachs. That, I could feel with a tired pang. I had rations available, but for the time wished not to share them.


Perhaps she had a plan. Some ulterior motive hidden beneath a dark, thoughtful brow.


The vision of Haleth running towards me came back. Less than half my height, his brown eyes wide with fear and wonder as he took in the sight of me.


I had smiled, briskly but truly, and that was the invitation he needed to follow me throughout my day's errands.


Pest of a child, I had called him. He just called me 'Elf'.


Irene.


Something distracted my thoughts. Pulled forward from the darkness I looked forward to recognize her voice. It was her name.


I had never felt these things should have been given lightly. What was contained within a name was often debated in higher circles, and while it was a subject I deliberately chose to avoid for I had no true feelings on it, something always gave me hesitance when it came to introductions.


To know one's name is to know them.


How long, had it been? Since I'd given my name to anyone but my people? Even that, had been...decades.


Entering the town, my mind was bleak. Irene - I repeated the name over and over curiously in my mind - lead the way at her own pace, seeming somehow rejuvenated to some degree. Mixed feelings twisted at my stomach, curiosity and fear and anger and hesitant excitement, all at once.


As it was, the town was the epitome of filth. Puddles of rainwater from the prior day's storm turned the path to mud. While I could not see it on my boots, I felt the extra weight and it pulled concern further into my brow. The smells of small town life came to me and I fought the urge to pull my raised hood further forward in some vain effort to hide from it.


Still, as we approached through the darkened town, we passed a sign that concerned us both in our silence. The healer had passed. She would survive her shoulder wound, but proper care would need to be tended. A familiar note of annoyance welled in my stomach as I watched her like a cat curiously watches a strange bug crawl. I had ointments, herbs, I was prepared for lengthy travels. This often included minor to severe injury, and I had to have the knowledge and ability to care for myself.


The idea of using such things on a strange (Irene) soured me but I swallowed it for the moment. Perhaps someone inside the inn would offer aid.


In the meantime, Irene spoke softly in warning beneath the dull hum of activity inside the door.


"I would not let another human speak for me or my intentions."


The words sounded black and dismal and as much as I felt it, I corrected myself.


"Or anyone. No...offense."


But she had already opened the door. Without alternate recourse I made sure my sword was well within hand's grasp, and entered after her.


The first thing to hit my senses was the overwhelming scent of bad brew. It was heady and sour, mixed long with the offensive aroma of the working man. It looked to be a farming village, no doubt I knew the kind of creature to patronize such a place but my reaction could not be helped.


There were perhaps five tables inside the dimly lit room. All of unpolished wood, all covered in stains and burns and pockmarks of all sorts. Six oil lamps hung on the walls around in various states of flame but all told the den held the aura of a small campfire in a large cave. It was dark and dusty and difficult to see through absence of light and haze of smoke, but managable. Near the entrance a thin if not muscled man loomed, the canvas of his shirt shredding and a look on his face as if he had been there for the past century. His sun tanned skin was freckled and worn, his lids heavy and eyes red surrounding the bright blue of the iris.


His eyes narrowed as we passed and however irked, I obediently stayed silent.


Irene lead us inside, surefooted and as steady as could be expected, but an upset groan called us back.


"...brigan...ds..."


The man at the door slurred something under his breath, tired eyes like an old dog, watching me far above him.


"...no..gooders and brigand..from the...woods why ARE you here?"


His head rolled to the other shoulder, lifting a heavy limb to point to us - mostly myself - in accusation.


In the back of the tavern three men sat round a table. They looked to be laborers as well, clustered around an oil lamp and looking as if they hoped stray creatures like us would come in tonight. They lurked like dogs in the back, eyeing us expectantly but saying nothing and making no sounds.


"You have...no reason! To...go, get out!"


His hand swung in the air, catching the attention of even the tender of the bar. He had been busy rubbing down an old patch of spilled stew, likely from earlier in the evening, but raise a set of thick eyebrows in attention.


"Go home, old man, you are tired."


A familiar stiffness came over me, my back straightening tall and looming. Like the skeleton of a tree standing tall and strong among others like him that instead swayed in the breeze, I peered down at the fool from beneath my hood.


"Me? I don't walk...in here with IRON on my hip..!"


He was beginning to rise now, and my heart began to beat the familiar rhythm of preperatory adrenaline, but from the bar a deep voice called.


"Sal, go home, he's right. You've been too deep in the tankard tonight."


An air of disappointment filled the dark room. In the back a man lit a pipe, the small spark of ember catching my eye, and blew out plumes of smoke that rose like mist, dissipating among the rafters.


'Sal' grumbled, shaking his head.


"Go home."


There was a shout of defiance and a fist weakly hitting the table, upon which the half empty mug barely shook.


"Bastards..."


Still, he stood obediently and began hobbling towards the door.


Turning to Irene, I stared out from beneath my heavy hood.


"Lead the way."


I met her eyes in dismal mood. I would stay quiet, but I would not lay down against a challenge. She could feel free to chastise me as she liked later.
 
“None taken.” Irene muttered under her breath. Fair enough. An independent man – elf – who wished to remain so. She wouldn’t want him to speak for her, either.


The crease between her eyebrows eased as the annoyance passed as the elf corrected himself. Well, that was a start. For once they did not spit back and forth at one another, comparing metaphorical dicks.


The odour of sweat and cheap ale hit her so hard in the nose she winced. Before the entrance small tables of wood stood against the opposite wall, all pushed far enough from one another to allow one to sit comfortably down on the benches below. The man at the door was ignored as much as the rest of the tavern’s patrons were ignored. And Irene stepped into the tavern, greedily drinking in the warmth and dryness of the building.


The few several men seated on the benches were dressed in rags decorated with patches upon patches of differently coloured cloths. Worn and old, the clothes barely held at the seams, all coated with stains of different origins, most of which Irene did not even want to guess. They nursed large clay mugs in their calloused and dirty hands, scratched and scared from years of labour. The men were in the middle of conversation, or an attempt at one, and when Irene and the elf entered the tavern it stopped. Words hushed down to a mere whisper that soon, too, disappeared. The only words were uttered by the man at the door, determined to stop and irk the newcomers.


Irene stopped but not at the words that did not bother. Rather at the realization that the elf had suddenly gone very tense, she could feel the annoyance like she felt the cool shadowy fingers of the bogge. Just as the men at the tables, she waited in silence for the scene to unfold. Her hand slid up the shaft of her spear, positioning itself just below the leather cover.


Just in case.


In the back of her mind Irene felt the stares from the men at the tables. They slid over the elf, taking in his well-maintained leathers and the curve of his bow along with her own and the blade on his hip. Then those eyes switched to the woman at the elf’s side and lingered on her, but not only on the weapon in her hand. On the golden gleam of her clothes, on the curves that peeked from beneath her loose clothing. Even on her face. They leered at her but she ignored them all. It was the usual.


Finally, the man had left, thankfully, and the elf turned to face Irene. Her eyes followed the drunk as he swung open the door, leaned heavily on the frame, and then stumbled into the darkness of the night. Then she lifted her eyes and looked into the shadows of the hood that loomed over the elf’s face. Their eyes met if only for a moment. But in that moment he would not see annoyance or anger, but rather relief and almost respect. Respect for not outright starting a brawl and drawing unnecessary attention.


Inwardly she sighed in relief and nodded behind her at the bar.


The tavern, despite its odour, was warm and fairly comfortable. Whorls of painted flowers decorated the walls, the large opening of the room was well lit with the soft orange glow of the lamps. Above their heads all sorts of dried spices hung beneath the ceiling and the dried herbs swayed gently when the door swung to a close behind the drunken man. Beneath the muddy soles of their boots was scattered hay that covered the entirety of the floor and clung to the still wet mud from the outside. Some of the hay was blackened by dirt, other parts coated in vomit and all sorts of other stains that looked and smelled as appealing as they looked.


The barkeep was a man of perhaps forty or fifty. When Irene shifted her attention to the bright side of the tavern where the bar was located, well lit by two oil lamps, she could see the man wiping the smooth surface of the bar with a grey cloth that had probably never been washed. But what caught Irene’s attention was the woman walking from the bar, a wooden tray piled with mugs of ale in her raised hands. She was, perhaps, a few years younger than the barkeep. Grey hair was pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head and wrinkles encased her bright brown eyes that shone like amber in the soft candlelight behind her. She was dressed in a cotton gown of dove grey and a stained apron was tied around her wide waist.


“Anja.” Irene called out, her lips curved into a weak smile. “You are as busy as always, I see.”


The woman lifted her head from the mugs at the sound of her name and looked at Irene in confusion at first, and then her face changed in a variety of expressions – shock, fear, curiosity and then, finally, a pleasant surprise. She might have been beautiful once, the wrinkles did little to hide the soft kind features that she wore with a respectable shyness and calm. But there was a sort of roughness to her, one that Irene knew well enough to steer clear of.


“Irene?” She grinned, showing yellow uneven teeth as she lifted the tray of mugs slightly. “That you? How many years it been?”


Skirts of Anja’s dress rustled as the older woman headed from the bar and towards one of the tables. The mugs were quickly dispersed between the men who grumbled something in response.


“Ha!” The barkeep’s deep voice scoffed as he stopped polishing the wood and used the same rag to wipe his hands. “The man-woman still lives!”


“I’m too stubborn to die.” Irene scoffed as she neared the bar and leaned against one of the beams that supported the ceiling by the bar. Rosemary and garlic hung just above her head but she could not smell their scent. The odour of the tavern was far too overpowering.


“Been two years, I think. Is your son well?” Irene asked the barkeep as she glanced at Anja who began to hurry back to the bar, the wooden tray now piled with empty mugs, some chipped and some painted in odd colours of faded maroon and browns.


“Married a nice girl three months back. Pity, I kept tellin’ ‘im. Nice girl or not, she did not drag his arse here alive like you did.” Anja placed the tray onto the bar and let her husband take the mugs away and wiped them with the very same rag which he used to clean the bar and his hands but moments ago.


“Is she young?” Irene eyed the rag warily and then glanced over her shoulder at the elf.


If only his hood was down, she hoped. His expression would surely speak novels about what he was seeing.


“Fifteen. A rumoured maiden, she was. Loads of crap, this. No girl that pretty can stay untouched for long. Ah well. Sews well, or so I heard. Cooks, too. Son writes that she is expecting. With Maker’s grace it is his.” Anja waved dismissively at Irene.


“Better than your stupid wish to marry him off to her.” The barkeep jerked his stubbled chin at Irene. “He was eighteen when she worked for him, wife. Maker spare me, least Mary has child-bearing hips. Being a romantic,” he spat on the floor, “won’t give us grandkids.”


Irene pressed her lips together tightly for a moment only, her eyes flashing with what seemed to be either sadness or… The gleam vanished as quickly as it appeared and Irene instead shrugged at the barkeep’s words.


“Anja,” Irene began as she pushed herself away from the beam and leaned against her spear instead. The warmth of the tavern was near nauseating. She wished to sit down. “I require a room or a dry corner for the night. Some warm food and two dry sets of clothes. A bottle of vodka and a set of needle and thread for a wound. We will be gone come morning and will pay.”


“No need. Take me son’s old room at the back.” Anja frowned as she pointed at the door at the side of the tavern, the farthest away from the tables in the middle. The door was barely visible, half-covered by large crates and sacks of grain that were piled on top of one another until the mountain of items reached the ceiling.


Irene looked over her shoulder at the elf and nodded at the door. “Go. Take a bath if you want. I will be there soon.”
 
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It appeared Irene did indeed know the innkeeps. This turned to be a blessing, as while I had plenty coin to sustain myself for the night - and dozens to come - it didn't seem the place to take kindly to a hooded stranger.


The man behind the bar mostly focused on her, his eyes staying off myself for which I was grateful. His wife, however, 'Anja', was not so polite. She tried but I could see her eyes straying in curiosity, however quiet, as both of them noticed and failed to make verbal note of myself.


Another something to question Irene about. If she had respect enough in this town to stifle any questions about odd visitors, that sounded the sort of thing that beared a story.


There was a comment that intrigued me. It came and passed quickly but my head quirked at it and at Irene's reaction. Something was said regarding grandkids and the silence that followed was tense. I turned my head no more than an inch, watching waves of emotion play across Irene's face. I tried to decipher it, my own face hidden safely in the shadows the lights were kind enough to cast, but failed and by then it had passed.


Curious, I thought to myself. But still I stood and remained in silence, as instructed. Something of me wilted at the thought but to start trouble now was to harm myself in the future.


With that in mind, once Irene finished her list of demands and gestured me away I followed her direction without another word. I had not noticed it until then but the rains had taken their toll: the tunic I wore beneath my jerkin was wet and chafing, my cloak nothing but a used towel. The cotton leggings I wore beneath the leather stuck to me with every movement and only now, in the dry and in the relative heat, did I find the slightest taste of discomfort.


I left without ceremony, without nod, without bow. In my culture the ultimate gesture of rudeness, but in theirs simply odd. There were some things I thanked humans for being more forgiving regarding.


As I left I felt the eyes on my back and a whisper or two - I did not know from who, but nor did I care. It took few enough boxes moved to reveal the door, and in one swift movement it closed behind me with a solid latch.


The room was small, but fitful. A wooden bed sat in one corner, a dresser across from it. On the dresser were very few articles save for a quilt that appeared to have been made long ago and used seldom. It appeared that when their son left, he had taken nearly everything he owned. I was willing to wager what he owned was very little to begin with.


The walls were dark but colorful in their fashion. Various stains of wood appeared to make them, although perhaps it was just that some had chipped away and faded, and the room itself smelled woody and of dried herbs. Pipe smoke had billowed in for however long the boy had been gone and the sheets on the bed smelled faintly smoky. This I attributed to the patrons, as the fireplace in the corner did not look as if it had been used in some time.


In the corner opposite the bed was a wash basin, and beside that a small well locked door that doubtlessly lead to a water source of some variety.


I did not linger for long.


Outside the door the night was dark and cold, but the water from the well came quickly and I hurried inside with a chill in my bones and a bucket full.


A bath would have been a luxury, but unfortunately it was one I could not afford. Instead I swiftly peeled the wet clothes from me, working as fast as I could. My skin was pale, frigid and moist but this would take care of itself in time. With my wet clothes hung before the fireplace beside the water pail, I took a quick moment to strike a fire, giving it fuel every few moments when I found one to spare.


The places life would take you were strange. Here I stood, dressing as hastily as a thief would steal bread, in the middle of a household room of some old, beaten down tavern. What other strange habits had I picked up in my time? Whether the past week, or those years of my youth? Nudity made humans shy away, they went to extensive efforts to keep themselves covered. Granted, now in the late winter, it had purpose.


In this inn, where the woman who would lead me - with any luck to last - to the one thing I again ventured from the forests for. Who stood talking outside with what appeared to be old friends. Were they questioning her on her strange companion? The man who while they spoke, lurked in every shadow he could find until a spare moment was given to flee?


The slender pack on my back was removed and from within it, a clean change of clothes. She requested two but the idea of wearing another's garb left me uncomfortable at best. Once I was changed, my tunic and pants loose without the leather to constrict them, and found a spare wash cloth within the dresser (it appeared, from glance at a few drawers, that they kept the spare linens here).


My thoughts were numerous but distant, somehow. Inside from the cold and the rain I seemed to be more aware of the energy I now lacked and the reality of it made me more uncomfortable than I cared to admit. Still, with little other option, I busied myself drying my clothes by the fire and utilizing the wash cloth and slowly warming water.


When footsteps approached the door again I looked warily to my sword, leaning nearby but still a step away in a corner. The bucket of water was brown and clouded with filth, my visible skin gently pink from the scrubbing it had received. The idea had occurred to me to let the filth accumulate, to allow myself to blend further in, but my sensibilities perished at the thought.


A hand darted back out of habit to reach for my hood, but found nothing: instead, long brown hair was defensively draped back over my ears and I stood, looking to the door and positioning myself safely beside my weapons.


When it opened, as obvious as the intruder was, I still felt a little perturbed.


"You seem to be well known here."


I was clean. Or, clean enough to last another many nights. She stood in the doorway still in arms and armor and I, wearing nothing but soft sand-colored linens fronted in green and embroidered in a dusky gold, felt naked.


It wasn't long before I began redressing myself. The leathers had been dried well enough for my needs.


"I wonder what you have done in this town before."


I left out the kind observations of its folk as 'quaint' and 'backwater'. I left out the notations of their fields as 'barren' and 'ill-tended'.


But something told me despite my practiced elven aloofness, it still shown on my face.
 
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As promised, Irene entered the room no more than a half an hour after the elf had left.


Well, tried to enter.


The door was shut and she had to manoeuvre around the crates and chests with all sorts of goods and the like as she neared the door. A rolled up rug nearly fell on top of her head as she brushed a crate on which the fabric rested and her spear nearly toppled over a small wooden chest perched on the top of the pile. None of this would have been a problem had she not been carrying so many items that one was always on the verge of falling. With the tip of her boot she hit the door, a light pat and nothing more, to open it. It didn’t and she frowned at the handle. It stared back at her with its polished smoothness as if in mockery.


All Irene could do in response was press her lips together tightly and consider her options while looking at the items in her hands.


In the end, she chose to leave the tray of steaming broth on top of a crate that seemed stable enough to bear the weight of the wooden tray holding two bowls of murky crème coloured broth and a pair of large mugs filled with oddly smelling water. Now her hands were free to open the door. Well, freer. The tray was but one of the items that were held in her hands. After the handle turned and the door swung inwards slowly, she nudged it to open further into the room with the metal tip of her boot.


Slowly and completely lacking grace Irene entered the room all the while frowning at the weight in her hands.


Apart from the wooden tray Irene held onto a small wooden box, plain but for the simple flower decorations painted on its lid. The box was held by the tips of her fingers, dangerously wedged between her hand and the tray, and nearly fell out of her hands on the way towards the room where the elf waited for her. Between her left forearm and side was a bottle of murky grey glass where liquid sloshed against the bottle’s walls; it was shut at the top with a cork that was so overused and brittle that it threatened to fall into the bottle at any application of pressure. Just holding the bottle like this was painful and uncomfortable, but Irene bit her lip nonetheless and continued into the room. Her spear was held between her right arm and side, angled to be carried blade first into the room. It scraped against the top of the door and made the woman halt to adjust the hold however she could. Over her right shoulder, the only part on her body that was less dirty and bloodied, was a stack of clothing of faded light colours and thin fabrics.


Upon the entry into the room her spear had nearly fallen, the clothes nearly slid down her shoulder, and the bottle of liquor shifted dangerously at her side.


Showing human grace to the fullest.


The elf’s voice reached her from behind the door as Irene entered the room and headed towards the bed. The tray was put onto the bed the moment she got close enough to lean down slowly and release the heavy tray from her hands. The wooden box followed, and the bottle was placed onto the floor at the foot of the bed.


It was dark, the only source of light being the fireplace in the corner. It cast shadows over the small room, made them dance as the tongues of the flames moved about in their domain. They illuminated the elf as he began to dress himself into the leathers over the clothing that seemed to be dry and clean.


The clothing borrowed from the innkeeps seemed like an odd weight on her shoulder and she removed the clothing to place it on top of the dresser by the bed.


The elf’s disgust at Sirdca showed on his face and it made Irene chuckle inwardly at the sight. This village wasn’t the worst and she wondered how he would react to seeing the poverty of Escus or its surrounding settlements.


“I suppose.” Irene said, her voice exhausted and tired. She sat down on the bed slowly, one hand braced against her knee for support while the other lowered the spear to lie on the floor at the foot of the bed. Well within her reach.


It did not escape her how close the elf was standing to his own weapons. And how quickly he was getting dressed into his protective leathers. It was not perceived as a threat but being cautious never hurt her before.


Just a moment of rest, she told herself.


“I used to visit here often once, when I worked for a military group in charge of this region. Ah…how many years has it been? Five, maybe. I would never have set foot in a military compound before, too many strings attached. But work was scarce over that summer and I was low on coin. So, I went there. It was usually small jobs, nothing too complicated. Find a thief, drive out a group of thugs, lure away a river troll. After the commander of that garrison realized that my skill with a blade was better than expected, she assigned me better jobs. Better pay.”


The water by the fireplace looked dirtied, tinted a light colour of brown. The elf’s flushed hands explained the muddied water. It seemed that he did not waste time and began to tend to himself just as Irene suggested. Good. It meant that they would be able to get some rest before leaving at dawn. They still had hours to spare, hours until the sky would begin to lighten with the rising sun. For once, Irene was grateful for the lengthy winter nights.


The water would have to be thrown out and bucket refilled, she realized, if not to clean herself then to clean the wound. It meant going to the well and refilling the bucket and the thought alone made her shoulder spasm in pain.


As Irene spoke, forcing herself to be lost in the story from years ago to ignore the fatigue that weighed down her limbs, her gaze shifted from the bucket and looked at the elf. With no hood, he let his hair cover the tips of his ears. Dangerous but enough to hide the elegant arch of his ears in case someone came knocking on the door.


“Even those jobs were easy to do. I had accumulated enough reputation in these lands to grant me safe passage into most towns and villages, to allow me to stay gratis in a tavern or an inn where the innkeep owed me a favour. It was no different from when I worked as a freelancer. Well, the only difference was filing scrolls of paperwork for that commander. And then, rumours reached us about a fire mage.”


One of the bowls was picked up by its rim and Irene positioned it carefully against her thigh as her other hand fetched the large, crudely carved wooden spoon from the tray. A spoonful of broth was taken before she continued the story. It was not overly bad, the broth. Made of milk, leftover chicken stock, potatoes and some grain from the winter supplies, the broth tasted plain if not a bit sour. But it was a hot meal, still steaming and warming the clay bowl. And after a cold rainy day of treading the forest, this broth made of leftovers rivalled the dish from a King’s feast.


“We would have ignored the rumours. Fire mage? I steer clear of magic but even I know that such people do not exist. And if they do, then never do they live in some cess-pit of Riverside. But this man, this mage, was burning down entire villages and farm fields. That is how we tracked him down here. Followed wild forest fires and villages turned into enormous bonfires.” Another spoonful. It would have been so easy to just finish the bowl, to gulp down the broth as quickly as possible and revel in its warmth and taste. But Irene restrained herself.


“In the end, it wasn’t a fire mage. It wasn’t a mage at all. It was some alchemist or an amateur that was lucky in combining elements. I never had the chance to find out. That barn on the other side of the orchard? That is where me and the garrison’s commander tracked that man down to. We cornered him there, demanded that he come with us to be tried in Larton. Instead the man chose to put himself on fire. He used these flasks, you see,” she left the wooden spoon in the bowl, held the bowl against her knee by her hand and kept the spoon from toppling over by pressing it to the rim of the bowl with her thumb. She raised her other hand and showed a length of the flask by raising her thumb and index finger.


“Flasks with living fire in them. Fragile things, those. Very rare and very dangerous. He exploded one of them and the rest went off in a chain reaction, I suppose. That man was set on fire in seconds, the barn and half the orchard followed. Nearly burnt off my braid that day, amongst other things. Though Anja and Berwick remember me for another deed.”


The bowl beckoned her with the broth’s smell and its warmth but she put it away back onto the tray, however hesitantly. It took all of her will to set it down, to tell herself that the rest of the meal would be finished later when the risk of her body rejecting the sustenance would be minimal. After the bowl was set down Irene pressed her hands against her knees and got up from the hard bed.


Let’s get on with this, then.


“Sirdca is by the main road and I stop here often when I go to Escus, where that military group is.” She lifted her hands and began to undress. The belt was the first to be put onto the floor, the coat was unbuttoned slowly at the clasps. “During one such stops Anja’s son hired me. Used all of his savings to hire me, actually. Barely had enough coin to pay for the time that he hired me for. He needed to go to a town south from here, on the other side of the swamps. A four-day travel on foot there and back. He only had enough for two days of my protection. So, the only way that he could hire me was to take a route straight through the swamps.”


She glanced at the elf looking for a sign of recognition of the dangers that she spoke of and could see none. For a moment her fingers halted on the final clasp of her coat and she quirked a brow at the man.


“The swamps breed creatures akin to the bogge, and those are much larger and deadlier. Now that I think back on it, I am not sure why I ever took that suicidal job. And yet, I did.”


The coat was left to hang loosely on her shoulders as Irene stepped towards the bucket, picked it up, and soon it was emptied outside as she opened the door that lead to the well. She disappeared into the night and came back shortly with a bucket of clean water in her hands. Her muscles strained with effort, her shoulder ached, but Irene ignored it all and brought the heavy thing into the room to put before the fire. It would warm by the time she undressed and asked the elf to tend to her wound.


“I dragged the boy through the swamps and back, nearly broke my spear during an encounter with a water hag. All because he wanted to sell his family’s apples and grain to pay off the creditors that worked for the Jarl of Larton. This land is his, you see. It all belongs to the Jarl. Anja and Berwick’s tavern was about to be closed down, to be sold to pay off the creditors that came breathing down their necks demanding coin.”


Irene continued to speak all to distract herself from the ache in her shoulder. Perhaps the elf did not wish to hear the story, perhaps he did not care. But it was the only thing she could do to pass the time, to take her mind off the fear of what would come once the story was over and her clothes were on the ground. The bottle of vodka was eyed warily more than once.


No matter how many times she was injured, the thought of treatment always brought memories of familiar pain.


“When we came back his mother, Anja, was so happy and tearful that she nearly married him off to me. Claimed the Maker had matched us in the Skies above. She would have begun planning the wedding had Berwick not yelled some sense back into her.”


The woman undressed slowly but not shyly. Indeed, it seemed that she did not care that a man was present in the room. Once the coat was carefully shrugged off Irene put it over the fireplace to dry, the pants followed after she kicked off the boots and set them by the bed near the spear. Thankfully, her pants were not dirtied or ripped. The coat took most of the damage, with mud and blood coating its back and staining the golden broidery woven into the fabric, and the left part of the back was ripped, cut open by the elf’s knife when he took out the arrow.


Everything would be tended to in its own time.


The purple shirt was thrown onto the floor unceremoniously. It was bloodied, it was ripped, and Anja had given her a clean spare anyway.


With the clothes now being either on the floor or drying by the fire, Irene stood in her undergarments. The undergarments were modest enough, with a low cut back and front. But her hands did not lift to cover her breasts or the bare toned stomach that women of these lands would never show to a stranger. Instead, her hands covered the tattoo on her chest even if she was standing with her back towards the elf.


The man was instead faced with the scars that criss-crossed her back. Two large lines stared at the man. Long and thin, one began at the woman’s shoulder and went down to her waist, while the other was smiler in size but wider, running across her back from the other shoulder blade. They formed an X, bright and vivid against her tanned skin.


And then Irene turned to step towards the bed.


The tattoo was exquisite. Intricate in its design, it weaved through her skin in a myriad of lines and curves and geometric designs that flawlessly flowed from one symbol and into another. It covered the entirety of her collarbone, from the upper part of her chest to just below the neck, and reached up over her shoulders. The black had faded in the centre of the tattoo from which it seemed to spread in a symmetrical design, and the farther the lines and curves went from the sole bare dot of skin in the middle of her collarbone, the more vivid and fresh the ink appeared to be. At one glance the tattoo was an odd tribal design, depicting absolutely nothing of substance. But to those who had seen the mountains of Izmar, who had seen the grand and steep snow covered slopes, the tattoo would be a perfect rendition of those mountains.


“Anja and Berwick will not bother us, or you, specifically. They believe that we are working for the garrison’s commander, and the rumour is going to spread quickly enough to allow us a safe stay. If they wish for the commander’s protection, they will stay silent.” Irene added after a moment of silence and headed for the bed, one hand still on her collarbone as if it could hide the Mark from showing.


With hesitation Irene lowered her hand from the Mark and reached down to wrap her fingers around the neck of the vodka bottle while her other hand reached towards the wooden box.


“The village healer is dead.” Irene said matter-of-factly as she straightened and reached towards the elf to hand him over the items. “I…cannot ask anyone else in this village to treat my wound. Can you do it? Stitch it up? I can guide you through the process if you don’t know how.”
 
She came in bearing the various items she had requested from the innkeepers and appeared quite loaded down. Still, I remained by the fire until I was once again clad in my leathers. My skin, though raw from the gentle scrubbing, was pale and clean once more.


It appeared Irene had been in the weapons trade for some amount of time. I took a moment to slip back into the mindset of humans and stared long and hard at her, silhouetted by the fire. Orange light licked up my face, tinting the linen of my shirt red and brown. She could be no older than...perhaps thirty?


"That is a weighty reputation to carry throughout a land. To have your name known so far."


I watched in idle curiosity as she moved about the room, hesitating in my desire to move towards the steaming bowl. From here it did not smell vile, nor did it smell appealing, but it was warm and I was beginning to realize just how much of that I missed.


As she spoke I tried to imagine what she spoke of. Alchemists - a talent used for great contributions to the world, or awful inventions by mad dreamers as they seek to gain power or fulfil their own desires.


"The art of alchemy always escaped me. For a few years I endeavored to learn but the talent seemed one of disputed reputation. By and large, vocal practitioners are madmen and those who learn in quiet are hermits, hesitant to reveal their findings to the world they were created to benefit."


Flasks of living fire. Rumors of flame mages...they were all things of legend and as such it was difficult to tell what was fact and what had become hyperbole as the tales passed tongues.


The mention of swamps rang no bells in my mind. I thought long and hard about the limited geography I knew from now and long ago, and some tell of marshlands seemed familiar but it was farther than I ever cared to venture in the southern direction. And thus, I allowed it to remain a mystery until life and fate pulled me in that direction.


"The idea of any one man owning land..."


The scowl on my face deepened and I let the thought die. We were a part of the forest, we did not own nor inhabit it. We were it. No different than the foxes or the owls or the trees. To think of selling, buying, owning it...was disrespectful. My eyelids fell, saying just as much.


"It seems this is not the first ill advised mission you have taken, then, Irene Dalaklis."


She turned and I observed in further silence, once again armored - but out of some growing sense of respect I left my blade against the wall. Within arms reach, but not in hand.


Old habits.


As she undressed I was not shy about where my eyes fell, although in the lack of light everything was nothing but shadows playing across sharp angles. I saw a fit, lean body beneath underthings that were nothing but functional. I saw the flicker of firelight case dark hair in auburn hues like coming autumn. I saw deep, old scars reflecting silver and pale in the illumination, stretching across her broad from above and under the shift. I saw black lines, long since dyed and intricately drawn, weaving together and apart across her chest beneath a modest hand.


I tried to make sense of it, letting my eyes linger without sense of modesty or care.


"I trust you believe this town respects your name enough to let strangers in your company be, then."


It mattered not to me. I had dealt with fearful, small minded locals before. But I wondered just how far these rumors of our evils had spread, how deep seeded they were...all the same, a lack of questioning was welcome.


Finally, as she sat, I reached for the steaming bowl of broth. It smelled sour, spiceless and bland but the chicken was fragrant enough. A thin sheen of leftover fats glazed the surface, swirling oils that promised flavor but lied. But...nothing smelled especially off-putting. I could identify the primary ingredients and few others.


Not that I expected poison or other herbal aids.


I allowed it to meet my lips by care of the large wooden spoon, taking delicate sips and letting the warmth that the fire provided my flesh, to now flood through my bones. It was a welcome feeling.


As she sat I let my eyes drift back to the fire, feeding it an extra log as the embers threatened to dwindle.


I ended my silence then, taking another drink of the broth and looking back to her. The firelight lit the side of her face, drawing age lines longer in shadow than they rightfully were.


"I read the sign and know. I will continue to tend to your wound in thanks for your continued guidance."


I had my own needle and thread, sharper than a hawk's eye and likely better fit for the duty than whatever she had been provided but my supplies were precious, and I could not afford to dull or waste them without care.


"I do however wonder why you seek to continue to assist me."


Perhaps she headed a charge down the road, a further military encampment. For gold supposedly on the head of an elf...but it made no sense for her to warn me of these things with intent to collect them. I eyed her curiously, feeling the warmth and the weight of the clay bowl with a slightly surreal wonder.


"You know nothing of my goal nor what I seek. We have both fulfilled our words and have nothing more due to one another. For all you know I seek the fingers of children, evil elven magic of some wretched sort, or perhaps the youngest girls for my vile demands. Demons of the forests, after all."


I spoke dryly and as I did spared a hand from the warm bowl to pick through one of my belted pouches.


"I've an ointment that will lessen your discomfort and quicken healing. Bring me the needle and thread and I will stitch your wound."
 
‘To have your name known so far.’


Before she could stop it Irene had smiled to herself, a scoff and nothing more at the words. It was a pleasant thing to hear. To hear that what she had been doing, what she had been building all these years through hard labour and travels, paid off the way she wanted it to.


The way he said her name still rang in her ears. It was an odd thing to hear the name from someone who did not tint the words with emotion that she was so used to hearing. Respect, fear, anger, curiosity that did not go farther than wondering if the woman offered more than just services of a bodyguard. This was also the first time that he called her by name instead of the usual nickname such as child or small one.


It was a welcoming change.


And with this change was another. The way he looked at her chest, at the mark. She had seen his eyes linger there, taking in the both delicate and rough curves of the tattoo. But there was no disgust in his eyes, no sneer on his lips and no curses spat at her. Instead, there was nothing but curiosity. She wondered if the man knew what the tattoo on her chest depicted, what it meant.


“The town doesn’t respect me. It fears me. For what I am to the garrison’s commander.” Irene said quietly as she sat down onto the bed and lifted the bowl once again. Just one spoonful of the still warm broth, just one before she would put the bowl down once again and let the elf tend to the wound. It would be a waste to eat the broth now only to have her body reject it once the pain came when the alcohol will have met the gash in her shoulder and the thread began to work through her skin.


“Ah, do not think we are lovers.” She quickly corrected as she lowered the bowl but kept it in her hands, letting the warmth seep through the clay and touch her palms. “Just really good friends. This friendship, this connection, gives me protection in the circles where she is known. They will question who you are, no doubt. But beyond that? Even these people realize what it means to be abandoned by those who feed and protect them.”


They watched the fire for one silent moment. The bottle of alcohol was put onto the floor, the wooden box onto the mattress by the wooden tray. When the man spoke again Irene looked away from the fire and focused on the man instead. Soft orange glow seemed to envelop him and dance across his pale smooth skin and dark hair. It made his eyes light up, giving them a colour that she could not quite name. A bright grey and green with a hint of gold from the firelight. The light was flattering against his features, even if the shadows were intensified and made his cheeks seem much more hollow beneath the curve of the high cheekbones.


Words of gratitude were in order and she was about to say them, thank the man for his help when he changed the topic to one that she both expected and wanted to avoid.


Then, she laughed at his words. A quiet sound but bright and genuine, her lips spread in a grin. When she looked at the man she was still smiling and there was laughter laced with her words. “Are you? Perchance you steal babes from their cradles, too? If you wish to dance naked in the moonlight I am not going to stop you.”


“After all that talk about morals and how all men are greedy, no matter their choice of trade?” She shifted a shoulder in a poor attempt of a shrug. Her left shoulder was hard to ignore now; the ache was near numbing. “Demons of the forests, Mountain bury me. I do not listen to that nonsense. I told you, did I not, that I guard the life of my charge, not their wares? That I do not involve myself in their business, whatever it may be? I gave you my word that I would guide you to Oakheart, to Richmond, for taking out the arrow. Even without my aid you can reach the merchant. You know the names; you know the direction.”


Youngest girls for my vile demands. A chuckle escaped her lips and she shook her head, either at the stupidity of the words or to rid herself of the image that came along with them.


“Prick or not, you seem to be an honourable sort. Perhaps the item is some trinket of your lover’s?” She glanced at him, smile and amusement playing in her eyes. “Or a keepsake of your people? Whatever it may be, it doesn’t change my wish to guide you.”


When Irene looked away from the elf and gazed at the fire that made warmth and light spread through the room, the smile was gone from her lips and her eyes were darker, as if in thought.


The bowl was put down onto the tray and instead the wooden box was picked up. It was small, fitting just in the palm of her hand, and with the flick of her thumb the lid flew open. Within was a needle carved from a piece of bone and a suture. The box was put before the elf and Irene turned around to face the man with her back.


Why indeed…


“Once,” she began, “someone had done a kindness for me. He knew well what it meant, what his assistance would lead to and how it would change his life and future. He had the choice to back out and go back to his life, free from the dangers of helping me. But he stayed. What he had done and what I am doing for you are completely different, but…I suppose your talk of morals and doing the honourable thing inspired me to help you. One thing is certain, however.” Irene looked at the elf from over her shoulder, her eyes slightly narrowed and the silver bright. “I am not going to lead you to the Church or a military camp. The Mark on my chest guarantees me execution or slavery as much as the arch of your ears for you.”
 
I let her speak, allowing my eyes to drift freely from an almost examination, to the flames of the fire.


"Repute comes in all forms. Should it benefit you in lands as these I see no reason you shouldn't use it."


A loose shrug and she laughed at my jests. I did not. The light played sharp across my face and somewhere outside the door voices rose in a modest brawl. It settled down quickly enough with one loud wordless shout from the innkeep.


"Give me a good reason for thieving a creature that wishes nothing more than to cry like a dying banshee and lacks the ability to hold up even its own head, and I may consider your proposal. Until then I choose not to relieve these luckless parents of their burdens."


Perhaps my sarcasm was a little thick, as no humor played out on my face as I spoke. The words were flat and lifeless as I felt, but conversation, however mild, was a welcome change from the cold inside and out.


I thought again of Haleth, and the years it had taken him to grow accustomed to my humor - something he often described as 'disjointed' and 'colorless'. Eventually I had learned the humor in their jests, but it took far longer than he would have liked and I heard much of it for a long time.


"As for dancing, the solstice is not yet here nor will it be for sometime. Besides, it is far too cold out for such things."


He was sixteen when he finally grew the wit to make fun of me. As if scared I would lash out he prodded me gently, seemingly stunned by the lack of response. At that point I had grown further accustomed to their culture and knew enough to stay quiet. Perhaps someday when he believed I was untouchable, I thought then, I would leap at him like a hungry bear when he made another comment of 'light elven feet' when I tripped on his outstretched foot. Stopping short, of course, to revel in his terror and enjoy a good laugh...


"My name is Caranthir, by the way."


It came out naturally and almost without my permission. To elves, names could be many things. What did they hold. But I wasn't among elves. To humans...a name was only a name.


I quieted down as she took a few wild guesses at the object I sought, but I only stared at her, my vision steady and unwavering. Perhaps it sufficed as an answer. Or, perhaps another note of distrust, but it didn't concern me too readily.


"Perhaps manners will yet be forced upon you. However," I stood while I spoke, fetching the water from near the fire. It had become warm, and I brought it back to a seat beside her.


"I may not be the best teacher for these things This will not take long, the wound is cleanly cut."


The water cooled while I picked the needle from the box, wandering over to the fire and removing a burning log with the tongs. A quick pass and the needle was sterilized, and returning the limb to the fire, I approached once more.


"Explain to me what that mark means; I doubtlessly has significance."


On the way I had fetched another wash cloth from the dresser and dipped it into the warm water with one hand while removing the old gauze with the other. It stuck, fibers threatening to remain behind, but when it was removed successfully and discarded it revealed the state of the open wound within better light. My own cuts, while necessary, were cut straight and narrow, but beneath them lay an unfortunate sight of torn and mangled flesh.


"If anything is to be said for the arrow's caretaker, at the very least it was sharp. Be thankful."


I did not pause while I worked. The wash cloth was wrung out over her wound, rinsing it of the yellow pus that had begun to seep from the cracks and any other oils they had bothered to care for their weapons with. With contact and heat the wound began weeping again, blood both old and new mixing with water and dripping in rivers down her back.


When the cloth was dry, I repeated the process a second and third time, until the fluid that ran was tained with nothing other than blood.


"So if I understand you correctly, you lead me on my passage because...you feel it would be honorable. Tell me why. You know nothing of me or what I seek, only that I'm a creature capable of honoring my word."


A placed a hand gently but firmly on her shoulder and pulled her in the direction of the firelight. I was not deft with a needle, but my work was fast and clean and with luck she had a good tolerance for pain. Although the body could do amazing things under the power of adrenaline, she seemed to have proven herself there.


For her sake and my ease, I hoped she would show it again.


The needle was threaded in one go and without a moment of hesitation, was plunged into the end of the first 'X' leg and I began to work, allowing her speech to distract her sufficiently. It was easy to tune out the voice of another while your mind was elsewhere; it was harder to speak and twist in pain at the same time.
 
Nothing was said in response to the words of acreature that cries like a dying banshee. Nothing could be said. The only indication that Irene even heard the words was her pressing her lips tightly together, draining them of what little colour that returned after she took the few spoons of broth. A hand jerked, about to be lifted towards the curve of ink on her chest. An unconscious response.


The years of wearing the Mark made the acceptance of its existence much harder.


Even if the elf meant it well, even if it was a joke, the topic was a bad one. One that she wished to avoid and steer clear of as much as was the topic of magic and all related to it arts.


“So youdodance naked in the moonlight?” She snorted and with that shook the off remaining tension from her shoulders. “Do you dance in circles around a fire and sing, too?”


Thatwould be a sight to see. Even in her mind it was hard to imagine this man, thiself, who was so serious and humourless, to be dancing in some field of flowers, naked as the day he was born, under the light of the moon. Some humans danced like that. Mostly women, they would go outside on some nights of the year and dance around a large bonfire while singing some song or another. An odd tradition, but a tradition nonetheless. It was not for Irene to judge, especially when her people bowed and prayed to a giant rock of a mountain surrounding her homeland. But those were humans, odd and diverse in their own way. Elves, beings so graceful and elegant that humans spun legends of their beauty, simply did not fit the tradition no matter from what angle she looked at it.


“Caranthir.” Irene repeated the name as if she was testing it, getting used to the sound. The way she said his name was almost a caress. The name was foreign on her tongue, the word an odd combination of sounds that seemed to flawlessly blend together. And she heard it before, in the cries of the voices from the elf's fears. So, it was his name, indeed.


Caranthir.


Caranthir.


She repeated the name over and over in her mind. It was so different, so elegant in comparison to the plain names that humans wore. With this introduction she felt him open up to her, even if slightly. Even if he told her his name so casually, as if he cared little for her knowing it, it was still a good sign.


The elf –Caranthir –had gotten up then and went to fetch the water. She watched him move towards the fire, come back to leave the water by the bed, and then leave to sterilize the needle. There was an easier way, the bottle of alcohol was right beside them. It was not asked for to drink away her sorrows, whatever those might be, but rather to douse the rag with the vodka and then sterilize her wound. But Caranthir had chosen a different path and Irene did not stop him, perhaps in fear that he would choose not to close the wound in her shoulder.


“You don’t know of the Mark?” A hand was raised to her chest and her fingertips brushed over the smooth skin. Even scars did not show through the ink, the only part of her body that was unmarred by the memories of old injuries.


Of course he would not know. When was the last time this man had left his forests? When was the last time he had been so far south that the air turned hot and humid and the sun beat down so heavily on one’s head that many died from it? Where the lands were oceans of sand and wind, with rivers being scarce and the oceans clear blue and full of deadly creatures that prayed on the unfortunate sailors?


Perhaps never.


The tugging in her shoulder made her hiss through gritted teeth. Adrenaline pumped through her veins then and dulled out the pain, but thefeelingof her flesh parting, clinging onto the now drenched with blood and puss gauze, was disgusting. It was a good thing that she chose not to eat more of the broth, otherwise she would have emptied her stomach right there and then. Irene bit the inside of her lip and let her hands curl around the thin blankets on the mattress.


“I will be sure to send him a fruit basket as gratitude,” she said through clenched teeth, her throat tight. Now it was her turn to add dryness to her sarcasm and humour. A sharp arrow was little to be thankful for.


With the splashing of water and shifting of the elf behind her Irene had chosen to distract herself with looking at the wall opposite from her. It was the usual, this treatment. Always someone treating some injury, preparing the tools, careful in their movements not to cause any more pain than necessary. It was not the first time she was being treated, and surely it won’t be the last, but it did not take away the pain and the anticipation of yet another stitch or touch of a damp cloth against the wound.


When the water began to slide down her shoulder, flowing inside the wound and then heading down to drench her undergarments and the mattress below her, Irene began to speak. Her shoulder jerked forward each time the water fell onto the wound. Yet another cry of pain was stifled when the washcloth was pulled away again for the process to be repeated. Irene was panting with exhaustion as a result, her breath caught in her throat the moment water hit the mangled flesh. A firm hold on her shoulder kept her upright and she was grateful for it.


It was hard to talk at first, the words slurred by a groan as she fought against the urge to jerk away from what was causing her so much pain. After what seemed like an eternity the washcloth was put away and through the hazy fog that was her mind she heard Caranthir shift closer, needle in hand.


“The tattoo on my chest is the Mark of the Exiled. It is a punishment for leaving the holy lands of Izmar, my homeland. My homeland is very poor. Secluded and barren, it is located far south from here. I should say a few months of travel. Less if you risk going by boat. I remember little of it, in all honesty. What I remember is…beauty encased in poverty. There are large farm fields to the south from the mountains – the Wirint’s Rise – and on the other side of the fields is the ocean that I was never allowed to go near.


“King Leonidas the Fifth ruled Izmar when I lived there. He had gone paranoid and delirious in his last years of life. Driven to madness, he issued an order that all who leave the nation must be marked. The Exile. You see, Wirint’s Rise is very steep and prone to rock slides. Only some passages are safe for travel and they are few. So few that placing shamans, along with the border guard, took little to no effort. These shamans…” She set her jaw and then continued after taking a deep breath. “Theymarkedpeople on the border who wished to leave to leave Izmar without having a right permit for it.


“The Mark is enchanted squid ink, or so I gathered. Or maybe siren blood. I do not involve myself with magic, the details of the enchantment matter little to me. The ink is dipped into by the shaman, who then puts it onto the chest of a person no matter their age. It grows for a short while, adjusts to your age and body, and never fades. It cannot be removed, either. A permanent reminder that you are cursed, a Marked One who had left the God’s embrace. It…sterilizes us. A deterrent from leaving a nation so plagued by poverty that people lie dead on the streets for weeks at a time. And they justified this measure by claiming that no Izmarian shall be born outside the holy lands. Here, the Church views the Mark as a sign of taint, a touch of a non-human that corrupts a body so much that children cannot be born of the Cursed One. Others view it as a way to make money and send the Marked women into brothels.”


The words flowed despite the soaring pain, her voice steady even if sometimes interrupted by an occasional sharp inhale or hiss at the touch of the needle as it pierced her skin. With tense shoulders and a straight back that was angled slightly down in response to the touch, Irene ignored the pain as much as she could. Sometimes she would be silent for a moment to regain her breath and wince at yet another plunge of the crude needle into the skin on her back. No sound of pain escaped her lips, no groan or cry. Instead, she held tightly onto the blanket beneath her and blinked away the moisture from her eyes.


Losing herself in the memories of the past helped and she wondered if Caranthir was even listening to her, if he truly cared for the story. If it was his curiosity that made him inquire about the mark and reasoning behind her actions, or mere practicality, one that would allow him to tend to a patient distracted by talking.


“I got the Mark when I was eight. My family got involved in a political conflict in Izmar and my mother asked a distant relative to take me away. His name was Leon. He held the position of the royal Guard, a member of the Crown’s private military force, trained and selected from promising warriors. He was the youngest to ever join. It was a prestigious position, only few men were skilled enough with a blade to reach the standard set by the Crown. Leon reached it by the time he turned seventeen. A young man, yes, but a natural born warrior and leader. Only he could take me out of the country safely.”


You are the reason why I lost what was fated to me.


The bogge’s broken frame flashed in her mind and her shoulders visible shifted beneath Caranthir’s touch. That creature, that foul monster, would surely haunt her mind for a while.


“So, Leon dragged me out of the house one day and we left Izmar. Got inked along the way. I can scarcely remember it. All I can recall is running for days and not being able to sleep at night as I felt restless and confused for the longest time. Leon barely spoke. He never told me what was happening apart from claiming that my mother had asked him to look after me for a while.


“That while lasted fifteen years. We both knew we could not go back. There was nothing to go backto, and even if there was, the Mark guaranteed us a beheading the moment we stepped foot on Izmarian soil.”


There was still so much to be told. What she spoke of were not lies, but rather a very vague truth. Details were taken out of the parts where they were not needed, not anymore nor ever, and instead left blank. Perhaps this vagueness would cause more questions to be born and asked by Caranthir, but this version of the story was repeated many times to many people. Merchants and nobles were curious creatures. All wished to know how a woman from Izmar became a mercenary, how she began to learn the arts of spear wielding. They all were fed this tale but watered down even further, with less names. Only a few sentences were given to those merchants who wished for nothing more but information to use against Irene later on. She never gave them the satisfaction.


But Caranthir was an elf. He was not driven by the wish to gain power within Riverside’s nobility circles. There was no harm done in sharing information that few knew, even if the major details were set aside and kept under lock and key.


“I know nothing of you. Only your name and the assurance that you are not going to bury a blade in my back until I lead you to Oakheart. But you gave me a choice which…reminded me of what Leon had done. How he chose to involve himself with the sole person who would endanger him no matter where he went. Leading you to Oakheart, to that item, to Richmondis not the same as what Leon had done for me. I know as much. But it is similar, you know? If this item is as important as you say it is, if it requires you to leave the safety of your lands in these dark times and spend months in the human realm despite your hatred for my people…Choosing to be by your side, no matter how dangerous, will be enough to free me from the debt that I owe to a dead man. The way you spoke of that item, of honour and morals, it gave me an impression that whatever it is you are here for, whatever it is that you seek, is enough to match the importance of Leon saving my life when he had the chance to refuse.”


She shifted on the bed slightly to look over her shoulder at Caranthir. All colour was drained from her face and even the soft firelight did not hide it. Beads of sweat on her forehead and temples gleamed in the firelight like miniature jewels, coloured like amber against her skin. The silver of her eyes was more intense, brightened by the moisture from the held back tears.


“Are all elves this curious, or it is just you?”
 
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I smiled briskly at her question, but well before she could see, it had faded. The thoughts brought back warm memories, however vague, of joyous times where nothing mattered.


"When occasion calls for it. Perhaps a fire at midsummer, in representation. Celebration is a cornerstone of my culture, sometimes it seems that little reason at all is needed to host a gathering. Quite contrary to what I see out here."


Perhaps celebration of birth days were held but those still seemed seldom, as coin was how they functioned and not every one had enough.


"I do not know of the 'mark'," I confirmed as I worked, watching the firelight play across her bare back. It skipped over scarred lines and I quietly wondered their origins. "If I did I would likely not have asked, and at any rate if you wish to send the man a fruit basket you may as well bury them as now he is returning to the earth. I do not think, unless that road is well traveled by large hearts, he will see a burial."


Was that how they still honored their dead these days? For awhile, the corpse was sent down the river in farewell. A few centuries later the habit of burial appeared, I was never quite certain from where. Never the less it lead to much less poisioning of the water supplies downriver and I was sure they were glad for it.


She began to explain the mark, and her origin, and all the classical practiced patience I listened while I worked.


"It seems a foolish thing to bar people from leaving your land, more so forced sterility. And more than that the idea of death at return. Humans have long flourished by spreading wide and far, seeking mates from other clans and cultures. Assimilating and merging. But I suppose...times change. I trust this bent king still rules or does news seldom make it out as the people don't either?"


Of all people I should have known that. Nothing was immune to the sands of time, especially not in the mortal realm. Even elsewhere...


"Why did this Leon leave his post so willingly if it meant the end to his prestigious career? For a distant family member, I haven't known humans to show much care outside of their immediate relations."


It occurred to me that my questions pried, but only loosely and that not in a concerning fashion. At that, the perpetual mention of the divide between cultures was growing tiresome even to myself. But it was the easiest conversation point at hand and I was still not feeling particularly open. Regardless, if she had issue with my questions she was welcome to voice them.


From the southeastern leg I ran the thread northwest, and then began again from the southwest across to the last. I moved swiftly out of habit, not of sympathy, and met her eyes when she turned back to me. My hands still moved out of sight, guided by memory and skill.


"So my purpose is to serve your internal want for retribution. At the very least, Irene, your stated assurances are correct. Unless provoked I will not bring you harm, come Oakheart or earlier. I intend no offense, and your willingness - however curious - is appreciated. However, I do not intend to share this task; you are welcome to come as my guide or company or whatever you wish to call it, for whatever reason you assume upon yourself. If aiding me helps your internal conflicts and finding peace in grief, so be it: I thank you and your Leon whatever the cause. It's no secret I am unfamiliar with the lands, and customs have changed in the past centuries enough to leave me in the dark."


Their customs had changed, or was it that I had been away for so long? After learning of Haleth's death I attempted to continue to visit, and I found solace in dining on occasion with his wife and children, but something had always felt missing. My vists grew fewer, four or five times a year down to one or two, and then fewer...


...and then none.


I flicked my wrist, tying off the thread in a smooth motion and snapping it against the pointed edge of my fingernail. Black lacework now knit together the 'X', the flesh still red and bruised and weeping but it would heal quicker than I had expected.


"I cannot speak for others in promise, but curiosity seems to my examination to be a feature of our race. The extremity - as you see it - of my own may or may not be the normal. That, and the inability or disinterest in taking great effort to phrase things pleasantly, I can guarantee you is not a common trait."


One last time I dipped into the wash bucket and dabbed at the wound. It would weep for awhile yet but letting it air out before a last bandage would benefit the healing process.


"That is to say, I am blunt. There is a place for poetic illusions and that is in court, in song, and in the written word. It has been raised as issue in the past but if I am going to spend breath on something I wish it not to be in vanity so accept this as warning, or explanation."


The water had washed away the blood and now streaks of moisture glowed in the firelight. It would dry in time. I used the remainder of the towel to dry my own hands.


A fact for a fact, and a question for a question.


"Are all humans this driven? Or is it just you."
 
You are wrong.


There words were thought but not voiced, possibly restrained by the realization that they would lead to yet another argument, yet another duel of words about who is right and who is wrong about the Human race.


But Caranthir was wrong, at least in Irene’s opinion.


Throughout her years of travel, she found out one thing that was shared across all cultures and nations. That humanity clung to hope and happiness and wished to find it everywhere possible. Sure, for some it was a different thing. Coin, sex, love, knowledge. But no matter the people, no matter the culture, this happiness was celebrated often. Every smallest thing was celebrated to some degree, only in hope to infuse some brightness in the bleak existence of humanity. Weddings, days of birth, days when a healthy son or a daughter was born into a family, religious celebrations, the end of the harvest season, the start of it…So many. Irene had used her own day of birth, which was only a few months away, to hint at a celebration and warrant her some free food and a good company.


Perhaps Caranthir did not realize it, but humans and elves were similar in this respect. Both had traditions both odd and old, but the celebrations were often and sometimes with little reason behind them.


Irene had pushed these thoughts aside. There was no point in debating such topics and no point in giving them much thought, either.


It appeared that the elf completely missed the joke. So serious, this elf. But she refrained from correcting his assumption on the fruit basket. It was sarcasm, however dry, and he completely ignored it. No matter.


“I suppose. Leonidas’s actions were driven by insanity and the wish to keep his people in a country turned cage, or so I heard. You have never seen Izmar, have you? It is a fortress nation, always has been. A giant protective cage, if you’re feeling romantic. What is not encased by the cliffs is surrounded by waters infested with sirens. And beyond the mountains are seas of golden sands and heat so intense your lungs burn.


“I was only a child when I left. I understood little of Izmar, of its politics. Throughout the years, many told me of their own opinions of my homeland. They all narrowed down to the same notion. Izmar will never flourish, never expand if it continues down the same path. People are too cowardly, too closeminded to accept change for the sake of all. Upholding tradition is respectable, it really is, but tradition does not bar us from change, does it? Ah. It doesn’t matter.” Irene shifted her right shoulder and waved her hand dismissively, as if clearing the air of the recalled memories. “No need to speak of lands far from here. No need to discuss the politics that do not interest either of us. I am grateful that I left, that I cannot come back.”


A wince creased her brow and Irene leaned forward more than she intended. The needle touched a particularly tender spot on the wound. The thread pulled, the skin tugged and she hissed. It took her a moment and a few deep breaths to sit back towards Caranthir and let him continue the treatment.


“No,” she finally said after another deep breath. “Leonidas passed shortly after I left. His bastard brother took the throne and abolished the Exile after plague became a growing threat that he could not ignore. Radburn is still on the throne. I don’t know how he rules, nor do I care.”


Radburn. The name suited the man well. Red-river, it meant in some old Izmarian dialect that had long been forgotten. Even if Leonidas was the one who had issued the Exile, who had doomed his people to poverty and deaths from hunger and sickness, it was Radburn who killed so many more. Who continued to kill, even after he got the throne.


The memory of the man brought an unpleasant aftertaste of bile and Irene fought the urge to spit on the floor.


“I don’t know why.” It was the truth. She wondered about Leon’s intentions herself for many years. “But he took me in, protected me, gave me a chance to live. Truly live. He was a kind man, even if he seldom showed it. I asked him many times why he abandoned his life, his family, for me. He never replied. Not once. I prefer to think that he chose the life of an innocent child over the life of a man serving a corrupted Crown.”


It was such a naïve idea. But it gave her hope that there was more to her people than corruption and greed, than material needs and wants. Leon was one such example, an example of the good that was so rare in this world.


Just thinking of Leon, of the way he was when they lived together, made the muscles on her shoulders loosen and release the tension brought on by both the memories of her homeland and the pain from the injury on her shoulder. Her stomach pleasantly turned at remembering her mentor.


“This burden is my own to bear, same as retrieving that item – whatever it may be – is yours. I am not going to force this upon you, nor am I going to beg you to let me come with you.”


Thankfully, she was facing Caranthir with her back. If she had not then he would have seen how emotionless her eyes had become, how tightly she pressed her lips together and how set was her jaw. The words were not lies, nothing that she told him were, but there was so much unsaid. So much that she did not want him to know for one reason or another.


Irene always found the treatment of an injury to last an eternity. As if the time stopped with the first puncture of the skin with the curved needle. It stung, sure, but after the initial bursts of pain at the contact of cold water with the irritated flesh the pain became bearable. Tension had left her shoulders completely, the skin tugged and pulled at the contact with the needle and the thread, and Irene would occasionally wince as the needle pierced some sensitive spot of the injury.


After the stinging had become more of a nuisance than a distraction, Irene had shifted ever so slightly on the bed. The spear still lay at the foot of the bed and she positioned herself close enough to reach it if the need be. Just in case.


The environment and the situation that she was in kept her awake and her mind was shrugging off the remaining pain induced fog. It was not Rael, her closest friend and confidant, stitching her injury. It was not Rael’s hovel or a welcoming warm hut of the village healer. No, the one tending to her was an elf – Caranthir – and the room was in Sirdca’s poor excuse of a tavern where another brawl was beginning just beyond the shabby door.


Finally, the wound was closed. The uncomfortable ache and stinging had drained the remaining energy, made Irene nauseous and sick to her stomach. No longer did she wish to look at the broth, the mere sight of the murky white substance made her stomach turn uncomfortably. Bile rose in her throat but she ignored it and instead focused on her breathing. Her hands, once clenching the blanket so hard her knuckles turned white, pressed against the mattress before her as Irene slouched forward.


This would pass, it always did.


No matter how many times she was injured, no matter how many times the suture moved through her skin to close a wound that could become fatal, she would never get used to this. Leon scolded her for it. Claimed she should accept the pain, embrace it as a sign of life.


In turn, Irene found that scolding to be ramblings of a madman who was not only a sadist but a masochist as well.


The bed was so welcoming. Even the floor was welcoming. Nothing else could rival the comfort that they provided – a safe and warm spot to lie down and fall asleep to regain one’s energy.


But it was not the time.


After she regained her breath Irene straightened and ran a hand over her face.


Behind her Caranthir spoke. Irene’s mind, already tired from the day’s events and the treatment, no matter how quick and precise it was, could grasp the meaning of his words with difficulty.


“With your speech you belong at court. There is nothing blunt about it. You go around in circles, say pretty words and complex phrases. Had I not been educated I would have told you to shut it, or thought you outright tried to insult me. Unless you wish to be mugged, you should learn to speak more…simple. Take my advice or ignore it.”


With a surprisingly steady hand Irene reached towards one of the mugs on the tray. The water’s odour was ignored, it did not matter to her, and half the mug was emptied in slow sips.


“Thank you,” she said into the mug as she moved it away, “for the shoulder.”


A response to his question was a weak laugh. The question was not something she expected to hear and Irene wondered if it even warranted an answer.


“Oh, they are driven. Coin, power, women, survival. You name it. Me, though? I am simple. Give me a horse and a week worth of provisions and I am going to return with tales of far-off lands and different peoples. Freedom drives me as much as a noble is driven by status and power.”


It was easier to speak now. The water had rejuvenated her, given her the strength to talk with a voice no longer hoarse and rasp.


“You should sleep.”


It would have been best to ask him for assistance. Every move with her left arm, with the entirety of the left part of her body, was still painful and uncomfortable. One glance at the bucket by the bed was enough to deem the water clean to be used to wash off the dirt from her body. Thankfully, there was no need to throw out the water and refill the bucket.


And yet, despite knowing well enough that there was nothing shameful in asking for help, Irene did not want to request any from Caranthir. It was not pride or shame, but rather she was not used to it. Traveling alone, working alone and tending to her wounds while having no one to take care of her afterwards was something she was used to; something she lived with for years now. Asking Caranthir to seal her wound was a one off occurrence, caused by the healer’s death. If he had not been here she would have bound the wound herself with a clean gauze and left towards a nearby village after getting some rest to avoid infection from setting in.


So Irene sat there, cradling her mug of water in her hand. She rolled her left shoulder, curious to feel how it moved with the stitches applied. It was odd, the muscles protested and pulled against the sutures. But it was bearable.


Stubborn to get the rest of her affairs in order and change out of the damp shift that not clung to her body like second skin, Irene put away the tankard and got up from the bed.


The bucket was picked up mid-step from the bed and carried back towards the fire. A washcloth lay by the fire, one which Caranthir had used and Irene did not care for the dirty stains that dotted the once clean linen. She sat down slowly onto the floor, legs crossed under her, and with great care pulled off the shift. Not even a glance was thrown at Caranthir, not a single word uttered to turn around. Nudity was not foreign to her. So she sat on the floor dressed only in the bottom part of her undergarments, and left the shift on the floor. The leather bracers followed suit, left by the fire. The inside lining of the left bracer was stained with thin rivers of brownish-black dried blood.


Water was cool against her hands as Irene washed off the dirt with the washcloth. The cloth slid over her left arm, splashing some water on her legs and the floor – it was hard to wring out the excess water with only one working hand.


Once no more dirt was gathered under her fingernails and no more blood stained her skin in dried streaks over her arms and shoulders, Irene left the wash cloth to hang over the rim of the bucket and began to slowly untie the braid. She was careful with her left arm, barely moved it and left it resting against her knee.


Her hair was a tangled mess of ashy brown waves. With it unbound it cascaded down her right shoulder, the ends brittle and dry, and some mud still clung to the hair in the spots from where the rain did not wash it off. Absence of soap did not bother Irene as she dipped her hair into the water and began to glide the fingers of her right hand through the length of her hair, untangling it and washing off the dirt.


Her hair was long, even longer than it seemed when it was bound in a braid. Some shorter strands had left the braid in the scuffle from earlier, but the braid did a valiant job at keeping the rest of the weather-beaten hair bound. It might have been beautiful once, the hair, but it was neglected and not cared for. It was also the length that even while bound it got in the way, the braid slapping hard against her back with each move and step taken. But the way she slid her hand carefully through the strands, untangling it with an experienced touch, indicated that she valued it despite its shabby state.


With the mud washed out she wrung out the excess water from her hair and began to braid it. Tried to braid it. The length of the hair was working against her and using only one hand had proved to be problematic. And yet she still parted her hair and began to slowly move one section over the other.


“I should apologize,” she broke the silence that hung in the room, “for what I said earlier, in the forest. About you not knowing anything about my people. I know nothing of you, least of all what you had seen or done.”


The woman moved closer to the fire. It dried the water on her body and the warmth was good, pleasant against her bare skin. There was little point in getting dressed yet, with the wound still not bandaged, and her hair damp and loose. But her weapon was still an arm's reach away, her clothing drying just above her. It would take but a moment to snatch her items and flee, or take a weapon and defend herself.


Caranthir was trusted to a certain extent. The rest of the tavern's patrons? Not so much. The noises from a starting brawl began to intensify, the tankards hit the tables harder and Berwick snapped impatiently.


Irene eyed the door warily and considered blocking the shabby piece of wood for the night with the dresser by the bed.


A few more logs were carefully fed to the flames, the embers sizzled and hissed in response.


“Though I suppose I should find out more about you. You know a lot more of me than I of you.” If he wished to keep his personal history private she would understand. One word, one indication that he wished to stay as distant as possible from her, and that would be enough to stop any questions.


And yet, a part of Irene wanted to know more of Caranthir and of his people. It was a curiosity driven by the wish to find out more about what sort of people lived in this world. When was the last time that she had conversed with an elf? She was but a girl then, barely old enough to comprehend the differences between their races and cultures. And others…other elves were not in a condition to walk, let alone speak.


“Do you have a family? Someone waiting for you to return home?”
 
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"And so another corrupt leader maintains his power over lands through deep seeded fear."


It was an idle comment that I thought about deeply for a brief moment while I moved around. I was clean enough, I was drying, I could have had better company - or none at all - but at least hostilities were minimal.


"Your Leon, in any case, sounds honorable at least. What became of him, when did you leave."


It was idle chatter, that which I spoke while habitually removing my hunting knife from its sheath and beginning the deft evening polish. It flickered silver and flame near the firelight, twisting and turning about in my hand. The handle was expertly carved, but well worn...after so many centuries it was little surprise.


In any case I spoke, and I listened, my eyes flicking to her when movement was provoked but otherwise never straying from the blade, from my sight straight ahead and on into nothing.


"I will say it again. You may accompany me, or perhaps so much as follow but the deed is mine and your motivations are questionable at best. Surely, you understand."


But why. Why would she warn me of the dangers facing my kind, to lead me into a town and guide me. The thought perplexed me, nagging at my brain like a child tugs at its mother's dresses.


The woman moved towards the fire now, gathering my eye but I remained silent until prompted.


"I will endeavor, then, to be thankful you maintain some modicum of intelligence. Otherwise, the concept of dulling down my words for the common man is offensive. I will continue my habits in speech with preference for silence. I find words, no matter how complex, are seldom welcome in many places I have visited and thus see little need to twist them."


Outside a stiff wind came and whistled through the cracks in the wood, sending a breeze across the room and ushering a shiver from my shoulders. She thanked me. She suggested I sleep. Trusted, untrusted, there were seldom grey areas in these matters but she had managed to find one among the extremes. I maintained my position and said nothing on the subject.


I should have recalled the unpredictability of humans long ago. Nevertheless I was promptly reminded when she offered an apology.


My knife sheathed itself and I watched her silhouette by the fire, wreathed in red that cast her hair in flames and seemed to both enhance and negate her age, depending on when I looked.


"The fact of the matter,"


I was still in no friendly mood but the presence of warmth and absence of outright hatred was softening me, for the moment.


"is that you know nothing of my people, and what I know of yours has been lost to the sands of time. Simple people used to roam the lands, their needs small, their wants negligible aside from the simple brutish ones as greed. That has changed to a depressing degree. Hopes and dreams have wilted and tarnished, in their stead ill wishes taken place. Weeds in a potential garden, you may say."


But it was none of my concern. The polishing cloth was still in my hand and from my quiver I drew a handful of arrows, caring for their heads as I did any other piece of elven metal.


It kept my hands busy as I thought about her question.


My parents were the clan. My birthmother a scholar who had birthed me late in life and wilted soon after. A precious fifty years I had in her company but they were well spent and she passed in grace. I was raised well, as all of us taught by not only one or two, but the community. But when I broke for the armies, insistent on protecting the lands I had come to call home...drawing nearer the edge pulled you further from company.


"Friends, acquaintances, teachers, all doubtlessly await my return but I trust they know I would not have left were the need not important."


It never especially bothered me, as loneliness seemed to plague the shorter lived. Time to contemplate and to reflect, to train and hone your skills and mind. All of the opportunities afforded from time alone in peace.


"We sometimes go decades without seeing one another, however social a race. It's not uncommon and my precise presence may not be noted for awhile yet. My post will be filled when the next patrol comes around and word will trickle down in time as it does."


The thought didn't concern me in the least. The words were hollow and without emotion as I swapped the cluster of now polished arrows for another, beginning carefully on the head.


"You have made it known you wander by trade. Simply seeking new tales, adventures, lands? Or is there a deeper purpose."
 
Caranthir did not turn on the bed to lie down and sleep. Fair enough. Irene wouldn’t sleep if she were him, either. The tavern still roared with the beginning brawl, the humans there drunk and prone to violence. And in the very same room where the elf was, was another human who had attacked him the moment he was within the reach of her spear. Trust was a bit hard to come by, surely.


Irene did not say anything to the elf when he did not rest his head onto the thin straw mattress under him. Instead the metal gleamed in his hands as he polished the knife. Was it a habit, a quirk of his, or a reminder that he was still very well armed with weapons taken care of and ready to be used?


One strand, then the other. The braid was slowly being made as Irene’s fingers slid through the long hair, parting it and slowing to a stop from time to time to untangle a knot. With her head turned to the side to let the hair rest over her right shoulder, Irene watched Caranthir continue to sit on the bed, unmoving but for his hands that slid the oiled cloth up and down the razor sharp blade of his hunting knife.


“Were humans ever simple?” Irene asked quietly as she looked up from Caranthir’s hands that now held onto some arrows. “They, humans, hope and dream as they always have been. Maybe the wrongs became more apparent to you with age.”


No family?


In the reply to her question the man did not mention his parents or a spouse, or even a child. None of those whom one could consider family, however distant. But Irene did not pry and merely quirked a brow at the response.


“It sounds awfully lonely,” Irene began and looked away from Caranthir, her gaze now focused on the braid. It was loose and had just began to peek from over her shoulder, but it would do for the time being. Her hand continued to move the parted hair, her fingers keeping it all in place.


“To go decades without anyone knowing where you are, what you are doing. If you still live, even. That no one would care enough to send word once in a while. There is no need, I suppose. You live peacefully within your forests. There had been no looming threats, not to my knowledge. Nothing to abruptly take your life away.” The firelight played on Irene’s hair, made the ashy brown turn into a soft auburn. Light rippled over the strands as they were pulled into the loose braid.


“To just…exist. A sad way to lead a life. To spend the eternity in centuries of quiet loneliness. I am surprised your people had not gone insane.”


The braid was done, loosely tied at the end by a leather string pulled from a small pocket on the inside lining of her belt. It was then that the woman had realized how quiet her words had gotten, how cold and distant they were. Her eyes had looked absently at the ever moving tongues of fire.


Bloody hell, his attitude is rubbing off on me.


“Never mind. It is an odd thing to imagine, is all. To live for so many years, bound to one location, one purpose, among those who care little for contact.”


It had become colder in the room. The night’s cool air bit against Irene’s skin, made shivers run up her arms and back, and turned the tips of her fingers cold. She shifted closer to the fire once more, lifting her hands – still damp with water from the hair and the washcloth – towards the hearth to absorb some warmth. It helped, but barely. It was best to get dressed.


When Caranthir spoke once again, asking her a question that the woman had already expected from him, Irene was pushing herself off the floor. She braced a hand against her knee, and the other on the wall by the hearth. Once up she stepped towards the dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of cloth long and wide enough to be ripped into a makeshift bandage.


“I am no adventurer,” she snorted at the thought and sat down onto the bed, the piece of linen sprawled over her lap. “What I mean to say is, I do not travel to seek adventures worthy of heroes that bards sing about. Such people exist only in tales used to inspire children.”


The linen was raised to the woman’s mouth and she bit its end, ripping the fabric as she pulled against it. This had been repeated more than once, the cloth gradually turning into a narrow strip.


The makeshift bandage was lifted until one end was pressed against her injured shoulder by Irene’s left hand, her right in the meantime began to slowly wrap the bandage over the injury. The entire time she silently watched the cloth reflect the firelight in a soft orange glow, careful in her movements not to disturb the fresh sutures.


“No deeper purpose,” she finally said, breaking the silence that was interrupted only by an occasional crack of the kindling. “If you are looking for a story about a woman who wishes to see the world, discover new lands, and be a hero in a tale, then there is none. There is no grand reason behind why I travel, apart from being used to it. Ever since Leon took me in, we travelled. Constantly, too. At the beginning it was much calmer, with him leaving me alone to sit through hours of dull lessons of history and languages, of playing instruments and the art of conversation. As a parent he was…lacking. Didn’t know how to raise a girl. So he gave me into care of governesses while he went on jobs to guard some caravan or a merchant’s warehouse. Couldn’t bring a young girl with him there, could he? But we did not stay in one place for too long. He picked up jobs as a guard for a traveling merchant, or protected a caravan that did not mind him bringing a child along. We moved from one town and to another. I got used to it, the never-ending moving. I liked it, I still do. So I chose to continue living such a life, with no home to bind me.”


Before the makeshift bandage could be coiled for the last time around her shoulder, Irene lifted its end to her mouth and ripped the end of the strip into two smaller sections.


For a moment only did her hand pause as the fingers fumbled with the end of the strip. Then the bandage’s end was tied into a knot. With the injury bound safely by the piece of ripped cloth, Irene carefully rolled her left shoulder. The bandage pulled, but stayed in place and did not slide. Good. Rael would be proud.


Another gust of wind whistled through the room, disturbing the tongues of the fire. Shadows shifted quickly over the room as the fire danced in its prison. With no fire’s warmth to protect Irene from the cold night’s wind, she felt her skin turn ice cold. The spare clothing still lay on the dresser, useless to Caranthir as he had preferred to wear his own. Randomly a shirt and a pair of pants were chosen and pulled closer to her from the top of the dresser. The clothing was of thin linen, the white of the shirt long turned grey; the pants were, thankfully, of a thicker material that was spotted here and there with patches of differently coloured fabrics of unknown origin, sewn onto the pant legs to close a rip or another. Both items were of a man’s size. But it was dry and better than nothing, with her own clothes still drying. It was not the time to be picky.


Irene pulled on the shirt carefully, its size allowing for easier movement. The pants followed and were tucked into the boots that Irene pulled on shortly afterwards. Her movement was careful but swift.


The padded bracers still lay by the hearth and Irene got up for a moment to reach down and pick them up. The leather was warm with absorbed from the fire heat and was pleasant to touch. One of the bracers was pulled onto her right forearm, secured tightly by the leather straps at the underside over the long sleeve of her shirt. The second bracer, the one stained with dried streaks of blood on the inside, was being tied to her left forearm when Irene spoke again.


“Did you see how bogge appeared to me?” Irene asked quietly as her fingers pulled against the leather strap.
 
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