“That yon nightjar steals milk from she-goats? Nay, Ah dursn’t ascribe to the notion.” Osytha mulls it over a little more. “Ah only says that ’cos… et’s amusin’? Ah think?”

She glances down at Guffy next. The dog looks up a Hector, tail wagging in anticipation of more scritches, but even when more aren’t forthcoming, he plants his bum firmly down and decides to wait it out. Rookheart will cave, eventually. They always do.

“Sorry,” Osytha says. “Boyo’s diet ’as been a tad inconsistent on this road, an’ ’is tummy en’t handlin’ all t’changes too well.” She looks back to Hector. “We can kip down a bit aways from t’rest of you all. If et’s a bother.”

Why’s Hector doing things with his eyebrows at her? Has she said or done something amiss? He’d just been laughing, though… but people can also laugh when something’s wrong, she knows that much. She probably knows that much.

“Um. Thy face feelin’ alreight, syr?” Osytha blinks. “Or… is there summat else t’matter?”
 
The cold poke but stirs the little heat crackling about inside him.

"My face?" he says still smiling. Wipes at his brow, then the other. Maybe he missed something? Maybe a spider hitched a ride and needed be returned to a safe landing. "Um, no," he says, a little more nervous now as he keens his head a bit to wick the other plane of his opposite brow. Slicks one cheek, then the other. "Less, I mean," he clears his throat, wide eyed now. "Is there something wrong with my face?" was it his ear? "Been a while since I've gotten a good comb through mine hair," he fusses. "Or a proper trim for that matter,"

He sees a little tail waggin down by his foot. Tongue lolling. Big eyes look up at him.

"You'd tell me, wouldn't you Guff?" he cracks into another smile, bends down again to scritch him behind the ear.

Lefellen huffs. Shakes his head. And busies himself checking on Landon.

Hector straightens up, and looks at Osytha. "Don't bother me none by the by," lip curled up at the corner. "If yon pup's workin through et, s'pose I just wonder if there'd be anything I can go and do to help," he ponders a moment. Head tilting with the thought of it all. "Might be some wild mint about," he thinks aloud, spying the darkening glade. Night almost full upon them, and the wildland floor all the darker for the canopy. "And I've some loose chamomile stashed away in my pack," he steps over and across, gets to digging through his things, and pulls a muslin sack.

Earthy scent there to it hits his nose and fills his lungs, along with its gentle sweetness.

"Come to think," goes on babbling like a cracked spout. "Might help us get some sleep ourselves," smile softens. "Feeling half ablaze, despite being bone tired, missen," lips crooked. He gets up, takes the loose herb over and plants it in her hands. "Wouldn't happen to have a teakettle stashed away, would ya?" Though, he recalls the call for security. Song being a dead give away. A fire in the night would be that much worse. Could use his hands to heat it. If he wasn't so shroud spent as it was. Remembers its for Guffers. Spots the pup. "Though, maybe the boy'll take it fine with some trick I'm sure you have," a bit of the cold washes over him. "Ridin in that saddle as he does," little more distance to his voice. "Must be a right terror," sinking low. "Brave little guy," his eyes turn back to her and those eyes he scrawled out so feverish onto the page he'd left hidden. Gulps. "Must've been a lot of work helping him find his courage,"
 
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Guffy’s appetite for pats apparently now sated, Osytha watches him up and trot over to Syrs Lefelen and Landonsera. Something interesting is happening over there, and he wants to help, good boy that he is. Most helpful indeed; wherever Lefelen puts his hands, there’s a cold little nose pressed right in there beside them, and when the elf leans down for a better look at his comrade’s leg, he’s also treated to either series of awfully wet kisses, or repeatedly thwacked in the face by a very waggy tail.

“Well, nay… Guffers don’t mind ridin’ pillion so much,” Osytha replies to Hector, “an’ ’e’s pretty secure once ’e’s strapped in. T’lad’s more fretful when ’e gets left be’ind, truth be told.”

She watches her boy at work, wondering if she should call him off. Probably, yes, she should call him off.

“Not sure ’e needed much ’elp findin’ ’is courage,” is what Osytha says instead, still staring at the frolicking little muppet as he terrorises the two men. “Ah mean, ’e’s frit of that many things, an’ yet, bar such times as Ah’ve told ‘’im to, Guffy’s ne’er left my side nay matter what.”

Now, what else was Hector asking about? There’d been a couple things in all that ramble… oh, that’s right — Mint. Chamomile. Tea. Why yes, Osytha would partake of a cup if a body made some. But… for dogs?

“As for billies, we’ve a few betwixt us, aye. Ah reckon… a pinch of either ’erb should be alreight for ’im? But Ah’m not… not sure…”

Voice and gaze run off to the distance, leaving her looking yonderly in a way the rest of the party know by now means: Osytha’s thinkin’. She’s considering that before they tackle the question of how safe these soothing herbals are to share with the pup, they need to actually make the stuff first. Only, there are a few problems.

They’re low on water. Technically, there’s plenty of it around them, only, bogwater is every bit pleasant to drink as the name suggests. Then if they do get their hands on something potable, they’ll need to boil it — for making tea, yes, and perhaps also just to err on the side of caution. Hec would be perfect for that if he wasn’t utterly spent; otherwise Syr Lefelen likely has a bit left in him still, but his weave is more a thing of earth and ice. Decidedly not fire. And, no, nobody’s going through another rite of communion just to put the kettle on.

That ponderous stare gathers focus as it rests a while upon beleaguered Syr Lefelen, rounding off his inspection of the waking til Clemonde.

Osytha strides in amongst the various kit and saddlebags to start fussing about. “Syr Lefelen — we passed a small syke flowin’ through this ’ere carr on us way in,” she says, emerging with a pair of lightweight pots held by their wire handles. “Cold’st tha please go an’ top these up from there?”

He gives Osytha a doubtful look as his fingers tussle distractedly with the pup. “Are you sure?” The elf certainly doesn’t sound it, himself. “That water didn’t look very good, syr.”

“Aye, Ah did see that. Even so, please an’ thank’ee. Oh — and if’n tha spyest any mint, grab that an’ all, ta.”

Syr Lefelen shrugs. Then he takes the buckets in hand, treading away through the trees. Guffy scrambles from his back up to his feet and, looking almost startled by the fact the dusker is making his way outside the camp, watches on for a few moments before bounding after him. Dog disappears beneath the bracken, though those fronds rustle tellingly in excited circles around Lefelen’s legs as he disappears.

Meanwhile, Osytha trudges over to one of the birch trees nearby. She’s giving it a calculating look as she draws the quillion dagger aback of her hip.

“T’hotter a flame, t’less et smokes,” she comments. Her dagger hacks high into the trunk, before slicing a long, neat line straight down. “An’ a small fire will be easy to hide. Small an’ hot, which means, mostly eldrin’. We but need to feed et steadily.” More cuts, horizontally around the circumference this time: one at the top of the line, then one at the bottom, coming full circle. “Lucky for us, we’ve jus’ t’thing ’ere — birch bark. Stuff’s that glutted wi’ oils, burns like a dream. Even when damp—”

Prying up a corner with her blade, Osytha carefully starts to peel the big sheet away, filling the glade with a low, angry sound of tearing bark.

“’Ere, Syr Hector. We’ve already a firepit — wold’st tha mind tekkin a seat beside et an’ slipin’ this into wee strips?”
 
Movement. Stirring. A bit of order to the sprawl of it all. Routine as chopping wood. Or stripping bark for that matter.

"Aye, Syr," Hector says with a nod. Moves to the fire pit. Finds his knife there at his belt. Its long blade set into a handle of finely carved antler. A banded horse motif engraved there upon its ivory surface. The knots that make up its body, a hypnotic web of twists and turns. He strips the sheets of oily birch into uniform strips. Even peels some of the papery side down to little curls and shavings.

He shifts to the pit proper, and prods at the ash with the tip of his knife. Digs up a buried ember, still smoldering. Still hot with its low red burn. Bends low to it, legs splayed about the main hole, one bent under him, the other foot planted, knee out so he can get a proper angle to be a bellows. Breaths in deep. Breaths out sure and strong as he can with a measured stream through pursed lips to it. He listens.

The ember burns a little brighter with its happy crackle. Glows down there in the belly of the pit's main chamber. Practically a hearth.

Hector leans in, heat there against his face, a comfort as it is. Despite all the pyres he had built. Despite all the flames he had witnessed. For all the horror of it, how the fire still warmed him.

"And it was amusin, by the by" He says, taking some of the little tinder still gathered from Lefelen's cooking. Reaches down into the pit and piles it small and compact down near the ember. Uses his knife to push the low red there next the little stack. Fans some of the nascent flame that catches. He tosses in a bit of those oily bark strips. Watches them catch quick and spill out the dancing curls of thick black smoke. "Thine bit about the nightjars," he smiles as he looks up to the tree cover that dissipates the smoke overhead. A fair placement by Syr Lefelen. "But a've ye heard the one about the creature that goes about suckin goats blood," a little pop of the fire as he feeds it another strip "Chuppacabra, I think some peoples of south Ilica call it,"

Landonsera was coming too. A groan. "Oh," he sounded. "My leg feels as if its made of gelatin, pinned and like the worlds worst cushion, a million times over," he shivered. "Its absolutely dreadful," his voice wanes. Still distant. "And I can feel all those bits and pieces still, thrumming,"

Hector went the more stern. "I've some tinctures and ointments for the pain stashed away, Lan," he said as he rose, and fetched them from his pack.

Lefelen had already removed the pinched armor. So when Hector returned, he would set to Landon's side. Undo his hoes, hands clumsy. Fingers stiff. He takes note of the damage. Intense bruising. Swelling. But the leg looked to be whole. Hector was glad for that. He set to its application. Hands smelling like clove and woodsmoke as he worked.
 
“El chupacabras?” Osytha’s voice emerges from somewhere behind Forbítter, where she continues to fossick around for more necessities. “Aye, a bit. Came ’pon mention of et when Ah was brushin’ up on matters sou’ of us wi’ t’Free Cities an’ Arshakan Empire. Was even researchin’ et for a second there — figured we might as well add et to us Liber Monstrorum. Though, given et avoids attackin’ people, an’ how et seems content enow stayin’ down there, Ah din’t end up devotin’ too much time to ets study. Other priorities, tha ken’st.”

Fnally, she emerges with one more billy, in which sloshes about some precious remainder of their water. “If tha hast a story of thy own abaht yon cyptid goat-sucker, though,” she continues, spare hand fiddling momentarily with the hair aback of her head “Ah’d be fain to ’ear et. Nivver did get to look into that as much as Ah’d ’oped to.”

Hector has coaxed the fire nicely out of hiding, leaving Osytha with a fledgling little flame when he goes over to tend Syr Lando. Some of that bigger eldring Lefelen left unused, a few longer, thicker branches — they prove handy in fashioning a tripod over the firepit from which she suspends the billy. There’s a little smoke from the flame now, but once Osytha builds it up with a few more loose strips, that fire swells with strength enough to consume even those rising black coils. Masked beneath the billycan, and with other screens built up in mounded peat around its edges, there’s little in the way of light as escapes.

As Osytha gradually, steadily feeds that fire with birchbark, her eyes settle on Syr Hector over there. Watching him minister to Syr Landonsera’s poor, plum-plump-and-purple leg with the ointment. Hands gentle at the task even worn and weary as they are; reminding her on the tenderness of her own mother’s bedside manner when she’s seen the woman work. That had been in the reports, too, hadn’t it? Despite everything, Hector had stayed in Sumu, with his tinctures and his ointments and his bandages and whatever weaving was left in him. Hadn’t run from it, no. He’d stayed to patch up whatever he could, though the town was turning on him. Though it would have been easier to run and hide from the results of his actions.

A crunch-crunch, rustle-snap-rustle swells between the trees. Guffy materialises first, leaping out the bracken to worm and wriggle all over Osytha’s lap. Then Syr Lefelen not far behind, two full metal pots slopping and gurgling with rank brown water, little streams dribbling over the lips now and then even with his careful tread.

“Two billies full up with eaux de la tourbière,” he announces. “Shall I leave them with you, syr?”

But Osytha shakes her head. “Tha hast a bit of weavin’ left in thee yet, Syr Lefelen, is that ne so?” Brushes Guffy out the way so he doesn’t topple tripod, nor jog her arm in the midst of something precarious.

“That is indeed so, yes…”

“Ah would like for thee to chill that water, then.” Her dagger whispers, shearing more slivers off that big panel of bark. “Bring et to a freeze, but — gentle, like. Allow t’ice to form slowly. That’s vital.”

Lefelen stares at her a second. “Well, you seem to have a plan at least,” the elf replies, sitting down and putting fingertips to the metal of one vessel there in his lap. “As you wish, then, Syr Osytha.”

“Syr Hector?” Osytha scatters a little more kindling into the flames. Already there’s a promising low rumble coming from the billycan atop it. “When tha’rt finished there, coud’st tha tak ower tendin’ t’fire once more?”
 
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"I never did lay eyes upon it missen, but there was one quest had us far flung toward the south , where in the village of Iltrapor, inwhich we'd holed up, reported their goats being plagued by one such creature," he shook his head at the memory, hands still at work. "Only, when Syr Edwynna and I went to inspect, we but found small incisions from which equally small pecker birds seemed to drink," he shrugged. "I've come across a tome or two in the stacks with quite the illustrations though," he confesses.

Landon laughs. "Is that so, Syr, quite the illustrations?" he teases.

"What?"

"Betwixt the stacks, were we? Illuminating ourselves?"

Hector huffs, unable to help but smile. "Seals, symbols, illustrations, all have their own power that needs be studied, Syr,"

"Oh, without doubt, Syr Rookheart, without doubt"" something pulls just a tad wrong, and he sucks a breath through his teeth.

For a moment, however brief, it felt as if they were back amidst the Balewoods. Squires at training games. Things easy and sure as they had gained enough practice and know how to be the ones there to help the younger saplings along. Only, there was still Landon's leg. Swolen and hot under each press and pass of Hector's sure thumbs and heels of palm. The well of loss brought by Honeysuckle's passing. The memory of Analon. Cold and deep things that came and went. Came and went.

But the poor bastard was wincing and whimpering, the sounds, pained as they were, little spurs all their own to keep Hector from falling into the well. And he would slow, just a tad when he felt it all turned too great an agony for Landon. All that popping and spreading back to some form of normal. Pain, too, had its place.

"Syr Hector?”​

"Syr Osytha," Hector calls back to Osytha without missing a beat.

“When tha’rt finished there, cold’st tha tak ower tendin’ t’fire once more?”
​
"Consider it done," he replies.

"Gods be good," Landon blubbered. "Are you sure its not going to fall off yet?" a nervous laugh tittering from clenched teeth.

"It will hold yet, Syr, I would be more worried of losing it could you feel not after all we went through," Hector assures. Pressing down deep to make sure he could feel the femur which had been so shattered. Solid enough as he ran his thumb up its length.

Landon twist his head away from it. As if his brain were trying its damnedest to be as far as it could from the hurt. And with that, Hector felt it done. If at least in this moment. Spread the oils up the run and aching chords of his arm. A bit there where his neck began to ache from having to hold his head up after so many hours. Just a touch behind the ears. The ointment heated and cooled, like ebbs and flows.

Landon was already breathing deeper. Smiling weekly. "Now I know a bit of what poor Purun must have gone through when that adder had caught him by the ankle," he laughed weekly. "You remember that one, Osy?!" he called out, half adrift on sleep's currents once more. "Had to keep Jeoff from pulling that fat knife of his and dashing poor Purun's ankles open to let the poison out." he chuffed a week little laugh. "The fool," full of a nostalgia so swirled with hurt.

Hector smiled as he picked up his ointments, and shuffled back to the pit. Set down the vials, fed the flame, and Looked over at Osytha, and how she directed Lefelen. Seemed to be getting back to her surer sorts. That same confidence which had steadied him there afore the communion, and the Giving. And he thought on that a while as he listened. Glad for the voices. Gladder still for the sight of it all. How she mussed with her hair, and took such care in what was before her, and those around her.

The billy set to the fire roils and hisses. Hector sets his eyes back to it. He moves it to the side to let the waters settle some. Steam trails snaking and twining there about the metal can. He takes the muslin sack and works the knot open. A spare bag for steeping loaded with the dried chamomile. "Needing this water for your schemin, Osytha?" he is sure to check. "If not, I'll start brewing the tea." he finds himself searching for her eyes. The fire still crackling and popping warm and gold as it glows.
 
“T’Pursuit of Life nivver were Syr Jeoff’s strong point, nay,” reminisces Osytha, knelt by the flame and hand-feeding it a steady diet of kindling. “Syr Purun’s leg weren’t lookin’ any better’n thine towards t’end there, Ah recalls that.”

The actual solution had been simpler: a toe-to-groin pressure bandage which slowed the venom’s spread through Syr Purun’s system down to a drip-feed, plus splint and stretcher to keep the leg immobilised. It still hadn’t been pleasant for the stricken knight, but it did at least help them last long enough to reach the healers at Astenvale.

The mossy ground susurrates against Hector’s movements, and then he’s there beside her. Osytha glances over to find his warm, hessonite eyes staring right back her way, lustre turned all chatoyant from the lick of firelight.

“Needing this water for your schemin, Osytha? If not, I’ll start brewing the tea.”​

“… mash away, syr,” she replies after a moment, and blinks. Manages then to turn her head from him. “Ah’ll fetch some cups an’ all. Um, but first… ’scuse me…”

Osytha rises and wends over to grab some vessels plus a strainer for their tea. “Learned abaht this from a brewer Ah met on t’road to White Port,” she remarks, making her way back not toward the firepit, but to Lefelen. “She said that, when et’s nitherin’ enow, sometimes they leaves beer — or cider, or what ’ave you — to freeze in t’cold.”

She crouches down to squint into the billy through which Syr Lefelen is threading his warp and weft of frost. Osytha’s dagger gets back to work, chipping the frozen surface of that muck into shards. But, when her hands dip in, the hunks of ice she pulls out glisten clear and clean.

“If’n et ’appens gradually, a portion of water separates as pure ice,” she continues, washing off the marshy residue on those chunks with a splash from her waterskin. Once clean, she rests them for the time being into whichever cups they fit. “She called et… ‘jacking’, if Ah recalls? Only for them, they’s more interested in t’concentrate as gets left behind. Yon ice is normally t’by-product.”

Lefelen gives her a satisfied little smile. “Not a bad solution, Syr Osytha,” he tells her. “Not bad at all. And exactly the kind of insight that made the Sanctum of Operations consider you a good pick for this mission, I’m sure.”

She nods to that, and begins to ferry the cups back over by the fire while Syr Lefelen re-focuses on the work of seeding more ice. Maybe an old brewer’s trick isn’t as impressive as calling down bolts of lightning, but she supposes mundane little bits of know-how have their place anywhere you go. Certainly if it stops your task force perishing from thirst.

Well, that’s that, at least for now. They can juggle things around when it comes time to pour out the tea, but for the moment, with Lefelen just starting on the next batch of ice and Hector focused on the fire, Osytha has a minute or two of downtime. And, importantly, her dawnling is finally sitting still. From the pockets and pouches along her baldric, most of which are stashed with a dusker’s arsenal against their eldritch foes, she retrieves a small stoppered vial, and steps in close behind Hector.

“Ane mun be a tad more careful in thy case,” Osytha remarks, casually, letting a couple drops of flaxseed oil land from the vial into her palm. That bottle gets put away, then she takes the comb she’d tucked into the back of her hair and hooks it in one of the pretzel ties at her front for easier access. “What wi’ thy curls, is what Ah mean,” she goes on, fingers raking into the other knight’s hair before coming to a sudden stop. “Sorry. Art tha content for me to do et ’ow Ah’ve learned? Or dost tha ’ave a particular way of combin’ thy hair?”
 
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His breath caught in his throat at the touch of fingers in his hair.

Goosebumps run prickled across his skin as all the little hairs about his person stand to attention. Muscles tense. A cold chill that had his spine stack straight at all the memories of other hands touch at his hair. Play at his ears. How interesting. How different. He could still hear the voices high with curiosity. And that was so much of it for so many. A curiosity.

This though...

Stopped.

"Sorry. Art tha content for me to do et 'ow Ah've learned? Or dost tha 'ave a particular way of combin' thy hair?"
​
Could smell the mild earthiness of seed oil, even through the burn of the birch bark and dry wood crackling hot and clean down in the pit. How all of it seemed to swirl to the calm sweetness of the chamomile flowers, steeping in the hot billy still steaming easy against the growing cool of night.

Hector's breath spilled out. Stirrings in his stomach. His thumb rubbed the inlay of his fingers. Felt the grit over his callouses. The give of his own flesh. "Gets rather knotted after a long ride," he confesses. Nervous smile on his face. "If you," the words catch in his throat. He clears it. Huffs. "If you could just start from the out, work down towards the roots?" he dares to ask, heart high in his throat as he settles in his seat. Lets his shoulders ease as his hands work on moving ice from cup to can of brewing tea.

"Bit of genius with the ice, you know," he says easier. Lifting the muslin bag, and dunking once and twice to let the dried herbs soak. "Easier to drink if its a little less steaming," a simple truth, but then, wasn't that the beauty of so may things? "And the cooler drink keeps the herbal sweetness from turning too bitter," he muses aloud.

The fire pops. Crackles. The sunset frogs go on singing. Owls call across the canopy to one another. Long-eared. Braced as they are in a duet that spans the shadows.

He clears his throat as her hands work through his hair. Feels his face flush.

"Osytha, I," thinks on the brush, Gliding across her as it did. Her eyes. staring so careful at that spot betwixt his eyes where in she had painted the maze. How she had just stared at him afore the flame. Eyes so full of storm waters. Promised rain. Gentle, or full of gale and thunder. He couldn't say. "So long as I am thine Dawnling, I'll follow you into any fray," he feels a fool for saying it. Now instead of then. "And, worry as I do, err as I might, know that you carry my trust, as," the steady ply of the comb. The pluck and pull of her fingers has the breath fall out of him. His head keen toward her touches. He steadies. Lets in a breath in a long measured swirl that carries him up. "As I know I carry yours," he smiles. A small green chute of a thing.
 
When Hector stiffens under her fingers, Osytha wonders if she’s made a mis-step. He’d mentioned he was long overdue a proper brush, no? Or did he not quite mean it that way?

“If you could just start from the out, work down towards the roots?”​

She feels him relax. Good. No mistake, then.

“Aye,” she agrees, fingers on the move once more. “Shall do. A good rule of thumb, that.”

Spreads the oil over and through, just a pinch of it; Osytha’s not making Leah puds here. Moderation is especially vital what with Syr Hector’s line of work, too. They wouldn’t want one stray ember to rob the man of his lovely curls now, would they?

“Bit of genius with the ice, you know.”​

Genius might be stretching it. Nice of him to say, though. But other people came up with it first, and long, long before she even heard about it.

“Figure we can keep goin’ when us tea is done — get some more drinkin’ water an’ all,” Osytha remarks. Touch finds a tangle, and starts at unwinding it. “We was runnin’ a bit low, an us ’orses will be reight parched.”

Syr Lefelen shifts a little where he sits. “It’s hardly the most taxing bit of weaving,” he tells them. “I could manage another run or two after this, I’m sure.”

Osytha nods to that, but otherwise, one would think the words had gone right through her ears. She has eyes only for the job in front of her, and remains squinting through the gloom at the half-seen play of Hector’s hair. Has made fair progress with her fingers; broad strokes with good control, giving her a feel for what she’s dealing with. Now that she’s carefully tackled the worst of the snarls, she starts putting the comb to work as well.

“Who dost tha tak’st after wi’ thy curls?” Osytha wonders, keeping the wooden teeth’s bite shallow for now. “Syr Hilda, or Syr—” just the briefest pause there, a worried hint of a frown, before she ventures on a little uncertainly: “… Dantilion, was et?”

Starting from the tips and down. The comb, a simple if sturdy thing of boxwod, glides all the smoother for that touch of flaxseed. Even more so as Osytha can begin to rake it deeper and bring out the hair’s own oils as well. Dust and grit comes free, and when the spokes have left each whorl tidied but somewhat flattened, Osytha coils them round a finger to help recover their shape.

She’s re-spinning one above his ear when Syr Hector speaks again.

“So long as I am thine Dawnling, I'll follow you into any fray.”​

Her hands slow.

“And, worry as I do, err as I might, know that you carry my trust, as… as I know I carry yours.”​

To a stop. Osytha stares at the top of Hector’s head, held still for her as she brushes, though it must make his own job a bit awkward. He even leans toward her hands a little. She wonders what Hector’s face looks like right now. Seeing it might help her understand if he means anything more than the words he spoke, as people often do. Or it might not.

“Aye. Tha hast mine.” Back to this again. It must be important to the man; she recalls that yes, it had felt important to both of them. Is he rattled, still — and how much of that is from what she’s said, what she’s done? “Ah’ll tek t’lead when et’s a matter of Dusk, but when et comes to Dawn, Ah shall be followin’ thee.”

… Osytha pauses there. Something about it feels incomplete. No more than she’d already pledged long ago, in the oath all those who underwent the Twice-Lit Flame took to become Sworn. But, she’d made him a promise of her own after walking a memory together, and that one had seemed like… more.

She dares to remember, then, what it took to understand. Analon. Syr Etivya. Lorrin’s little Yanu. Who knows how many besides?

Murderer.

No. Just someone who’s been given hard decision after hard decision amidst the fog of war, without the luxury of time in which to make them. Does anyone come as far as Syr Hector and get it perfectly right, every single time? But he tries. He tries the best he can, never less than that. And when he gets it wrong, he doesn’t run away. He faces what he’s done. Man might fixate on his mistakes too hard, if anything.

The sight of him starts to swim in her eyes. But Osytha finds she can’t look away. Mesmerised by how his dark curls devour the pale lines of her hand. By the way she just seems to disappear into him.

“Tha’rt deservin’ of more credit than Ah gave to thee.” Her forefinger slowly remembers to move, resuming its gentle wind around of his lock. “Ah’ve seen why Ah can trust thee, now, but… tha shold’st ne ’ave had to justify thissen to me in t’first place. Even so, tha listened’st to me. Even though some of et was unfair to thee. An’ that… means a lot to me.

“Now, Ah s’pose Ah can’t go followin’ thee when tha’rt already followin’ missen,” Osytha continues, trying to find a bit of levity in her voice, “not wi’aht us goin’ round in circles. Look a reight pair of daft ’a’peths, we would. So then: if’n tha jus’ tell’st me where to go, Ah’ll get us there. Together.”
 
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Well. He felt little better for having said it. Felt it come up wrong. Too warm. Too sticky. More still left to go. Still swirling. Each half measure of heartbeat. Each particle of breath pushed out of lung's steady pump and steady pull. Painfully slow. Achingly felt.

Her hands still in his hair. Fingers stopped again. And he wonders.

Had he said too much? In this. In. In all of this? When there was still so much he felt. So much he could not yet put words to.

Oaths bound them. Duty swore them to each other. That was all it must be. Her promise to him. His promise to her. But tactics to better muster their skills afield. And that she would ask about his curls. About his Mother and Father. That she would give him a part of herself. A memory he could always carry. And that he would feel so much for such a simple thing. As she ran her hands through those same locks she asked after.

What was that?

Too close.

But ripples and flows of the Communion. Surely. But a bit of banter. To be sure. Getting to know her fellow Sworn. Osytha just... cares.

Come the sound of her voice. That easy song that could so quickly turn to fire's roll when she pressed.

“Aye. Tha hast mine."​

He nods. She goes on, and his breath holds in his lungs a moment longer as she pauses. The whole of him still, as if to move then, would take away from something. More than he had already taken.

Was it wrong then? This now. The moment between them. He lets it out. Another breath.

Give her space.

The smell of tea still lingering. The scent of pinewood, and all the fresh moss about them. The scent of the bog, and all its precious water. Peaty as it was. How time folded over itself there in that sacred glade.

"Tha'rt deservin' of more credit than Ah gave to thee..."
​
"I-" the move of her finger twisting him up has him hold in another breath.

"Ah've seen why why Ah can trust thee, now, but...tha shold’st ne ’ave had to justify thissen to me in t’first place. Even so, tha listened’st to me. Even though some of et was unfair to thee. An’ that… means a lot to me."
​
He breaths. Just, lets himself feel the play of her hands. Doesn't right care then. If its right or wrong. How good it feels. That she trusts him. That he trusts her. That they would ride towards all that lay before them. And what else was there to it? And when she plays at a joke, he huffs a little laugh. If only for how much he liked the sound of her brightness. Still his brow quirks as he smiles at a phrase.

"Daft 'a'peths?" he asks turning towards her as he leans there to it. Her touch. Her weight. Her self about him.

And he catches her there as she is. And it stops him.

"...Ah'll get us there. Together."
​
Their eyes met. And he stares. Lost in how seen he feels. "Together." He echoes in agreement. Lets himself stew in it a moment that feels as if it stretches far too long and cuts far too short all the same.

Gently, he guides her hand out his curls. Holds them in his palm careful and sure between the pair of them. Nods. "I've no doubt in that, Syr Osytha," His fingers squeeze at hers, warm with oil as they are.

His nose is tickled by the chamomile sweetness steaming up from the cups. He clears his throat.

"I," he looks down at the tea. At his hands with hers there in them. "We should drink our tea," he says softly, yet he can't help but keep smiling. "Make ready for the morrow. And get some rest," he adds. "For I fear If I could, I would let you play at my hair whilst we followed each other till the morning bird cries," he lets his hands loose about hers. Though he can't help but stare at the golden darkness of his skin against the silver pale of her own. A thumb brush soft across her knuckle. Another memory he would steal for himself.
 
“Daft ’a’peths?” Almost drops the rest of her words when Hector eases back into her. Feels like… those invisible walls that separate folk from each other; one’s just crumbled down. The way he looks so relaxed against her there. And how comfortable he feels on Osytha, too.

His face cranes round. She’s grooming the man’s head one moment, cradling it the next. Finds that searching, umber gaze is pinning her down once more.

“Together.”​

Could be Hector stares for too long. If so, Osytha doesn’t stop him. It hardly occurs to her that she could even try. Doesn’t occur to her at all that she’d want to.

Neither does, or can, she keep Hector’s hands from seeking her own. That’s what gets Osytha to look away from his eyes; only to watch him swallow up a bit more of herself. Those hands… she feels smaller, within them. His are a little tougher as well, perhaps. Not that either pair are exactly soft. And, are his colder, too?

“I’ve no doubt in that, Syr Osytha.”​

She presses her fingers in, gently. Just enough to get the feeling of Hector’s callouses, for the lines in his palms…

… and stops. Realising what this is.

No.

Hector gives her an out. Osytha takes it — pulls her hands away, though not before he steals a parting touch from them. Fool woman that she is.

“—Sorry. Um…” She takes a step back. Refuses to let her eyes tell him anything else. Sets them on the billy there instead, grateful for its diversion. “… Aye, let’s— let’s drink up.”

She tucks her comb back in her own hair, then, unhooks the billy and begins straining out four mugs of the herbal. Tries not to wonder if Rookheart’s still looking at her, nor to picture what expression he might be wearing.

No. It’s one thing to promise she’ll always be there as his friend. A friend as well as a comrade; Osytha knows she can be that for him. What they’d told each other through locked gaze, spoken of betwixt their fingers — that’s becoming something else.

Who is she to make such promises, without knowing who’s she’s going to wake up as tomorrow? Without even knowing who she is right now? Should this hope just be another piece she’s stolen from the man, or if she’s only using him to feel something, anything… no. Osytha can’t offer what isn’t hers to give.

“Ah’ll tek ower tendin’ yon fire,” she announces to the teaset. “Syr Lefelen an’ Ah shall mek up a bit more water for us. Jus’ focus on thy sleep, Syr Hector. Tha mun’st be in fair need of et.”

When she offers Rookheart a cup, this time, Osytha keeps her fingers from his. So too their eyes, lest hers say more than they ought.

“’A’peth’,” she recalls, watching her hands. “Or ‘halfpennyworth’. So, a couple farthin’ shy of t’full sum.” Isn’t that relatable? “Silly buggers, in other words.

“Thank’ee for t’tea. Ah’ll try an’ keep t’noise down, but… shall still be close by, even if Ah don’t seems et. In case tha need’st owt.”
 
Let the last slip of her fingers across the wear of scars and callouses about his hands. How their warmth yet lingers there. Oils mussed betwixt the creases of his knuckles, and the wedges of his prints. His thumb works the feeling in the more, for but a press and his smile sits smaller upon his lips.

His eyes move up to see her. Moving. Acting. Caught how her comb slipped away behind the spill and coil of her dark tresses. He watches a moment longer. As she commands the billy can. Pours the tea.

"Ah'll tek ower tenin' yon fire...Jus' focus on thy sleep, Syr Hector. Tha mun'st be in fair need of et."
​
Still, he gets up, his eyes go on and follow her. She puts the tea there in his hands. He nods his thanks, eyes watching how hers avoid his. Falls to the tea there between them. Still. His breath is warm with the steam, as his hands hold the tea cup. Her hands across the steaming trails rising between them. Like they are afraid to burn him.

"’A’peth’, Or 'ha ‘halfpennyworth’. So, a couple farthin’ shy of t’full sum... Silly buggers, in other words."​

A warm sound falls from him, almost a croak. "A right pair, we are," he coos absently.

"Thank'ee for t'tea. Ah’ll try an’ keep t’noise down, but… Shall still be close by, even if Ah don’t seems et. In case tha need’st owt.”
​
He stands there. As she stands there. Pushes the warm vessel into her hands. Pads and lengths cup veins and tendons. Hold her sure. Shakes his head. "Thank'ee for pourin it," he returns. "fetchin the water," he keeps his eyes low "Aiding with the bark, and the ice," for he doesn't want her to feel it more. "For giving so much of thee," he lingers with it. Whatever has her looking away. Raw and tender as it all feels. "But thou needst' thine rest as much as I, and I need mine Dusker, tip top." he smiles. One last little squeeze before he lets go and steps to the cups. Takes two and leaves the last for when he's done.

Hector moseies on over to yon Lefellen. Who but grunts and shakes his head.

"Merci, mon petit escargot,"

"Escargot?" Hector fletches back.

"Snail," Lefelen smirks.

"I bloody know what an escargot is, Syr Lefelen,"

The older blue elf chuckles something dark. Sips at his tea. "A penchant for them then?" he draws a swirl about the steam winding over his cup.

Hector chuffs. Shakes his head. Grins a fool, but moves on to Syr Landon once more. Rouses him. "Tea," he says gently.

"Oh... oh, tea." he says dreamily. "Sounds lovely."

Hector smiles at that too. Helps him drink it down. Sets up, and grabs the billies that had been used to gather water, and set to the task. Plodding through the underbrush.
​
 
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Brick by brick, trying to build it back up. That wall. Some kind of line Osytha can point to and say, “Here. Here is where I end, and you begin.”

He doesn’t let her. She thought Hector would feel it standing in the way between their fingers, but he reaches right through like it just isn’t there — and then it’s his hands cupped around hers, cupped around the mug.

“Thank’ee for pourin it, fetchin the water. Aiding with the bark, and the ice. For giving so much of thee.”​

That’s the problem with imaginary walls, Osytha supposes. They only exist when someone thinks they do…

Easy not to feel selfish or ashamed like this, Osytha finds. If she lets herself feel anything at all, it’s easier to just think how nice this is, for both of them to hold something warm between them. To wonder what other warm things they might share; if there’s more still to give one another.

How much time does she need to be sure? How sure? When tomorrow could have other plans in store for them. It always has, before.

Could be the ricochet won’t miss her next time.

“But thou need’st thine rest as much as I, and I need mine Dusker, tip top.”​

Hector presses a little tighter. She watches the way his hands mould and flex through coils of steam, feeling for her; seeking her out. A few more stones come toppling down, and it’s a little harder even for her to imagine that wall there. Osytha certainly feels the space he leaves behind when he steps away. Leaves her staring down into the mug to trade quips with Lefelen, leaves her feeling a damn fool. This was supposed to be his cup. Fresh and hot.

She blows over it, gently, and takes a sip. His tea is warm and almost sweet, the smell of it hemmed by flaxseed off her fingers. Osytha knows, in this moment, that every future cup of chamomile will make her think of other hands around hers as she cradles the mug.

“Syr Osytha, if you would…”

The dusker glances up at last to see Lefelen holding more batches of ice. She blinks, a little dully, before setting down her mug and bringing the hot billy over. Rinses off the blocks again before dunking them in, and returns the pot over the fire. Stokes that up with a few more scraps of bark, nice and steady as like before.

Her hands soon wrapping back around the warm cup. Osytha listens to Hector plod away toward the tiny stream. Soon, silence settles down over frog croaks and a distant nightingale’s rowdy trills. Back to just the three of them now, not counting their equine and canid fellows.

“Ah ken tha’rt starin’ at me, Syr Lefelen,” Osytha declares into the fire. “Rather pointedly, Ah’ll wager.”

She hears the man buy some time with a sip of his tea. “In fact I was not looking your way, syr,” he retorts. “But still in a pointed fashion, yes, you have me there.”

“You know what we need?” Lando provides, in a dreamy kind of tone. “Biscuits. Nothing like a biscuit to go with… your cup of tea…”

They let that tail off into the dusk chorus. Osytha pokes at the flames a bit. Takes her own tactical gulp of chamomile.

“Did’st tha know them?” she asks, after a while. “Syr Hilda an’ Syr Dantilion?”

There’s a moment’s hesitation before the elf replies, “Yes. I did.”

“A nice… gingernut. Ooh, or some shortbread. I could murder a bit of shortbread…”

“If you’re curious, though, I feel it’s more appropriate to ask Syr Hector,” Lefelen goes on. “He has the most right in deciding what to share about them.”

Osytha gently shakes her head, though. “Et’s ne that, so much as, well… twa Knights. Wi’ a child together.” She lifts her mug up as Guffy pads over and crawls into her lap. Coils up best he can down there, resting his little head on her thigh. “Ah was allus told that kind of thing en’t a good idea. Betwixt Knights, anyroad.”

There’s another decidedly pointed silence coming from Lefelen’s direction.

“… but I’d even settle for a milk arrowroot…”

“It often is, yes. That doesn’t stop it from happening, though. Probably more than most realise.” Lefel looks down into his cup, and makes an amused sort of grunt. “Quite partial to an iced vovo myself… anyway. That said, ‘often’ doesn’t mean ‘always’. Ultimately, it’s up to the ones involved to decide what’s important to them. And so long as it doesn’t compromise the order’s operations… that’s just part of life for many people, us Knights included.”

Then he is watching Osytha, as she smiles softly at Hector’s tea there in her hands.

“’E nivver did tell me who ’e took after with those curls,” she says, almost as softly as Landonsera rambling about his biscuits.

The old elf masks his face behind the lip of his mug. “Then you’ll just have to bring it up with him again, I suppose.

“Tomorrow, perhaps. There’s a little further to go yet before we find our temple. Time enough for you to find some answers along the way, if you need them.”
 
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It was cool against his skin. The dark water of the easy flowing rill. Its brown stain drink pitch black in the low light of the deepening night. Surface set to ever gentle ripples from where the billy had dipped its wide mouth in to let in all that slow rot turned chilled stew.

A lift saw the can out and dripping against plush and spongy sphagnum. Set down with a hush. His eyes began to drift shut. The croak songs and night calls there betwixt the steady buzz and flutter of insect wings.

Warmth. A gentle hand. Fingers through his curls.

A snap of branch. The rustle of leaves. His eyes came wide open. Head snapped toward the direction. Only to see some round shape ambling through the underbush. The low rattle hark scrape of sound of what had to be am opossum. Cut through chorus of all of other night's life. A smaller, sharper voice replied. A joey.

Hector blinked in the direction of whatever had fled from him. Listened a moment longer as the world's sudden and alert quiet, bled back into sounds of every sort. He let his breath out. Took the next billy, and filled it.

Watched that dark drink slosh back in. Swirl. Streaked with starlight and moonbeams as it was.

Just like that wound at the end of her longsword. And that thief's eyes. And all those doubts. A false name. A cold resentment. Those were all there too. Weren't they? And he had felt them. Seen them. Twisting there inside him with all the rest. But still he saw those piercing eyes cutting across the dark about him. Fire's glow bright before him. Merciless. The streak of silver like lightning parting just over those beams he so wished would stay on him.

If only because it helped him feel like all the rest didn't matter.

A low glug, as a pocket of air drowns beneath his hands. "Billycans say otherwise, now don't they, Hec," he mused to himself. Picked up the last of the lot, and marched on back to their camp.

Heard Ronja before he saw her. Ear twitched up at his heavy stepping. She didn't care none though. Too tired from her own labors to worry, he stitched together. Lefelen sipping his tea. Osytha not far after.

"Well, that's a right sight," Hector smiles at Osytha.

Lefelen can't help but laugh. A quit ghost of a thing. "I did make sure to shave the bristles off of my chinny chin chin, this morning," the older elf goes on. Near empty cup rested low in his lap.

Hector shakes his head, and lays down the cans. "Well, you too, I suppose, Syr Lefelen, the pair of you, Duskers, in your element," he goes on. "Warm cups in hand, bout ready to plunk out for the night," he smiles, and goes back to the cup he left behind. Sets down. Glad to be down with the moving. Grabs up the cup, and smiles easy into it. Feels that gentle warmth, still there despite all the heat it had lost. "The kind of thing I could get used to, is all," Took a long and wanting sip.

"... I could get used to plunking out, I could... if only this leg of mine wasn't well... tart jelly."

A harrumph from Lefelen. "If only," he took one last sip of tea. "There is yet more to do, before we set down. And lets be quick about it, less we burn our rest all the more afore the morn's rise, and we set back out."

"We'll see it done," Hector assures. Nods. And takes another sip just before he sets to what work was left to do. Killing the flame. Hiding the coals. Setting down for the night. "Could maybe, steep one of his snacks in the tea?" Hector offers up afore he sets to the work. Hands setting down the teacup once more. Half full as it is still. "Guffer's I mean," the dawnling clarifies. "To help with his," he looks at the littlest knight of their band. "stomach trouble,"
 
Has she seen Hector smile much before this eve? She must have. But it feels as though Osytha is only noticing it for the first time. Something’s welling up inside her to see him like this, and again, a sort of disquiet alongside. Unable to tell if that shard of him is but resonating with the look on his face, or if the feeling is actually her own.

What makes this smile so different from those others which came before?

She goes back to staring a hole through her mug. Hector draws up, and seats himself down beside her at the little flame. Plugs all the gaps he’d left behind in that wall by being there. Makes it just that touch more cosy here before the fire, simply by the gentle look on his face.

“The kind of thing I could get used to, is all.” If it keeps him smiling, Osytha prays he gets the chance. After her glimpse at what lies coiled up around his heart, heavier than lead, tighter than irons… she frowns. How much, exactly, had he witnessed of her in turn? Analon, Sumu; Etivya and Torgan. She’s seen the pyre from his eyes, now. But she had been there, too. Has he seen it from hers? Looked out upon the world through that Osytha? Surely not.

If he can still smile at her, then surely not.

“Could maybe, steep one of his snacks in the tea? Guffer’s I mean. To help with his stomach trouble.”​

Osytha glances down at boyo there in her lap. “Aye. Worth tryin’,” she agrees, shifting Guffy off and climbing to her own feet. “If this don’t work, anyroad.”

She takes his little dish and teems her remaining tea into it, softly snapping her fingers atop to draw Guffy’s attention. “Hider,” she beckons. He snuffles around it thoroughly at first, then long pink tongue darts out and begins to lap up the drink.

“Eyah, there’s a good lad,” Osytha lilts down at him. “Still a mite parched, poor love. Be sure to thank Hec for lookin’ after thee, now.”

The comfort of his weight in her lap, the joy from being able to provide for him — yes, there’s something simple about an animal’s affection. Guffy has an easy, uncomplicated way of making people smile. Can Osytha offer the same?

“Thank’ee for not usin’ t’ ‘T-word’,” she tells Hector, as they set to the tasks before them. Horses watered, bedrolls made less roll and more bed, fire thanked and put to rest, and so on. “Speakin’ of, though…”

Osytha’s fingers free a pouch at her belt, and she offers it up to him. “Got some of Guffy’s snacks in ’ere. Um. Tha canst give ’im ane from time to time, if’n tha myghst like that. Ah kens that ’e would.”
 
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