Private Now Hands That Build

[Faramund]

The dawnling's expression shifted to one of mock disbelief. 'Don't fancy humpin' poor ole Bertha here back to camp, huh,' he huffed, dark eyes glimmering in the half-light as he held out a hand, palm up, awaiting the rope and vessel the dusker had alluded to only a few moments ago. 'Alright then,' he shrugged, 'I'll handle 'er. You fetch the sled. Y'can always check on the others while yer there, make sure they're all settlin' in.'

With any luck, camp would be set by the time he was done gutting and prepping the pig. The offal he would sacrifice to the wylds. Last thing either of them wanted was to lure wild animals back to where everyone laid their heads.

'Go on, now! Sooner it's done, the sooner we can both eat.' It was a prospect he had been looking forward to for most of the day. Walking leagues on end was downright knackering, as it turned out, and the goodfolk could do with a hearty meal to lift their spirits and fill their bellies with. As to whoever's land they found themselves on, well, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

Or us.

---​

Night fell softly upon the land. Coaxing the sun to sleep, the stars and moons made to stand watch over Faramund where he sat, back resting against a makeshift mount comprised of saddle, blanket and scabbarded sabre. Around him, the column slumbered somewhat peacefully. Every now and then a shadowed form would shift, or grow restless, only to settle a moment later. Bad dreams, the dawnling figured. They all had those.

Not that he ever dreamt himself.

Bone chimes clinked as someone stumbled nearby. A dog barked, growled, and was promptly shushed. Not Syr Guffers, though. He was curled up in the lee of Faramund's leg, sleeping soundly, ignorant of the crackling watchfire, but grateful for its warmth.

Across from him, Syr Conroy busied himself by wiping the grease from his plate, a small, innocuous smile the only proof he had actually enjoyed his meal, considering how swift he had been in wolfing it down.

'Oh, but if that weren't the most delicious bit o' pork I've ever had the pleasure of eatin',' said the black-haired weaver, licking his fingers one after another as the empty plate landed in the pile next to the fire. 'Fine fare, so it was! Positively divine!'

'Better than cold salt beef, anyhow,' griped Syr Evelyn, her playful tone betraying her. 'Fortune favoured us, it seems, keepin' you from the cookpot. Tonight's meal was actually done proper.'

'Oh? See how quick she is to wound me, syrs? Would that she kept her blade as sharp as she does her tongue. Then, perhaps, I would not have to go saving her as often as I do.' Conroy grinned, feeding a log to the flames.

'Savin' me, my arse!' Evelyn riposted, one leg kicked over the other as she stared up at the stars, hackles decidedly unruffled. 'T'weren't me what went and offended that noble saer. You remember the one, don'tcha, Mund?'

'I do.' The dawnling replied with a nod. 'Venhold. Couple months back.'

'Got us kicked out of a perfectly decent tavern durin' a snowstorm,' his fellow dawnling explained, looking to the fourth of their number. 'Lucky we didnae freeze to death.'


'They exaggerate!' Conroy laughed guiltily. 'Well. Mostly. Suffice to say, we did not freeze to death in the end, though we did have to find rooms elsewhere that night, much to the detriment of our combined coffers.' Evelyn snorted. Faramund shook his head, amused.

'In other words, we got fleeced.' He paused. 'Admittedly, the rooms weren't half bad. The grub neither.'

 

[Osytha]

The pig is good. Freshly roasted, dripping with juices… Osytha had taken a couple of sublime mouthfuls of flesh, still hot off the fire, and then crunched her way through a little of that ultimate prize: pork crackling. Old Nanny Briscoe had done wonders working the spit once they (well, more Syr Faramund) dragged the beast back to camp.

Osytha herself is just returned from a little walk about. She’d wanted to check in on a few bodies, see if there were any new issues which had sprung up over the day. She’d also wanted to make sure the bairns were all settling in for the night. Just seeing one of the Knights on their rounds was usually enough to put the young ’uns at ease, though, Hadelinde’s been having a hard time falling asleep this whole trip. But when Osytha went to look in, she’d found the girl snuggled up against Jonas, with the older boy’s arms wrapping her protectively against his chest. Their breaths were soft; both children fast asleep already. Osytha had just taken in that scene for a little while, then, carefully trod away.

Her feet had finally taken her back to the cooking fire. Before Osytha knew it, Nan was shoving a trencher of roast pork into the knight’s hands, grinning her gap-toothed grin. There wasn’t much of the boar left by then. Maybe the old woman had been keeping a few choice cuts aside, just for her.

Feet had walked her to this little soirée after that. Looks like the Syrs Conroy and Evelyn are returned for the day, then. Osytha’s fellow dusker is a raven-haired young fellow, with a grim sort of visage that belies his more brussen nature. And she’s ridden out with Syr Evelyn a few times now; sturdy woman has steadfast gaum to match, so like as not those two complement each other well.

“Dare I ax what sort of misstep were enow to get you lot thrown out in a snowstorm?” Osytha enquires, wending twixt fire and diners to a spot beside her own dawnling. “Or is this a tale best left untold?”

It’s a little bit of a juggle to sit without the use of her hands, full as they are with dishes. In her right balances the trencher of boar, mostly untouched, which she holds out toward Faramund.

“Here,” she tells him. “Since tha did’st most of t’hard work. Tha need’st it more than I.”

For herself, Osytha’s real dinner is held in the left; a bowl of rabbit-and-greens stew. It’s not that bad, actually. A welcome break from the salted beef, for sure. And it’s still nearly warm to boot.

She spares a glance at little Guffers, nestled nice and snug against the big knight’s beefy hunker. Every now and then, his mis-matched ears flick at a popping ember, or a paw twitches in chase of dreamland sheep. Or perhaps it’s boar this time around. Almost certainly, someone has shared a little pig’s flesh with her boy there. It sure looks like the contented sleep of a well-fed pup, huffing and grumbling away there, warm to Faramund’s leg. Well, good. Little lad has certainly addled as much.

“Nowt fresh to mention by the by,” Osytha remarks, fishing for chunks in the broth. “Just t’same awd aches an’ pains, more or less. What of yersen, though, syrs?” She looks up at Evelyn and Conroy. “Did you notice owt worth mentionin’—”

The query cuts short at a sound; a low, lingering thrum, near no sooner there before others rise and fall behind it. Osytha’s head turns, mesmerised, toward the source.

Of course… it mun be that time by now.

One tune heralding the next, plucked in higher notes atop. And over all of that, Akke’s voice. Soft as goosedown and heavy as lead, he casts it out to sink young minds to slumber.

Hush, O babe,
While the red bee hums
The silent twilight’s fall.
Aibheall from the grey rock comes
To wrap the world in thrall.
A leanbhan O, the paley moon
Hath brimmed her cusp in dew,
And weeps to hear the sad, sweet tune
I sing, O love, to you.​

Akke is out there singing to his girl, to Lilia. Singing to all the other bairns as well, them as need to hear it. Hell… maybe he’s singing it for everyone. For the older folk shouldering all this weight as much as for the little ones. For the horses, and the ferrets, and little Syr Guffers, too. A lullaby sung even for brave Knights, should they maybe not be feeling so brave as all that. But, mostly, for his darling Lilia.

It’s not Osytha’s first time hearing him sing this song. Those dusky notes are no less tender, no less beautiful for having met them before. And still every bit as heartbreaking.

Dusk is drawn,
And the Green Man’s thorn
Is wreathed in rings of fog:
Siabhra sails his boat till dawn
Among the starry bog.
A leanbhan O, my child, my joy,
My love and heart’s desire,
The cricket sings his lullaby
Beside the dying fire.​

A bard, happen, thinks Osytha. What if I’d become a bard instead of a Knight? Akke — hearing thee, I could believe I’d have done more good with song than all I’ve won with a sword…

---

 

[Faramund]

'It's a tale alright!' Evelyn replied with a flash of teeth. 'Another time, perhaps. Y'know what they say about lettin' sleepin' dogs lie.' Syr Guffers twitched and turned, burrowing into Faramund's leg with a long, contented sigh. Little fellah was comfortable, no doubt about it. Faramund had half a mind to join him, though Osytha saw fit to shove a trencher into his hands before he could seize upon the opportunity.

'It was a joint effort,' he told her, craning his neck to meet the dusker's eyes with his own. 'Fine bit o' bowwork. Coulda put the Wayfarer Hisself t' shame.' Dinner was done with by the time Osytha had finished making her rounds. Plates stacked and awaiting a rinse. It was kind of her to offer him a second helping when so many others deserved it more.

The singing started before the syrs could muster a response.

For someone missing half their teeth, Akke sure could carry a tune, weaving words and whistles together to lull the weary to sleep. Tonight's lullaby was a new one to the dawnling, though from the way Akke sang, it was not new to him. Drawn straight from his memories, most like, as all the best songs were. One of Lilia's favourites, Faramund imagined it being. Something soft and warm to swathe oneself in when the nights grew cold and dreary.

It was beautiful, aye, and melancholic. Faramund was grateful no one had tried convincing him to sing, lest he scare the children and spook the horses. Would've been a long night, else, and not even Osytha had the patience for that. No syr!

'Quite the pair of lungs, Akke has,' said Conroy as the song petered out. 'Reckon he must have been a Pursuant in a past life, no? Encouraging the brethren to battle, or else persuading them to eat their greens like good little squires.' A laugh, quick and easy, filled the void left behind by Akke's singing. Faramund's grin was short-lived, but real enough. He even managed to get a chuckle out of Syr Evelyn, though her expression fell soon thereafter, replaced by the same solemnity Faramund had come to expect from her.

'Came across a body to the north-east,' she said, answering Osytha's question, albeit reluctantly. 'Some poor cabbage farmer, going by the cart we found him stretched out beside. The carrion crawlers got to him first, mind. 'Tweren't them what did him in, though.'

'Notice any wounds on him?' Faramund asked, skewering a slice of roasted boar with his dagger before taking a bite.

Evelyn hummed an acknowledgement. A very stoic gesture from one so given to light and laughter. 'Slash to the back of the neck,' Conroy chimed in, sparing her the recollection. 'Angle of the wound suggests he was ridden down. So. Deserters. Or a patrol none too pleased with how the Baron's Ball turned out,' he spat, as if averting some evil.

'Lekander land south of here,' gruffed Faramund. 'Must've been sellin' cabbages for the Rodhans.'

The conflict was said and done, but that didn't mean everyone was happy with the outcome. Some would take any excuse to burn the fields and salt the ground. To rape and murder and plunder. Answering evil with evil, as if it changed anything. Fucking eegits.

'Uh huh.' Conroy sounded none too amused. 'Counted seven sets of hoofprints 'tween us. More, maybe. Hard to tell.'

'Lucky us.' Faramund glanced sidelong at Osytha, gave her knee a nudge. 'Might wanna keep that bow o' yours close,' he said. 'Bastards abound.'

 

[Osytha]

That knee nudges right back, just an affirming little gesture, and paired with a gentle nod.

Akke’s voice has silenced, but there’s yet a faint, hypnotic refrain from the man’s bandore. Osytha picks up a char-tipped stick and fiddles with the fire a bit, shifting fuel free of choking ash and consolidating the embers. Its glow rises from sullen to cheery, though whether its fresh mood matches any of the countenances it illuminates, is another story.

A cabbage farmer. Did he have someone whom he sang to? Someone who is waiting and wondering, right now, why they can’t hear his voice? Why, in all this Blighted world, would someone see fit to strike down a cabbage farmer?

That sword hand of Osytha’s is definitely feeling twitchier of late.

“He’d ’ave sung that song afore,” she remarks, eyes set to the rippling coals. “When Lilia’s mother were that small.”

Did’st thou also sing’st it to her long after that, Akke? One last time, when thou tucked’st her in to the pyre?

She stands up. “I’m goin’ to check my bow,” she announces. “See if’n I can’t get those arrowheads from t’boar set ’pon some fresh shafts. I… can tek first watch.”

She makes to turn, but pauses, and casts a look down to Faramund first.

“Thank’ee. ’Twas good work today, reight enow. I’m… fain et were thee, Syr Faramund.”

Then Osytha walks out from that jolly little glow of the fire; off into the moons’ hazy pall, and that gently plucked lullaby.

“…An’ mind young Guffers there,” comes the woman’s parting caution. “Boar’s one of them things as still gives ’im wind.”

The little dog sighs contentedly against Faramund’s leg. And then, because of course ‘and then’, Guffy lets loose another sigh.

In a manner of speaking.

He certainly lets it loose, anyway.

* * *​

Out there, where no firelight touches, where even the moons are barred by darkened canopy…

… where pig’s blood still leaves vibrant trails through woodland floor, roams a wanderer. A most restless follower of such paths. And a maker of them, too. By the night.

It has already made one this eve, though, boar is most unsatisfying game. Not that its appetite can ever be sated, but, there’s still only one game which truly calls to it.

It finds the work of other trailmakers, of a very different sort altogether. Catches the smell of it in the air, and follows, until it finds the half-scavenged heap of offal left behind. That doesn’t interest it, though, not in the least. It cares more about the path forged by those other trailmakers, and what lies at the end of it.

It had been a good idea of Osytha and Faramund’s to bleed and dress the kill there on the spot.

Just, not good enough.

 

[Faramund]

Dawn took its time to arrive. Seeing it in, Faramund remained at his post until the sun had fully grasped the horizon, red sky reminiscent of lifeblood, though a damned sight prettier to behold. As always, the hounds were the first to rise, padding about camp like they owned the place. Good sentries, they made. Quiet until quiet became dangerous to those they cherished.

The camp woke, as it always did, with grumbles and curses. The adults complained about stiff joints and chills; the children mimicked them, or else took to harassing each other, as siblings and would-be-siblings were wont to do. Their behaviour never spiralled into something serious lest they risk a visit from the elders, the more rebellious among their number becoming a lesson to the rest once Akke or Nan got involved. Words were powerful, but so were wooden spoons.

Appearing from tents and lean-tos, from wagon beds and betwixt wheels, the goodfolk greeted their neighbours with yawns and mumbled well-wishes. Some hurled a few Faramund's way and he returned the gesture, usually in silence, though not always. A wave here, a nod there. Words of encouragement he reserved for those that needed to hear them most.

The refugees broke camp before they broke their fasts. 'Tweren't much on the menu save honest fare. It was the only kind Nan served. As for any complaints, well, they were for folk who didn't have to worry about where the next meal might come from.

Then, footsteps. Three pairs that belonged to two. The pace marked them for friends; foes made no noise til it was too late.

'Morning,' the dawnling greeted the figure standing in his periphery with a nod towards the horizon. 'Sleep well?'

Leaf litter crunched. Paws pitter-pattered. Syr Guffers leapt up into Faramund's lap as if his legs were made from springs, floppy ears flapping as he attempted to give the knight some morning kisses, was rebuked.

'Someone's full of energy.'

 

[Osytha]

“Guffy, heald.”

The slobbery assault ceases with Guffers, reluctantly, planting his rear firmly down. Still — that eager little face stays locked on Faramund’s, and a thump-thumping tail belies the dog’s lingering excitement.

Osytha stifles a yawn. “Aye, ’e’s sure taken a shine to ’is Uncle ’Mund.”

Woman holds a big hunk of bread in hand, slabbed over with a dark, grainy-looking spread. She tears — or possibly snaps — it roughly in half, then gives it a bleary-eyed assessment before proffering the slightly larger piece forward.

“Breakfast,” she says, as though it needs an explanation. “Nan caught a boatload of drippin’, used et to fry up some of t’awd bread this morn. ’S’ not ’alf-bad, truth be told. An’ she also whipped up a spot of black puddin’ there. By gum, but that woman might be Sitha Hersen.”

Another yawn, this one fully indulged, and Osytha stretches her back at the end of it. Blinks a couple of times, and rubs some sleep from her een. Somewhere, a gaggle of children are riling each other up, boasts and shrieks risking the wrath of the Spoon. Adult voices speak over, firm and chiding, and the ruckus lulls once more. The camp as a whole, it whispers with the chorus of many busy hands and — bar some of the bairns — stilled tongues. A hint of Nanny Briscoe’s cooking smoke wafts on by. Guffy’s nose twitches, intrigued.

“I slept… well enow,” comes the answer. Osytha settles herself down next to Syr Faramund. “Head was too busy wi’ thought. An’ William snuck into my bedroll halfway through t’night, but, I’ll yet thoil. What of thissen?”

She takes a crisp bite of Nan’s breakfast, and chews slowly, letting her groggy mind continue to rouse at its own pace. Fact is, that head’s still as full of thought as when it had lain down to rest the night before, even if said thoughts are a little more sluggish.

Are they going to face these riders today?

That’s what Osytha has been mostly occupied with. That, and how such an encounter might turn out. Fortunately for her, though, she can outsource this particular conundrum. It falls under the purview of Dawn — so it’s Syr Faramund and Syr Evelyn’s call to make.

She swallows and, staring down into her lap, asks, “What would’st tha hast of me today? Seven riders, at t’least… seems no middlin’ menace, that.”

 

[Faramund]

'I slept.' Faramund answered, eyeing the dusker sidelong as he tore his bread ration in twain, so as to break his fast rather than his teeth. 'No late night visitors, mind, though I did catch a glimpse of somethin' sniffin' 'bout the perimeter, just afore sunup.' An animal of some kind, most like, or an apparition come to haunt his waking moments. The only assumptions Faramund made concerned himself; everything else was up for debate.

Worrying away at his bread, the dawnling endeavoured to remain schtum as Osytha's voice filled the space between them.

'Seven riders and only four of us, eh? Middlin' odds, I admit, but not without hope.' They had a Weaver, after all, and a far-from-middling one at that. Conroy liked to brag, claiming that he was the best Shroudweaver east of the Spinebacks. And yet despite being full of shit, he sure did know his spells, courtesy of a past life he refused to talk about, which was fine.

They all had their secrets; some more dangerous than others.

'Evelyn and I will make an attempt at discourse, assumin' we actually run into anyone out there,' he said, dipping his head at the vista stretched before them, all green and gold and silver where the morning mists pooled like wax in the recesses of a land as yet untamed. 'If it comes to a fight, forget fair. Fair'll get you killed. Target their mounts. A man's much easier to kill when his legs're trapped 'neath a thousand pounds of horseflesh.' Grim, maybe, but reality oft was in this line of work.

'Remember your training, keep moving, and above all else: trust your gut!' Faramund swatted the dusker's stomach lightly with the back of his hand. 'Damn thing ain't steered ya wrong yet nor will it, if'n you only continue to listen.'

Pausing, the big dawnling took a moment to appraise his fellow knight, his expression softening as he turned to stare ahead.

'As t' what I would have of you, well,' he pondered the question a heartbeat, two. 'No heroics. That's my job.' His smile was brief but sincere. 'Think you can do that for me, Syr Osytha?'

 

[Osytha]

Stressing the ‘syr’, there; reminding Osytha of who she is, what she can do. Toils, but she hopes Faramund doesn’t feel the need to carry her too, the way he’s already shouldering most of the camp. She don’t need any encouragement to do what must be done. And he don’t need to wonder if his dusker’s going to fall apart on him.

“Aye, can an’ shall. Pardon my bein’ dowly — I but wished to ken thy plan. T’doin’ of et were ne’er in doubt.” A flash of recollection brings a smile softly to her face. “Even if things don’t work aht, ’tis still as tha said’st: ‘doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.’”

Osytha rubs her gut; not that Faramund actually hurt anything with that tap, but her instinctive flinch has caused some ominous misfires in the tender machinery of a freshly-woken stomach. She gets what he means, though, even if that gut of hers isn’t feeling very trustworthy right now. Not in the literal sense, anyway.

And, unfortunately, he’s right about the other bit. Fair fights are for sports and games. This is life and death. Young Osytha, head full of romantic fables, had been a little surprised by that when she’d first started learning longsword at the monastery. They didn’t teach you what was fair, or honourable. They taught you what worked. If she’d learned anything else, she’d never have gotten this far. Not even close.

She doesn’t need reminding of that, either.

“Alright, then.” Osytha clambers back to her feet. “I’m just ’bout to tek some bodies to t’keld in yon woods and replenish us water, otherwise, reckon we’re good to break camp. An’ once we’re on t’road today, I’ll be on Forbs. Bairns’ll be reight mardy. But ’twill also mean I’ll be fit, come what may—”

She stops. Frozen there, as confusion blooms across her features. Osytha opens her mouth as though to speak on it, but then:

“—*br-uhp-p*—”

A burp like a thunderclap, to which Guffers whips round in alarm. Osytha thumps her fist to chest a couple of times, looking much relieved for it. Then she turns a warning gaze in Faramund’s direction.

“Eyah, am afeared Nan’s fare en’t so grand t’second time round. Be told.” She whistles low for Guffy to follow, and the dog bounds eagerly out of big man’s lap to trot alongside her shoes. “We shan’t be long. An hour, happen? Try an’ avoid too many ’eroics while I’m gone, Syr Faramund.”

 

[Faramund]

'Not much chance o' that, this early in the morn,' the dawnling replied, pressing to his feet alongside Osytha before the copse mistook him for one of its own. 'But then I s'pose discretion is the better part of valour,' he mock grumbled, seeing off the last of his bread afore Nan could take the spoon to him, keen disciplinarian that she was.

'Keep yer peepers peeled out there, Osy,' said the knight, dusting himself down as the dawn drew higher. 'I'll get Forbs saddled for ya in the meantime, gentleman that I am. Be swift and stay safe,' his gaze darted to the treeline. 'Never know what's watching.'

---
​

Back to the Road, and the march of miles. Carts trundled and shook as the land canted, sloping up and down and to the side. Hooves drummed a steady rhythm upon the beaten path. If not for the dust and blow flies, it would have been a pleasant morning, the day's warmth yet to turn to swelter. A gentle breeze tugged at mane and mantle alike, ruffling hair, and kissing brows yet to be drenched with sweat.

It had been an unseasonably warm spring, and Faramund feared it would only grow warmer in the coming weeks. Fortunately, they were but three days out from there destination. Three days more and they might finally find a place for these people to call home.

Clad in a gambeson the colour of ivy, the dawnling had donned both his mail hauberk and brigandine in light of yesterday's news. Klappvisor raised, spear balanced atop one broad shoulder, he looked every part the noble retainer folk oft believed him to be upon first glance. Powerful, and menacing. Like a proper blueblood, he mused, sweeping the landscape with his gaze, wary of wearing himself out needlessly.

Riding in the vanguard alongside Syr Osytha, Faramund glanced back down the column to where Syrs Evelyn and Conroy rode, protecting the rearward elements from any nastiness waiting in the wings. So far, fortune had favoured them, but she was a fickle mistress, prone to bouts of madness.

'Ever thought about gettin' Syr Guffers a miniature pony?' The dawnling asked amidst the monotony. 'Maybe startin' your own theatre troupe?'

 

[Osytha]

Just a flicker at the corner of Osytha’s eyes at that; a certain pull of mirth at her cheeks, there and gone again in a blink.

“Aye,” she nods, head bobbing behind her bevor. “’E’ll do tumblin’ on t’back of an ass, Akke’s teachin’ Forbs to play t’bandore, an’ Katie Donovan’s knitted me a fool’s crown an’ all. ’S got bells on et an’ everythin’.”

She looks at Faramund and continues to say, in that careful deadpan, “We’s lookin’ for morris dancers too, if’n tha’rt keen. Tha mun findest thy own costume, mind.”

She wishes she were in a jester’s outfit. It’d be a damn sight more comfortable than a padded gambeson and hauberk combo. The sallet, at least, sits slung from her saddlepacks; thing has no mantling, so Osytha’s head would simply cook like a jacket potato in this kind of sun. Much more preferable to feel the wind on her face, and to see and hear unobstructed. It’s but a small reprieve, though. Osytha brings a waterskin up to her lips for a draught, one of many she’s taken so far today, and is grateful yet again that they took a moment to replenish the convoy’s water stores.

That look of relief quickly gives way to something more troubled. Osytha stares ahead for a second, then ushers Forbs over a little closer besides Syr Faramund’s bay, Tribe.

“Our Guffers found summat out there in t’woods,” she says, voice slung low. “Another boar from t’sounder we sent scatterin’. At first I reckoned she’d run afoul of wolf, ’appen even bear. But…” Osytha glances over her shoulder to where Guffy is trotting industriously along, in amidst the long migrant files, “… t’lad were fair yitten, wouldn’t get close. E’d normally be all ower summat like that. An’ when I checked yon sow’s wounds, well — et weren’t t’work of any canid nor ursid, not ane that I ken of. I en’t sure what to mek of et, truth be told.”

A squeal heard cut short in the dark. She’d thought it still in a panic at their ambush, but it seems there’d been another hunter out there with them. Her eyes lift slightly to that woodland now set to their backs, giving it one last survey before she turns herself forward.

“I’m belike to just be mekkin mountains out of mowdi-tumps. Even so… I’ll be fain to leave yon weald aback of us.” Her gaze starts scanning ahead and aside, now watchful for a different, more certain danger. “That thing tha saw’st last night — did’st tha chance a good look at et?”

 

[Faramund]

'I'll ask Syr Conroy if I cannae borrow some o' his frilly britches for the occasion,' the Mund replied, dry as the saltpans surrounding Lower Alessia, though not quite so pale. Not even when Osytha's timbre tilted, grew stark, and serious.

'Not one to go cryin' wolf, even when it bares it fangs at you, eh?'

Faramund's own waterskin dangled from his saddlehorn, untouched. Hoisting it up by its strap, the dawnling fiddled until the stopper popped free, then took a few short pulls to sate his thirst. 'Well,' he paused, readjusting, 'if Guffers don't like it, the neither should we.' Dogs were intuitive beasts, capable of sniffing out unseen threats, be they lurking beasts or maladies beneath the skin. Guffers was a wee thing, barely a morsel for the kind of horrors haunting the wylds.

But there was a reason Osytha kept him close. His floppy ears and friendly nature were just a bonus.

'I saw... something, aye,' the dawnling loosened the fastenings of the mail collar protecting his throat. 'A quadruped. Slick black fur, darker than dark. Only reason I chanced 'pon it was because it wanted me to.' Not an easy thing to admit, that. But you had to trust your gut. Rather I were proven a fool than proven right. 'Seemed to be mimicking me, t' begin with. I'd go left, it'd follow. A step right... So on and so forth.'

Forbs gnashed the air near Tribe's face, causing the bay to rear and whinny. A quick press of knees and a reassuring hand brought the mare back on line, albeit reluctantly. Mund had half the mind to give the mean ole blighter a smack in the teeth, though what good that would either of them, he could not say.

'There are creatures in yon woods that hunt for sport as well as sustenance,' the dawnling continued, unruffled. 'Some're as old as the woods themselves, capable of emulating tone. Cries for help, desperate pleas- that sort of thing.' He glanced sidelong to Osytha, shrugged, as callous hearts were wont to do.

'Why do you think I got so pissed off that night Tonja and Martin went for a lil' late night excursion 'thout tellin' anyone?'

 

[Osytha]

A half-hearted repartée to that, some off-colour remark about Faramund’s proclivities as a peeping Tom, dies before it leaves her tongue. She’s not feeling in much of a joking mood now, not after what he told her about the thing he’d seen.

“Aye,” Osytha says, softly. Given Forbítter’s little outburst there, she guides her horse a step away from Tribe so as to give the dear rouncey more space. Perhaps all this time surrounded by so many people is making her horse more curmudgeonly than usual? “’Ad t’pleasure of meetin’ ane or twa such beasties missen.”

Black hair, quadrupedal. Mimicry. Had it been toying with Syr Faramund, or… learning? A pig in the woods, savaged, but not devoured, the way a beast tears into its kill. By Satyavati’s silver tip, it’s not much to go on. If only she knew a bit more then Osytha might be able to hazard a guess at what it could have been, but this isn’t enough to even tell if it’s hostile. Maybe the creature had just been curious about the convoy, and is perfectly happy to stick with boar. Maybe.

“If’n we’re lucky, us late-night caller is obliged to stick to yon woods, an’ we’ll be well shot of et by sunset.” She looks to it now, squinting to the unrelenting element roasting them from on high. And it’s yet to quite come up to temperature. “But we ought to double t’watch — at least. We’s in t’final stretch now; folks can ’andle a few more sleepless nights. Well. More sleepless than usual, even.”

Eyes back to the road. Sun-baked and dusty as ever, green fields around them, rising into gentle pens tonsured here and there by little strips of trees. A flock of sheep munch busily away, keeping the grass all neat and tidy while it lasts, before stripping it down to the soil if they’re given enough passes. Wee little babies, gimmers and tup lambs, bound around the flock and nuzzle at their mothers much like she’d seen the little piglets doing in the grove last night. It draws no small number of the convoy’s bairns over to that side of the road, and their little voices call out to try and entice or heckle the beasts over. Though, the children are quite without luck. Grass proves to be much more interesting a prospect to those sheep’s minds.

At least seeing that’s enough to get Osytha to smile — watching Jonas lift Hadelinde up to sit on his shoulders so she might be able to see better over the drystone wall. The small girl calls out pleading, her voice one note Osytha can pick out in that dissonant chorus.

“Et shall be a relief once we’re closer by t’monastery,” she remarks. “An’ once we’s able to stop an’ get some defences up. ’Appen then we might chance to all of us ’ave a good night’s rest.”

 

[Faramund]

If luck were on our side, none of us would be here, the dawnling grimaced, unable to bring himself to speak the thoughts plaguing his mind. Sometimes, hope was all one had left to hold onto, and to deprive Osytha of hers seemed wrong. Rude, even. 'Double the watch, aye, and run the lads through a few quick weapon drills, if'n we've the time and energy,' he concurred, the lines around his eyes softening as he bore witness to the joy inspired by the woolly wanderers in yonder fields.

'Not much further, now,' he nodded. 'Once we reach the Traveller Stone, we'll be as good as done. Then, we can hand this lot off to whomever's sent t'meet us, an' that'll be that.' Suddenly, a voice called out to him from the wayside.

'Uncle Fahamund! Auntie Osytha!'

Turning in his saddle, the dawnling painted on a smile as Lilia came bounding along the grass verge, so full of life and light that you wouldn't have noticed the dark shadows surrounding her periwinkle eyes. 'Yes, Lilia? What is it?' The child bounded to a stop, arms windmilling, smile wide and gleaming. 'Did you see t' sheepies?! The sheepies, o'er the'e!' Lilia pirouetted none too gracefully.

Glancing at the land beyond, then to the dusker by his side, the dawnling rolled his eyes before handing off his spear.

'Cannae say I did, little one,' he played along, leaning from his saddle to scoop Lilia up by her armpits. 'Point 'em out t' me! What're those fluffy white things over there?' There was a chorus of laughs and envious sighs as the rest of the children darted hitherto through the grass. Then, the adults descended to herd their wayward lambs back towards the wagons with crooks and claps and loping strides the children mistook for an excuse to run. Little blighters!

On, the column ventured, the minutes trickling into hours, until finally they decided to call the column to a halt.

Syrs Evelyn and Conroy made their way to the fore as Faramund dismounted, lifting Lilia down behind him. 'Ho there, friends!' Conroy greeted his fellow knights, grinning like a fool-arse. 'What's this? Found us a new recruit?'


'Your replacement, actually.' Stretching out aching muscles, Faramund bade them welcome with a nod. 'Already showin' promise. Did either of you notice the flock we passed?'

'No, can't say that we did,' answered Evelyn, deadpanning with the best of them. 'Did you?'

'Nope!' The facade cracked. Swinging from their saddles, the knights gathered close as the refugees slunk away to the shade of nearby trees. 'Anythin' followin' us?' Faramund asked, helping himself to a sliver of beef jerky as Conroy went to fetch buckets for the horses.

'Only our stench,' replied Evelyn, red hair drawn back in a messy bun. 'Could really go for a long soak right about now,' she sighed, hands forming a bridge across her eyes, the sun bearing down on them not letting up. 'No sign of your interloper neither. Sure you didn't imagine it?' Evelyn's lips twitched in what might have been a grin. Could also have been their imagination.

'Guess we'll find out,' the Mund grunted, hoping he would be proven wrong.

 

[Osytha]

“Aunty Osytha!”​

By the Eight, that bairn’s too damn precious. It only makes Osytha’s smile deepen, watching the young ’un almost trip over her own excitement. The dusker takes Syr Faramund’s spear for him, then scans about to see Akke a little ways behind, beaming right back at her. Though, it’s a slightly different kind of smile, and not just because of all the gaps. It’s got that weary edge to it of someone who’s been wrangling the ceaseless demands of a young child all morning.

I love her more than life itself, says that grin, but she’s your problem now. Please. Just for a little while? At least until we’re past the flock. I can’t handle any more questions about sheep, and my brain’s shutting down.

So she turns forward, and follows Lilia’s wild gestures. “Flock o’ ships, flock o’ ships…” Osytha says in a stage murmur, and squints dramatically toward the hill for good measure. “Oh! I see’s ’em!”

“You do?! You see t’sheepies?” squeals the lass.

“Aye,” Osytha sagely says, pointing — not to the flock upon the hill, but rather to the side and up toward a distant bank of puffy cumulonimbus calvus. “Big fluffy-lookin’ white thing right there. Flock o’ ships, no?”

Lilia gawps at that patch of sky, then turns to Osytha with a big, broad grin. “That is clouds, silly Aunty Osytha,” she gloats, clearly amused by the woman’s inferior intellect. She gestures again. “T’sheepies is right there.”

“Hmm. I s’pose those could be sheepies, aye. But tha’rt sure that other thing en’t another flock?”

“Silly!” Lilia giggles. “That is up in, in— in t’sky!”

Osytha blinks in disbelief. “That so? ’Ow’d they’s get all t’way up there?”

Maybe she can get Katie Donovan to sew that fool’s cap for real, she reckons. Bells and all. Osytha kind of feels like she’s earning it as she watches Lilian cackle and joss in the saddle there with Faramund. The dusker glances up higher, at her partner, and once again she’s left wondering; What do you make of all this?

Because you’ve changed from the person I knew. Or was the you before just a mask you put on for us, like the one you keep putting on for these folks? That year it seemed you were gone more often than you were around, and I don’t know what happened to you — just that you came out the other end of it different. But it looked pretty lonely to me. Even if you were there at the monastery the whole time, you still weren’t with us. And that… that isn’t right. It’s always, at the very least, meant to be two together: Dusk and Dawn.

Did you have that? Or did we truly turn our back on you? Because, seeing you with Lilia there, I just can’t believe you deserved that. I can’t.

But, Osytha smiles. For Lilia, you know, just like Faramund is. But also because of Lilia… and because Hadelinde’s stuck dandelions through Jonas’ hair (even more delightfully, he’s let her), and because she’s pretty sure she just saw William propose to Nanny Briscoe, and because Tonja and Martin aren’t being as sly with their kisses as they think they are right now, no, that wagon’s not hiding anything, you two. And because of maybe another dozen or so reasons she can immediately see just by looking around. So she smiles; smiles and prays that at least a little of Syr Faramund’s is just as genuine. But if it isn’t… then surely there’s more as can be done than a measly prayer.

There must be.

* * *​

It’s fair later, now. Sun a little past its peak, the day every bit as suffocating as the one before. Osytha slips out of her hauberk as the the others converse. Just for a little bit. Her body needs a break, and she couldn’t agree with Syr Evelyn more; they’re all overdue a good, refreshing scrub. Osytha’s half-convinced her linen undershirts are beyond saving at this point. Might just have to burn them and get new ones.

“Nay horsemen an’ nay straggler… be nice if that keeps up,” Osytha remarks, letting the mail coat slide off with a heavy, jingling thunk. “Syr ‘Fawamund’ an’ I were plannin’ on uppin’ security some, even so.”

Her fingers untie the pretzel knots at her gambeson, and she steps discreetly away.

“Think I’m downwind, but beg pardon if you still cop et,” she says over her shoulder, then flaps the front of her coat open. A long, contended sigh follows. “’Ell’s bells… I needed that. By gum, but if’n I ever get my ’ands on enchanted armour, I en’t going for indestructible. I want summat that stays t’perfect temperature. An’ that breathes.” Another few vigorous shakes to air out, then, “At this rate, ’appen all we need to ’andle our possible cavalry problem is for Syr Faramund to throw ’is boots at ’em.”

 

[Faramund]

'Anythin' else, Your Highness?' Faramund asked, leading Tribe into the shade of a nearby ash tree, fingers trailing reins whilst his offhand pryed bascinet from bonce. 'A sword that swings itself, perchance?' Quips and quibbles. Jests and japes well-intentioned ribbings. Idle talk to pass the time and keep the mind from wandering. Banter in its purest form.

'Careful now, Osy! I like ya, but that don't mean I won't lob 'em your way,' he stooped, fingers plucking a twig to twirl and toss the dusker's way. 'Consider yerself forewarned.'

Hitching Tribe to a branch of the beast's own choosing, Faramund trudged back to the side of the road.

'And where exactly do you think you're going?' Sprawled out in the shade, sword resting against her chest, Syr Evelyn kept one eye open as the dawnling kicked at the wayside, his bascinet nestled in the crook of an elbow whilst his other hand toyed with the hilt of his sabre. 'Oh, nowhere,' Faramund replied, feigning innocence. 'Just thought I might wander down the road aways, take a gander, y'know.' Evelyn sighed, and the dawnling smiled knowingly. 'Comfy?'

'Clearly.' Her eyes flew open. 'Take someone with you, at the very least.'
'Yes, mum.'
'Good boy!' They laughed. 'Now, off you go, and don't be misbehaving, or I'll give ya a spanking.'

'Don't threaten me with a good time,' replied Faramund, turning to Osytha with an amused shake of his head, brown-gold eyes glimmering. 'Can you tell if she's joking? I can't. Anyways, fancy a stretch?' He asked. 'Either way, I'm goin',' the dawnling said, holding a hand up to Akke as the old man tottered down the road to converse with Evelyn. Lilia rushed on ahead as Faramund followed the wheelrutts. 'Uncle Fahamund! Uncle Fahamund! Can I go with you an'- an' Auntie Osytha?'

'Not this time, kiddo.' The Dawn knight answered. 'Stay with the others. We won't be gone long.'

'Awww!' Lilia stomped her feet. 'Why can I not g-go with you?'

''Cause I told you to,' said Faramund, halting a moment. 'And because there's some stinky horse doodoo you might step in. See it?' The child rose up onto her tiptoes, teetered, and tipped into a nod. 'Can you go back up the way there and tell Granpapa and Auntie Evey all about it?'

'About the doodoo?'

'Aye, about the doodoo,' Faramund tried to smile, failed, as he had countless times before. 'Run along, now! Quick!'

Lilia scarpered. The dawnling waited until her footsteps retreated fully to continue his stroll, palm pressing against the top of his sword, angling it for the draw. 'Doesn't look fresh from this distance,' he spoke softly and to the side, 'but that don't make it old.'

And there was no accounting for the desperate acts of dangerous men.