Kingdom Come Chapter 13
For this chapter, we zip back some five hundred years to the past again and Cynric finally get to leave the village. And stuff happens. I'm not particularly please, but then again, I never am. So... here come this chapter.
Around 2,900 words. Long chapter is long (relatively speaking). Warning for implied woo-hoo. Also, I don't know much about horses, which may or may not be painfully obvious this time around. If something is blaringly bad, please tell me; it's how I learn.
Winter lingered. While always harsh, this year an evil pallor seemed to hang over the town, though no one could quite explain it. The cold bit deeper and the stars did not seem to shine as brightly. The livestock were jumpy and seemed constantly afraid, and that fear transferred to their masters. Perhaps returning to the spring fields would set everyone’s mind at ease, man and beast.
And perhaps spring would allow the stranger to leave at last. He lurked in the town like a malevolent shade, never saying a word to anyone and rarely leaving the Dog and Whistle. He only sat in the corner and carved shapes out of wood. Occasionally he ventured to the outskirts, where the baker’s son swore he had seen the stranger swing that huge sword of his about as if he were battling off unseen monsters from Hell. The boy said that he had felt heat hotter than the blacksmith’s fire pouring from him, though it was the dead of winter. The adults dismissed the story as winter tall tales, but even so no one ever dared follow the stranger.
Cynric never thought he would miss his homeland, but Alucia, far to the south of this hell forsaken frozen piss pit, would already be blossoming with spring and creeping up on summer by the time the earth finally began to thaw in the tiny village he’d found himself trapped in. By the time the first green shoots peeked out of the snow, his mood was black enough to burn.
And even as the ice finally melted away and farmers hitched their oxen to their plows to begin the spring furrows, he still had to wait, nothing to do but bide his time until finally, by chance, the first traders of the year came up the mountains through the newly thawed roads, on their way to Cambro on the other side. And they’d brought horses with them.
Well. Ponies, mostly, it looked like, short, sturdy looking beasts with thick, shaggy manes suited to maneuvering the rocky and perilous mountain roads with reasonable ease, but mounts, either way. Cynric was certain he would be able to acquire one for himself in return for coin and service-a trade caravan making its way through these parts could surely use a sword or two for protection against bandits, after all.
He packed his gear with the swift efficiency of a seasoned soldier accustomed to always being on the move. Despite spending months in near solitude in the little room, he had accumulated little by way of personal effects and his bags had remained mostly packed all winter. Within no time, the small space that had been his had returned to the way he had found it. He shut the door and locked it behind him without a glance, then made his way downstairs to return his key and square with the matron.
“Finally movin’ on, are ye?” she grumbled, eyeing him with as much if not more distrust and distaste than when he had first appeared on her doorstep. “I trust ye left th’ room as ye found it?”
“Mice and all,” Cynric confirmed with a sigh. “I’ll have my wages now and be going.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Wot’s tha’ yesay?”
“My wages. Pay. For keeping the trouble and riff raff out of your place. I’ll have what I’m still owed and be gone.” He met her gaze for gaze as her thin lips twisted in distaste.
“Yew tryin’ ta cheat me, ye bastard? We deal’t for two meals and ‘alf charge boarding.”
“And you’ve been charging me half and a quarter. I’ll take what I’m owed and leave.”
She glared at him, her jaw clenching. He glared right back, almost wishing she would continue to contest him, just so he would have the excuse he had been more than half wanting all winter. Instead she broke eye contact and, fished the coins out of a locked box without another word. He counted it carefully, then tucked it away and picked up his pack.
He stepped out onto the street and swept his gaze left and right, taking in nearly the entire town with one glance.
The traders in town had put everyone in a festival mood, as if spring were truly here at last. Wives brought up and aired out brightly colored summer clothes and prepared to shut away drab winter garb. Children ran through the streets laughing and young people went courting.
Words could not describe how pleased he would be to see the last of this place.
Still, he continued to scan the street, until it occurred to him that he was looking for a flash of tangled, dirty yellow hair. Scowling, he shouldered his pack and went to speak with the traders, pushing such thoughts from his head.
He had never managed to pry the girl’s name from her, despite awkwardly asking once or twice with one of perhaps a dozen Derench words he knew. He was beginning to suspect that “Nomb” did not translate to “name” after all; every time he used it to ask hers she only stared at him, moss green eyes wide.
Not that she said much at all, and very little he could understand a word of at that.
Since that day when she watched him work off his hellish aggression in the snow, Cynric frequently found himself in her company. It boggled his mind, quite frankly, that she would still want to be near him, even knowing what he was, but she did not seem to mind. Perhaps past hardships had made even a monster’s kindness desirable; Cynric did not know and did not much care to find out.
He did not mind her, honestly. She said little, and, since he could not understand her, what she did say was easy to ignore. He cursed himself as a fool for getting attached, but he could not help it. He felt her presence as a prickle on his skin, not unpleasant and strangely soothing. Leaving this place would help, he thought. Get him back to normal and forget about her.
The de facto leader of the caravan was the most successful trader, a large, thick man with a curling beard who introduced himself as Devon with a crushing handshake. He also happened to own the herd, and was more than willing to deal.
“Lost most of our last security in a raid, just a few days ago,” he explained as they walked the length of the caravan back to his wagon so they could settle and deal. “You’re a soldierin’ type?”
“You could say that,” Cynric confirmed with a shrug. “I hire on, mostly. I’m a bit farther north than I’m used to.”
“Ah. These ranges have trapped more than their share of unknowin’ travelers with a fast fallin’ winter, I’d say. You know, you don’t really look th’ type, if you don’t mind me sayin’…. Well. Long as you carry your weight and get my goods to market safe in Cambro, you could be a cross dressin’ dwarf; don’t much care what you look like, if you ken.”
“Pay me with some sort of mount and no man, beast, or demon will harm a hair on your arse from here to Nero,” Cynric pledged and, satisfied, Devin nodded, giving him a shrewd look.
“A mount, yesay?”
“I’m only going with you as far as Cambro,” Cynric explained. “After that I’ll pay you the difference between what I’ve earned and the price of the beast.”
“You’re a bit tall for th’ ponies….”
“At this point, I’m not choosy.”
Devon seemed to decide something and smiled like a salesman. Cynric frowned, going on his guard. “I got just th’ beast for you,” he said. “Just this way.”
The beast, for no other word could be quite appropriate, was conspicuous in the midst of the pony herd, standing more than sixteen hands. Its thick, shaggy grey coat covered solid, heavy muscles. It was not a lovely thing, with a broad forehead and a short neck. Gelding had not seemed to do much for its disposition; furred hooves stamped at the ground where it had been closely tethered away from the rest of the herd, and it occasionally screamed its irritation at being so bound while snapping its teeth and kicking at any creature that strayed close enough to hurt.
“What is that?” Cynric asked flatly.
“He was Herrod’s mount,” Devon explained. “Herrod was our old security, before bandits took him, Heaven rest him.” Cynric reflexively spat on the ground and Devon raised his eyebrows, but did not comment on the obviously darkling custom. “I was gonna try and sell him in Cambro, but to tell truth I don’t think he’d fetch much. Got a temper, that beast. If you can ride him, he’ll get you down the mountains in a piece, though, Herrod swore by him. Nimble for his size, he said, and a good doer.”
Cynric eyed the beast warily, not convinced. “…But what is it?” he asked again.
Devon decided not to answer. “Let’s see how you get on, hm?”
Devon told him that the late Herrod had called the monster Ashkev, which, since it translated roughly to ‘Bad Horse,’ Cynric found fitting. They eyed each other warily, the beast snorting and tossing its head, ears back and eyes wide as he examined the man. Cynric was not concerned; most animals were instinctively and understandably wary of him. He caught the bridle with deft ease and muscled Ashkev’s head down.
Not terribly pleased with this, the horse shrieked out a whinny and tossed his head again with surprising strength, nearly throwing Cynric off balance. Taken by surprise and now irritated, he scowled and jerked hard until he could stare the beast in the eye.
Unlike humans, animals could feel the Hellfire coming off of him endlessly, and most reacted to it the same way prey animals reacted to the scent of a wolf. It made finding a useful mount difficult, but certain breeds, Cynric had found, seemed to be too inbred and stupid to react to fear in a reasonable way. They were the best mounts for battle, and they were the horses Cynric went for if he had a choice.
Luck seemed to be favoring him at last (which made him wary and uncertain, simply because it almost never happened) because Ashkev seemed to share stock of some sort with that type. He snorted, unimpressed, and tried to bite Cynric’s face. Cynric hit his nose hard enough to sting with a fist, and that seemed to be that, the start of a useful working relationship built upon mutual but livable hatred.
They would leave in the morning.
Cynric left his things with Devon, saddled his new horse, and took Ashkev out for a run, wanting to know what to expect on the road. He let the beast have his head until they reached the fields on the outskirts of town, no longer snow covered and beginning to show the first shoots of spring. Then he reined him in (occasionally having to use muscle to get his way) and put him through his paces.
Ashkev had a steady gait, though he had a tendency to jostle and buck whenever he thought he could get away with it. As long as Cynric kept him firmly in hand they were fine, and, despite his bulk, the horse was indeed nimble and spry with impressive stamina. An excellent trail mount, if not for the attitude problems.
They rode until the sun began to go down. Cynric sat in the saddle and took a good look around. The ride had taken them to the other side of town from where he usually went to train and blow off steam. A thick, dark forest and the peaks of the mountains loomed behind him, and he dimly remembered following a trail not very far away into town in the first place, at the beginning of the winter. He gave Ashkev a nudge and pulled the beast’s head up from where he had been pawing at the ground for juicy green spring shoots.
The horse snorted and flicked his ears in irritation, but allowed himself to be kicked off back toward the caravan.
Like a wolf scenting prey, Cynric suddenly snapped to attention, his grey eyes narrowing in on a small, broken down travelers’ wagon, the kind used as temporary living space for caravans and people on the move more than not, lying abandoned far from the road. The one surviving wheel of the four had sunk down so far in the earth that it barely tilted. It had been there a long time, so long that it was practically part of the scenery, and Cynric might not have noticed it if not for the young woman sitting on the back of it with her knees drawn to her chest.
They watched each other for a long time. Then Cynric dismounted and led Ashkev by the bridle to the wagon, where he roped the reins to the back of it loose enough for the horse to graze the young grass. He hoped the old wood did not break or something and let the stupid beast run off.
She got to her feet, still staring at him with those green eyes. “Tuer zijn verlouben?” she said.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “I….” What in hell’s name was he supposed to say? He had heard stories like this from other soldiers, even witnessed it once or twice, but he had never been there himself. Never had anyone to say goodbye to. Some stubborn part of him still insisted that this was ridiculous (and it was, it really was, she did not even know what he was saying), but… it felt wrong to leave without saying goodbye.
“Take care of yourself,” he said at last, scowling a little and fiddling with his glasses. “I’m not going to be around to protect you anymore, so… yes. Don’t do anything stupid.” It was probably the most he had said to her in one stretch all winter.
They stared at each other for long moments, neither certain what to say or do. Then Cynric heaved an irritated sigh to cover his embarrassment and made to leave.
Small hands caught his arm and held tight. He turned back to her and she pressed herself to his chest, burying his face in his cloak. Uncertain, he hesitantly brought his hands up to rest on her back. He imagined he could feel every bone in her body beneath her threadbare shawl. She vibrated in his arms like a captured bird.
She rose to her tiptoes and found his lips with hers. This time when she kissed him, he did not push her away, and she kissed him again and again, desperately.
Cynric knew he should leave and be gone from her life for good; no matter what she thought of him now, he would bring her nothing but hurt and he knew it. He should go. Instead he crushed her to his chest, his fingers catching in the tangles of her hair. Then he resolutely stopped thinking.
Even as it happened he was unsure if she pulled him into the wagon with her, or if he pushed her that way with insistent hands. There was not enough room inside for him to stand up straight, so they did not hesitate to tumble together down onto her bed, their fingers already working to loosen buttons and push clothes out of the way. She pressed herself to him and murmured the same phrase over and over-“Primen mich avit tuer”-but he did not know what she was asking for.
He tried to be gentle but she still cried, and he had to close his eyes and look away, inexplicably unable to bear seeing it. Afterwards, though, she curled close and they lay close together on her bed. Cynric was perplexed. He had never been with a woman who wanted to cuddle afterwards before, but he did his best to give her what he thought she wanted and awkwardly put his arm around her, even though he felt sweaty and disgusting and really wished she would go back to the other side of the mattress.
He glanced around the inside of the wagon and found it to be just as decrepit as it was on the outside, but he did spy the little flower he had carved all those weeks ago, and he carefully picked it up and turned it over and over in his hand. Then he reached over her to find his gear and pull out a small, thin blade. She gasped and clutched his arm as he brought the knife to the wood, but he brushed her off. Carefully and deliberately, he carved a loop into the back of it, until the small charm could be hung from a ribbon or a string.
She cooed, delighted, and rummaged through her things until she found a thin strip of leather. He tied the charm around her neck for her, and she kissed him.
“Primen mich avit tuer,” she said again, but he only shook his head.
“I don’t understand.”
She sighed and curled close again, until her mouth was next to his ear. “I sed, tak mi wit yoo,” she translated quietly.
TBA
So, there's that. Not sure when the next one will be coming because I'm busy being abroad and stuff. But it'll be here eventually. Next time, Ave does sneaky things and we finally check back in with Cynric. Same Mousie-time, same Mousie-channel.
Around 2,900 words. Long chapter is long (relatively speaking). Warning for implied woo-hoo. Also, I don't know much about horses, which may or may not be painfully obvious this time around. If something is blaringly bad, please tell me; it's how I learn.
Winter lingered. While always harsh, this year an evil pallor seemed to hang over the town, though no one could quite explain it. The cold bit deeper and the stars did not seem to shine as brightly. The livestock were jumpy and seemed constantly afraid, and that fear transferred to their masters. Perhaps returning to the spring fields would set everyone’s mind at ease, man and beast.
And perhaps spring would allow the stranger to leave at last. He lurked in the town like a malevolent shade, never saying a word to anyone and rarely leaving the Dog and Whistle. He only sat in the corner and carved shapes out of wood. Occasionally he ventured to the outskirts, where the baker’s son swore he had seen the stranger swing that huge sword of his about as if he were battling off unseen monsters from Hell. The boy said that he had felt heat hotter than the blacksmith’s fire pouring from him, though it was the dead of winter. The adults dismissed the story as winter tall tales, but even so no one ever dared follow the stranger.
Cynric never thought he would miss his homeland, but Alucia, far to the south of this hell forsaken frozen piss pit, would already be blossoming with spring and creeping up on summer by the time the earth finally began to thaw in the tiny village he’d found himself trapped in. By the time the first green shoots peeked out of the snow, his mood was black enough to burn.
And even as the ice finally melted away and farmers hitched their oxen to their plows to begin the spring furrows, he still had to wait, nothing to do but bide his time until finally, by chance, the first traders of the year came up the mountains through the newly thawed roads, on their way to Cambro on the other side. And they’d brought horses with them.
Well. Ponies, mostly, it looked like, short, sturdy looking beasts with thick, shaggy manes suited to maneuvering the rocky and perilous mountain roads with reasonable ease, but mounts, either way. Cynric was certain he would be able to acquire one for himself in return for coin and service-a trade caravan making its way through these parts could surely use a sword or two for protection against bandits, after all.
He packed his gear with the swift efficiency of a seasoned soldier accustomed to always being on the move. Despite spending months in near solitude in the little room, he had accumulated little by way of personal effects and his bags had remained mostly packed all winter. Within no time, the small space that had been his had returned to the way he had found it. He shut the door and locked it behind him without a glance, then made his way downstairs to return his key and square with the matron.
“Finally movin’ on, are ye?” she grumbled, eyeing him with as much if not more distrust and distaste than when he had first appeared on her doorstep. “I trust ye left th’ room as ye found it?”
“Mice and all,” Cynric confirmed with a sigh. “I’ll have my wages now and be going.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Wot’s tha’ yesay?”
“My wages. Pay. For keeping the trouble and riff raff out of your place. I’ll have what I’m still owed and be gone.” He met her gaze for gaze as her thin lips twisted in distaste.
“Yew tryin’ ta cheat me, ye bastard? We deal’t for two meals and ‘alf charge boarding.”
“And you’ve been charging me half and a quarter. I’ll take what I’m owed and leave.”
She glared at him, her jaw clenching. He glared right back, almost wishing she would continue to contest him, just so he would have the excuse he had been more than half wanting all winter. Instead she broke eye contact and, fished the coins out of a locked box without another word. He counted it carefully, then tucked it away and picked up his pack.
He stepped out onto the street and swept his gaze left and right, taking in nearly the entire town with one glance.
The traders in town had put everyone in a festival mood, as if spring were truly here at last. Wives brought up and aired out brightly colored summer clothes and prepared to shut away drab winter garb. Children ran through the streets laughing and young people went courting.
Words could not describe how pleased he would be to see the last of this place.
Still, he continued to scan the street, until it occurred to him that he was looking for a flash of tangled, dirty yellow hair. Scowling, he shouldered his pack and went to speak with the traders, pushing such thoughts from his head.
He had never managed to pry the girl’s name from her, despite awkwardly asking once or twice with one of perhaps a dozen Derench words he knew. He was beginning to suspect that “Nomb” did not translate to “name” after all; every time he used it to ask hers she only stared at him, moss green eyes wide.
Not that she said much at all, and very little he could understand a word of at that.
Since that day when she watched him work off his hellish aggression in the snow, Cynric frequently found himself in her company. It boggled his mind, quite frankly, that she would still want to be near him, even knowing what he was, but she did not seem to mind. Perhaps past hardships had made even a monster’s kindness desirable; Cynric did not know and did not much care to find out.
He did not mind her, honestly. She said little, and, since he could not understand her, what she did say was easy to ignore. He cursed himself as a fool for getting attached, but he could not help it. He felt her presence as a prickle on his skin, not unpleasant and strangely soothing. Leaving this place would help, he thought. Get him back to normal and forget about her.
The de facto leader of the caravan was the most successful trader, a large, thick man with a curling beard who introduced himself as Devon with a crushing handshake. He also happened to own the herd, and was more than willing to deal.
“Lost most of our last security in a raid, just a few days ago,” he explained as they walked the length of the caravan back to his wagon so they could settle and deal. “You’re a soldierin’ type?”
“You could say that,” Cynric confirmed with a shrug. “I hire on, mostly. I’m a bit farther north than I’m used to.”
“Ah. These ranges have trapped more than their share of unknowin’ travelers with a fast fallin’ winter, I’d say. You know, you don’t really look th’ type, if you don’t mind me sayin’…. Well. Long as you carry your weight and get my goods to market safe in Cambro, you could be a cross dressin’ dwarf; don’t much care what you look like, if you ken.”
“Pay me with some sort of mount and no man, beast, or demon will harm a hair on your arse from here to Nero,” Cynric pledged and, satisfied, Devin nodded, giving him a shrewd look.
“A mount, yesay?”
“I’m only going with you as far as Cambro,” Cynric explained. “After that I’ll pay you the difference between what I’ve earned and the price of the beast.”
“You’re a bit tall for th’ ponies….”
“At this point, I’m not choosy.”
Devon seemed to decide something and smiled like a salesman. Cynric frowned, going on his guard. “I got just th’ beast for you,” he said. “Just this way.”
The beast, for no other word could be quite appropriate, was conspicuous in the midst of the pony herd, standing more than sixteen hands. Its thick, shaggy grey coat covered solid, heavy muscles. It was not a lovely thing, with a broad forehead and a short neck. Gelding had not seemed to do much for its disposition; furred hooves stamped at the ground where it had been closely tethered away from the rest of the herd, and it occasionally screamed its irritation at being so bound while snapping its teeth and kicking at any creature that strayed close enough to hurt.
“What is that?” Cynric asked flatly.
“He was Herrod’s mount,” Devon explained. “Herrod was our old security, before bandits took him, Heaven rest him.” Cynric reflexively spat on the ground and Devon raised his eyebrows, but did not comment on the obviously darkling custom. “I was gonna try and sell him in Cambro, but to tell truth I don’t think he’d fetch much. Got a temper, that beast. If you can ride him, he’ll get you down the mountains in a piece, though, Herrod swore by him. Nimble for his size, he said, and a good doer.”
Cynric eyed the beast warily, not convinced. “…But what is it?” he asked again.
Devon decided not to answer. “Let’s see how you get on, hm?”
Devon told him that the late Herrod had called the monster Ashkev, which, since it translated roughly to ‘Bad Horse,’ Cynric found fitting. They eyed each other warily, the beast snorting and tossing its head, ears back and eyes wide as he examined the man. Cynric was not concerned; most animals were instinctively and understandably wary of him. He caught the bridle with deft ease and muscled Ashkev’s head down.
Not terribly pleased with this, the horse shrieked out a whinny and tossed his head again with surprising strength, nearly throwing Cynric off balance. Taken by surprise and now irritated, he scowled and jerked hard until he could stare the beast in the eye.
Unlike humans, animals could feel the Hellfire coming off of him endlessly, and most reacted to it the same way prey animals reacted to the scent of a wolf. It made finding a useful mount difficult, but certain breeds, Cynric had found, seemed to be too inbred and stupid to react to fear in a reasonable way. They were the best mounts for battle, and they were the horses Cynric went for if he had a choice.
Luck seemed to be favoring him at last (which made him wary and uncertain, simply because it almost never happened) because Ashkev seemed to share stock of some sort with that type. He snorted, unimpressed, and tried to bite Cynric’s face. Cynric hit his nose hard enough to sting with a fist, and that seemed to be that, the start of a useful working relationship built upon mutual but livable hatred.
They would leave in the morning.
Cynric left his things with Devon, saddled his new horse, and took Ashkev out for a run, wanting to know what to expect on the road. He let the beast have his head until they reached the fields on the outskirts of town, no longer snow covered and beginning to show the first shoots of spring. Then he reined him in (occasionally having to use muscle to get his way) and put him through his paces.
Ashkev had a steady gait, though he had a tendency to jostle and buck whenever he thought he could get away with it. As long as Cynric kept him firmly in hand they were fine, and, despite his bulk, the horse was indeed nimble and spry with impressive stamina. An excellent trail mount, if not for the attitude problems.
They rode until the sun began to go down. Cynric sat in the saddle and took a good look around. The ride had taken them to the other side of town from where he usually went to train and blow off steam. A thick, dark forest and the peaks of the mountains loomed behind him, and he dimly remembered following a trail not very far away into town in the first place, at the beginning of the winter. He gave Ashkev a nudge and pulled the beast’s head up from where he had been pawing at the ground for juicy green spring shoots.
The horse snorted and flicked his ears in irritation, but allowed himself to be kicked off back toward the caravan.
Like a wolf scenting prey, Cynric suddenly snapped to attention, his grey eyes narrowing in on a small, broken down travelers’ wagon, the kind used as temporary living space for caravans and people on the move more than not, lying abandoned far from the road. The one surviving wheel of the four had sunk down so far in the earth that it barely tilted. It had been there a long time, so long that it was practically part of the scenery, and Cynric might not have noticed it if not for the young woman sitting on the back of it with her knees drawn to her chest.
They watched each other for a long time. Then Cynric dismounted and led Ashkev by the bridle to the wagon, where he roped the reins to the back of it loose enough for the horse to graze the young grass. He hoped the old wood did not break or something and let the stupid beast run off.
She got to her feet, still staring at him with those green eyes. “Tuer zijn verlouben?” she said.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “I….” What in hell’s name was he supposed to say? He had heard stories like this from other soldiers, even witnessed it once or twice, but he had never been there himself. Never had anyone to say goodbye to. Some stubborn part of him still insisted that this was ridiculous (and it was, it really was, she did not even know what he was saying), but… it felt wrong to leave without saying goodbye.
“Take care of yourself,” he said at last, scowling a little and fiddling with his glasses. “I’m not going to be around to protect you anymore, so… yes. Don’t do anything stupid.” It was probably the most he had said to her in one stretch all winter.
They stared at each other for long moments, neither certain what to say or do. Then Cynric heaved an irritated sigh to cover his embarrassment and made to leave.
Small hands caught his arm and held tight. He turned back to her and she pressed herself to his chest, burying his face in his cloak. Uncertain, he hesitantly brought his hands up to rest on her back. He imagined he could feel every bone in her body beneath her threadbare shawl. She vibrated in his arms like a captured bird.
She rose to her tiptoes and found his lips with hers. This time when she kissed him, he did not push her away, and she kissed him again and again, desperately.
Cynric knew he should leave and be gone from her life for good; no matter what she thought of him now, he would bring her nothing but hurt and he knew it. He should go. Instead he crushed her to his chest, his fingers catching in the tangles of her hair. Then he resolutely stopped thinking.
Even as it happened he was unsure if she pulled him into the wagon with her, or if he pushed her that way with insistent hands. There was not enough room inside for him to stand up straight, so they did not hesitate to tumble together down onto her bed, their fingers already working to loosen buttons and push clothes out of the way. She pressed herself to him and murmured the same phrase over and over-“Primen mich avit tuer”-but he did not know what she was asking for.
He tried to be gentle but she still cried, and he had to close his eyes and look away, inexplicably unable to bear seeing it. Afterwards, though, she curled close and they lay close together on her bed. Cynric was perplexed. He had never been with a woman who wanted to cuddle afterwards before, but he did his best to give her what he thought she wanted and awkwardly put his arm around her, even though he felt sweaty and disgusting and really wished she would go back to the other side of the mattress.
He glanced around the inside of the wagon and found it to be just as decrepit as it was on the outside, but he did spy the little flower he had carved all those weeks ago, and he carefully picked it up and turned it over and over in his hand. Then he reached over her to find his gear and pull out a small, thin blade. She gasped and clutched his arm as he brought the knife to the wood, but he brushed her off. Carefully and deliberately, he carved a loop into the back of it, until the small charm could be hung from a ribbon or a string.
She cooed, delighted, and rummaged through her things until she found a thin strip of leather. He tied the charm around her neck for her, and she kissed him.
“Primen mich avit tuer,” she said again, but he only shook his head.
“I don’t understand.”
She sighed and curled close again, until her mouth was next to his ear. “I sed, tak mi wit yoo,” she translated quietly.
TBA
So, there's that. Not sure when the next one will be coming because I'm busy being abroad and stuff. But it'll be here eventually. Next time, Ave does sneaky things and we finally check back in with Cynric. Same Mousie-time, same Mousie-channel.