We Solemn Few

Chapter Sixteen : A Thing Out of Stories

Marrow absentmindedly fingered the heft of his axe as he stared at the early morning sun above, his back laid across the stiff wood of the cart's bed. He tried not to think about the dead body lying next to him; he especially forced the recognition that it was Samson down as deeply as he could. For some reason, the idea of the corpse being a stranger made it much easier to process. He never felt much for those he did not know. Veyha claimed once that that's a rather insensitive view to have, but he had not wavered since, and likely would not. Swallowing dryly, he forced down the recognition again.

Two weeks they have been riding along this path. Two weeks with nothing but the road and a slowly blooming tension. Mrs. Helia, for one, seemed to be straining more and more as days came and went, with maintaining whatever... magic she was keeping Samson "attached" with; he had tried asking about her about the specifics, but her explanations were so wrapped up in divinity and worship that he almost thought her a fool. Almost, though the body did not decay and his eyes did not seem entirely glazed. Still, Marrow was hardly a man of worship, and the concept that worship alone could bring someone back to life seemed ridiculous. Hopeful as it seemed, Marrow could only bring himself to half believe it. Scholar Ilund - he could not recall what book that character had from, but it was historic, not fiction - once said, "Someone who believes everything is a fool, but only as much as one who believes nothing. Balance is key." Perhaps the book had been on the mythology of balance, though he could not be certain; that text had bored him. Gods and their ilk were of little interest to him, he just hoped Mrs. Helia could bring back Samson. Rhiss seemed to think she could.

Rhiss was a curiosity these two weeks, for that matter. A beautiful man with messy hair and freckles, the boy seemed almost eager, a contrast to the straining tension in the air that twisted the lips of even Lady Vyri, who seemed uncaring of anything and everything. He was the only one who would actively speak to Marrow about simple matters, and he'd even listen when he'd retell stories from books he read; Marrow knew he told them poorly, but Rhiss nodded and asked questions all throughout, seeming entirely invested. An odd man, but one he was glad was around. He did not think he could have made it through half a month with all the cold stares and strained eyes around him. Plus, the nightly walks made for decent enough exercise, and Rhiss' smile was a site worth seeing rain or shine. An odd thing, the man's smile. Perhaps Veyha could explain it when they met once more. If, he thought grimly.

So many "ifs," it seemed, and too little to do about him. Samson may live, he may not. Zenrin and Veyha may be safe, or they may not. For that matter, the one he promised himself to, his sweet- No! he shouted at himself harshly. He would not believe she was dead, and would not think of her until he returned to her. "A coward ignores everything until all is lost," said King Cellicar of the stories, but King Cellicar was found dead with five different knives in his back for sticking his nose in too many places. Bad advice, but somewhat true; he was a coward to ignore it, but he would anyway. She would be alive if - no, when! - he returned to Kluseth. If they let him go; Mrs. Helia, regardless of the concentration required to uphold her connection to Samson, took to occasionally poking and prodding him, particularly an odd scar on his cheek. He hardly felt it most times, but occasionally it seemed to flare as if set ablaze. Usually at night, though it had ignited as surely during midmorning to the point that he nearly passed out from the sudden pain. Mrs. Helia did try to heal it - whether she could heal death was still a question, but he had long since begun believing she could, in fact, heal small wounds at least - but when she realized she could do nothing, she meekly apologized.

Lady Vyri and her Sir Thelladon, on the other hand, hardly so much as acknowledged him, and even rarer did they speak with him, Thelladon rarest of all. All he did was stare coldly, perhaps speak a word or two, before fading into the scenery around them and scouting ahead. Lady Vyri did not stare so coldly, but instead suggested small things he could do to help one of the others with the slightest smile and an odd spark in those pink - pink! - eyes. He sometimes still considered what those wisps of hair must feel like - they seemed ghostly, as if they did not really exist - but that was something he would never ask. Oh, yes, Lady Vyri, can I touch your hair? He had to suppress a laugh. That would be foolish if nothing else in the world was.