Unmoved by the stablehand's threat, Willard watched Venla's return to wakefulness through narrowed eyes. 'Trust me, friend, had I wished her ill, we would not be having this conversation.' Thinking, frowning, the stablehand accepted the ranger's reasoning with a nod. And such a small one at that. 'Well, okay, alright. Gonna hang 'round, all the same. Not that ye mind, of course?' Leaning against the stable block, the hand flashed a gap-toothed smile as Will let himself in.

Gods, what has become of her?

'Venla?' Grimacing at a twinge in his back, Willard sank to a knee before her, a hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. May that I need not use it before the morning's through. 'Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you look like shit.' Smell like it, too. Drawing back his mail hood with a gloved hand, the knight set to looking her over. He had enough warmth in his heart to spare her a small grin.

'See you've been making new friends without me,' he said, tilting his head towards the billy goat as it took a few steps closer, teeth nipping at the sleeve of his gambeson, as if curious of the newcomer's taste in garb. Willard let the animal take his measure. Good judge of characters, are goats. Dogs and cats, too. He met Venla's gaze, saw understanding, there, amidst the green and white.

'Mind explaining what happened last night?' He asked, both knees coming to rest upon a bed of straw. 'I seem to have missed a few details, what with being knocked unconscious and left for dead.' He tried not to sound too accusing.
 
The pull of sleep reluctant to release her. Lashes fluttering against the golden haze of morning light filtering through the cracks in the stable walls. The world was bleary and dreamlike. Then... his voice. Closer. Willard. His form was blurry at first, but that was him. She had recognized him immediately. A jolt of something cut through her mental fog. Maybe shame? Relief? Fear?

She lifted herself up inch by inch, joints protesting. One hand braced against the floor. The other hand instinctively rose to her side, pressing against her ribs. Fingers cradling over the tender flesh. Her eyes found his. Her lips curled into a tight, bitter smile. “Funny.” she rasped, hoarse and tired. There was a heaviness in her mind that wouldn't shake free. “I feel like shit too.” Her breath was shallow as she tried to steady herself. Her eyes fell to the goat, who was studying the knight. “You look... better than expected.” she noted.

Her lips trembled as she looked back at Willard, still not sure if she was truly safe or if his presence meant something else altogether. But she had fled. She had abandoned him. Venla’s hand, trembling slightly, reached out and landed on his leg. "I am.." The words came out barely above a breath. "I am sorry I left you." Her voice was fragile with guilt. Her hand remained pressed against his leg. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic.

“The creature... It caught up to us... and...” She trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence, not knowing if she even could. How could she explain the magic she didn't understand. "I didn't want it to kill you..." Slowly, she moved to her knees, positioning herself in front of him.

"I didn’t mean for any of ... that to happen." Her chest tightened with the weight of what she couldn’t explain. It felt like trying to explain the details of a dream. It was impossible to grasp. As soon as she thought she understood, the thought dissolved. "It wasn’t... me." she murmured. "But I couldn’t stop it... it just..." She shook her head, trying to clear the fog, but there was no clarity. No peace. "I didn’t know I could... do that. I didn’t."

The feeling of vulnerability prickled at the edges of her awareness.

“Willard… You’re not... here to hurt me, are you?” Her green eyes, still sharp despite the exhaustion, watched him closely. Every instinct told her to be wary, to not let her guard down, but she didn’t have the strength to push him away, either.
 
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He didn't answer her at first, unsure of what to say or how. Does she think me a witch hunter? Truly? Pondering his thoughts a moment, Willard shook his head, saddened by the fear he saw reflected in her eyes. 'No, Venla,' he replied, 'I did not come here to hurt you.' Though, Ahyiid knows I probably should. Watching her cautiously, the knight took her hand from his leg, cupped it gently between his own. Warm, and yet I see no signs of a fever. Perhaps she is tougher than she looks? Willard could believe it.

There was so much about Venla he did not yet know, and until he understood the nature of her magic he would just have to tread carefully.

Done a brilliant job so far, fool-ass.

'You may not have meant for anything to happen but it did, and now we find ourselves at a crossroads. A choice lies before you, one I hope you will not flee from, no matter how afraid you might be.' Returning Venla's hand to her lap, the knight settled back on his haunches, his attention solely on the woman kneeling in front of him. 'Magic in itself is not inherently dangerous,' he told her, making use of the lessons he had received at the monastery over the years and putting them to good effect. 'Contrary to what you saw last night, yours need not be either. Tell me: how did your... abilities manifest themselves, once I was out for the count?'

Drawing an amber-hued phial and a fresh wad of bandages from the pouch on his belt, Will gestured to the wound in Venla's side, his eyes imploring.

May I?
 
Venla watched him, wary, even as he took her hand. Gently, so gently and held it between his own, calloused and warm. No, she thought. Not him. She didn’t pull away. She believed him. Something loosened, just barely, in the knot of her shoulders.

But the word crossroads settled in her gut like a stone. Her gaze dropped to his hand as he placed hers back in her lap. He asked about the magic... again. Every man was a potential witch hunter, whether he carried steel or scripture, they all simply bore the will to destroy what frightened them. Some waited with ropes, some waited with smiles. He says he didn’t come to hurt me. But if he decides I’m dangerous… will that change?

"The creature just ...broke.” She swallowed, the words tasting bitter. She moved slowly, awkwardly, adjusting her seat. "No light. No flame. Just... noise, inside my head. And a pressure, like being crushed and pulled apart at the same. I felt it pour through me. Like I was the crack.” It just used her. Like a door. Venla exhaled shakily, her chest rising and falling unevenly. “It didn’t stay ripped apart. Not for long.” Her brow furrowed, her mouth dry. “It was put back together." She didn’t know if he would understand. Hell, she barely understood herself.

When he gestured to her wounded side, she hesitated, only a moment. Not out of lack of trust. But out of tiredness. Venla shifted where she sat, then slowly pulled her chemise up. She unwound the crude bandages she’d managed in the dark and let it fall to the straw beside her. The movement exposed the jut of her ribs, the hollow curve above her hipbone. Her skin was mottled with bruises, pale curves smeared with dark brown streaks of dried blood, but the cut had mostly closed now, pink and angry across the hollow of her hip. Blood crusted in the dips of her waist. The low light of morning painted her skin in shades of gold and ash.

“Why did you come after me?” Her fingers lingered near the discarded and frayed bandage.
 
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Willard listened as he worked, head bowed, focus fixed on the cuts and bruises marring Venla's skin. 'Why did I come after you?' He repeated the question laid before him, let it simmer for a moment, so that he might better understand the motives behind it. Tentatively, he wiped away the worst of the blood staining Venla's pale skin, his hand steady despite the fear gnawing away at his gut. 'What makes you think I had a choice in the matter?'

Setting aside the damp linen, Willard drew his dagger, and placed it down on the straw between them.

'You saved my life, Venla,' he said, folding and refolding a bandage to pad the cut in her side. What remained to be seen, anyhow. 'If not for you, I wouldn't be here now. Not that I approve of what you did last night. Following me into the woods like that was a damned foolish thing to do. You're lucky I found you before the creature did.' Sighing, Willard shook his head, the irony in his words not lost on him as he smiled, eyes flitting upwards to find Venla's watching him.

Like a hawk's, he mused, impressed by her quiet intensity.

'There is, of course, another reason why I'm here.' Unstoppering the amber phial in his possession, Will offered it up to her, before leaning in to pack and bind the worst of her cuts. 'Duty. To the people of these lands, and to the order I serve.' Ministrations done, he sank back on his knees, his expression growing severe as he weighed his words. 'The power that manifested itself in you is new and, as you've led me to believe, unknown, by and large.'

Blinking, he studied her reaction, the way the dawning sun lit her face in a brilliant halo.

'You do not frighten me, Venla. But the power you wield, it... terrifies me.' Frowning, he pressed on. 'I came out here because you're a danger. To yourself, and to everyone who comes in contact with you. Until we understand, that is.'
 
His fingers were warm. She shivered the moment they touched her skin. He worked with steady care. Venla’s eyes flicked to the blade he placed between them. The straw crinkled beneath her when she tried to stop herself from flinching, as his hands continued their careful ministrations. She didn’t want to seem weak. She let him work, grateful for his attention, even if his proximity stirred something inside her. "Thank you."

She reached for the vial with slow fingers, careful not to drop it by mistake. The glass felt warm from where it had rested in his hand. She didn’t ask what it was, she didn’t need to. If he’d meant her harm, he wouldn’t have waited until now. Right? She pressed the glass to her lips and drank. Her mouth twisted faintly as she swallowed, then she handed the small bottle back to him.

She knew he was right. She was a danger. To herself, and anyone around her. She had understood that immediately yesterday. Venla wanted to speak, wanted to say something, anything to calm him. Assure him that she wasn’t dangerous, that whatever she had become, it wasn’t something that would hurt him or anyone else. But she wasn’t sure she was harmless anymore. The thought made her numb.

She felt the pressure in her chest, the need to explain, to fix this. But men with oaths were bound, and they would hold to it no matter what. Her hands curled into fists in her lap. What would he do if the power inside her couldn’t be contained? Her thoughts spiraled into a darker corner of her mind, one she didn't dare visit too often. If she couldn’t control herself, if she couldn’t control this power... would he kill her? Could he? Duty would win in the end. It always did.

Would it be a mercy?

The way he was looking at her, the duty that weighed so heavily on his shoulders... He would, she knew it. What was she supposed to say to duty? To a man whose entire life had been defined by duty? "I…" Her voice faltered. "I am no one special." she whispered. "I lived a quiet life. Wy biggest worry was whether the wort spoiled. I was looking forward to summer, the harvest..." To the simple pleasures of life, never knowing that this kind of power could ever find her. And now that it had, there was no going back.

"I wasn’t... I don’t know what to tell you... Syr." She murmured, "I know what you’re afraid of. I fear it too." Then, slowly, Venla shifted her weight and pushed herself up from the stable floor. Her breath shook on the exhale. She reached out to brace herself. Her fingers curled against the rough stall wall for balance.
 
Courage had many faces. So, too, did acceptance. Venla was proving to be a damned sight braver than most folk Willard had chance encountered upon the road, and that was saying something. 'You know, Venla, we might just make it yet.' Smiling wanly, the knight made to stand, an arm offered in support as the redhead struggled to stay afoot.

'We should eat,' he advised her, 'gather our strength. We can talk more about your... condition afterwards, if you'd like.'

Outside, the sun was shining. Light peaked from behind clouds to dapple the yard and all within it. Hesitating in the doorway, Willard stepped aside, allowing Venla to decide her own way forward. After the night prior, some measure of control would do her good, he felt. Fear might warp her mind, but her heart remained free. Sitha guide me down this path, so that I might share in thy wisdom, and in doing so help this lost soul discover true north once more.

Making the sign of the Eight, Willard strode out into the yard alongside the weary Venla.

'All done?' Turning at the sound of a voice, the dawnling nodded in reply to the stablehand's question. 'Yes, I believe so.' Smiling, the hand pushed off from the wall. 'Good, good! An' the goat? Didn't bother ye none, did 'e?' The man's gaze flitted between them, then, fast and feverish. Willard caught a glint of something akin to fear. 'Aye,' he said, 'no trouble.'

'Good, good! Well, I s'pose you two will be wantin' some breakfast now that yer done chewin' the fat? We've some pottage on the boil. Nothin' fancy, mind, but then ye don't look much like a knight.'
'I assure you I am.'
'Oh, come now, syr, I'm just yankin' yer pizzle! No need to go gettin' upset.'

I'm not, thought Willard, staying close by Venla's side as he followed after the man. Just how much did you hear back there, I wonder? And why so insistent? 'I suppose some company wouldn't go amiss,' he confessed, angling a small smile towards the redhead. 'Pray, I hope you've an appetite, lady. Between you and me, I've been a bit... let's say indulgent lately. Need to watch my figure.'
 
Venla accepted his arm, fingers curling around his forearm. He had the hard forearm of an archer. His words, "we might just make it yet," unsettled something in her chest. Hope, maybe. They would talk about her "condition," he said. As if either of them knew what the hell they were dealing with...

But then again… he must have sworn the oath of Anathaeum. Whatever that oath meant, whatever secrets they kept behind their monastery walls ... it was more than she had. Still, she doubted the answers would be kind. What would happen if her will ran crosswise to his oath? Men like that didn’t bend. They broke... or broke others. Would he sheath the blade in her throat with a prayer? Venla’s jaw tensed. Her fear wasn’t of pain. It was of becoming something he had to destroy.

For now, he walked beside her. Not with pity. Not even with disgust. Just… purpose. She didn’t know if that was comfort or warning. Her silence dragged on too long. She felt it. So she nodded. Slow, careful. "I’d like that." she said at last. The stablehand’s familiar voice cut through the quiet, and she caught the glance he gave them both.

She saw the way his eyes shifted and how his hands fussed without meaning to. Venla offered him a thin smile, one hand braced lightly on her ribs beneath the shift. "The goat spared me.." she said mildly, with a voice as fragile as kindling. “Pottage sounds fine,” she said. It was the only thing she could grasp, the only normal word in a world that had come apart.

His quip about his figure drew a faint, real laugh from her. Her lips curved, faint and weary. Who did not want a fat knight’s death?! That was surely better than fire and screaming. "You’ll be the only knight in the realm to die of too much pottage," she murmured. "A tragic end."

They stepped into the warmth of the main house, the air smelled of root vegetables and fire. Smoke clung to the rafters like a second ceiling. A woman was already there, older, with a braided coil of white-streaked hair and weathered hands. She glanced up as they entered, whatever she thought, she didn’t say. Without a word, she turned back to the hearth and ladled thick pottage into two clay bowls. It smelled of barley, onion, and some salted meat. She tore two hunks of dark, crusted bread from a larger loaf and brought it all to the rough wooden table where they’d sat.

Venla mumbled “Thank you,” as the older woman placed the bowl in front of her. The pottage was thick, with a sheen of oil floating across the top. Her fingers tightened around the wooden spoon. The food wasn’t good, but it was warm, and she hadn’t eaten since before the forest. She scooped up a small portion of the pottage and lifted it to her lips.
 
Tragic, aye, but Willard could think of worse ways to go. 'Rather too much than too little,' he replied, pausing to knock the mud from his boots before following Venla inside the house. Their host, an older woman with greying hair, made no comment as she went about preparing their breakfast. Sliding onto the bench alongside Venla, Willard kept a watchful eye on the surround, ever mindful of the world around him.

The stablehand sat with a sigh, his arms landing on table alongside the bowls of pottage. Two, to be exact.

'Aren't you having any?' Tearing his heel of bread into small chunks, Willard dipped and dunked as he asked his question. Took a bite. 'Oh, don' you go worryin' about me, lad. I'll be sure to fill me belly after, once yous twos are done stuffin' yer faces.'

Stuffing? Willard glanced to his side. Oh, right.

Continuing on in silence, Willard allowed his thoughts to turn to the future. He hadn't been lying when he had told Venla a choice lay before her. The mystery surrounding her magic was not a question he could let go unanswered. Duty-bound to the land and its people, his was to thwart danger wherever it might appear. Sometimes, this was easier said than done. Even now I can feel the tension between us. Intimate, and unnerving, Willard could sense the dark thoughts racing through her mind as if they were his own. Perhaps they were.

Reaching into his coin purse, Willard placed a couple ten piece on the table between them.

'What's that for?' Asked the stablehand, eyes widening at the clink of copper coins. 'The grub?'
'Aye, that and the... uh, lodgings you lent my friend. Not to mention the kindness you-'
'Oh, don' you go gettin' soft on me, syr knight! "Kindness is its own reward," as me ma used to say. Right, ma?'

The grey-haired matron stood by the cookpot grunted in response. A broom appeared in her hands out of nowhere as she began to sweep the floor rushes. The stablehand smiled across at them. 'All the same, you both deserve-'

'Nonsense, lad, nonsense! Go on, now, keep yer coin. We ain't so 'ard up, what wit' the stud farm and the 'orses.'

Nodding, Willard scooped the coins into his palm. 'Very well.' Looking to Venla, he passed the coins to her instead. 'For the dress,' he explained, 'unless you intend on making a fashion statement.'
 
Her fingers curled around the spoon, guiding another small mouthful of pottage past lips that had gone pale with the morning's weight. It was warm, at least, and soft enough to go down without chewing. A poor man’s meal, but still kindness, in a world that didn’t owe her any. Turning to the stablehand and the old matron, she gave them both a quick, but heartfelt nod. “Thank you. For the meal. And the lodging.”

Venla had been finishing the last of her pottage in slow, thoughtful spoonfuls, her back comfortably pressed to the timber of the chair. The clink of coins made her glance up and she was already shaking her head before Willard spoke. Her eyes lingered on the coins for a moment. “For the dress?" She echoed. "You don’t like 'the smell of goat, bloodstained and torn at the seams’?” For a heartbeat, it looked like she might argue. But then her gaze drifted up to meet his, catching the flicker of something behind the offer, concern maybe, or just a man trying to do right by someone he barely knew.

"I don’t usually let strangers pay for my dresses...” she said, smirking. Her fingers, hesitant, reached out. She picked up the coins slowly. Her fingers brushing his palm as she did. It wasn’t a grab or a snatch. Maybe it was a touch that lingered longer than it needed to. “It’s kind of you." It truly was.
She finished her last bite, licked her spoon clean, then stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt with both hands. The hem was still ripped. It was time to go. “I should go,” she said, softly. “If I’m not back soon, my brothers might come looking." And she was not ready to explain why she looked like this.

She could find a merchant, she thought, buy herself a full set of clothes. Find a stream and scrub herself raw before the road bent back toward home. Maybe then, if she looked enough like the girl she'd been before, no one would ask what had happened out here in the quiet corners of the world. Venla moved to the doorway, pausing when she reached it. Morning light spilled across her boots. The fresh air beyond the threshold felt wider than it should. “Well,” she said, her tone light but edged with the truth they both knew, “our paths part here, I suppose.” She turned slightly in the doorway, facing the knight.

The kindness he'd shown her, his quiet strength, his patience, the way he'd helped without expectation. She swallowed hard. “Thanks for the... kindness,” she said, her voice turning just a bit quieter. “It won’t be forgotten.”
 
'You do?' Willard replied, brow raised in quiet disbelief. Not my place to judge, he mused, smiling to himself as coin exchanged hands. He felt Venla's fingers brush his, her touch lingering longer than was to be expected. Gazes locked. A heart skipped a beat. Unexpectedly intimate, the moment was fraught with a tension born of fear, even as her words worked to lift his spirits, if just a smidge.

'Don't worry about it,' he heard himself say, as Venla's hand withdrew, visions of death going with it.

Benches grated backwards as the three bid goodbye to each other. Knight and stablehand and- Shroudweaver. 'Fare thee well, Venla,' said the dawnling, bowing his head in recognition of the woman stood before him. 'With any luck, we'll meet again under better circumstances, and not because you've landed yourself in trouble. Again.' Ignoring the tightening in his chest, Willard nodded, eyes bright with mischief and promise.

'Until next time.'
 
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