Dajoën

Sleep had not come easily, that night, and I woke early—well before sunrise. The air was thick with a cold, grey mist, and in the dim light of dawn, even the trees around us seemed only dark smudges in the grey. My legs and back ached from the cold.

The small clearing felt dead, and heavy. There was almost no sound, but for the occasional drip of water from needle to branch, and even that seemed oddly muted, as if my ears were packed with wool. The smell of the cedars, normally so rich and pungent, seemed flat—like spice gone stale with age; and in its place, the air had taken on a marshy rot.

A few feet away, under in a thin blanket, Dajoën still slept. It was unusual for me to wake before him, but then we'd talked well into the night. Aradnae was nearly due East when we'd finally run out of things to say. He'd drifted off quickly enough, but I'd lain awake for some time after, just listening to him breathe . . . trying to get used to the idea of my life without him.

The fire had gone out during the night. I reached for a stick and tried to stir it back to life, but it was cold. I briefly considered trying to build a new one, but decided I'd probably wake him, and that he could use the sleep.

As quietly as I could manage, I got up, pulled my blanket around me, and crept off toward the river. The cedar litter and soft earth gave no sound as I walked, and, a little out of the clearing, I stopped trying to be quiet.

Free of trees, the river was noticeably brighter than the clearing had been, but I couldn't see the far shore. Mist rose from the water in dense plumes, and breathing became a little harder. But the air smelled better—less marshy, more like herbs. I tried to enjoy it.

We had camped near a bend in the river, where sand piled up along the shore, making the water easy to reach. I knelt down among a bed of low, flowering plants, and drank. The water felt warm, and I let my fingers trail in it. A little ways off—though it seemed more distant—a bird burst into song; I listened quietly for a few moments, then headed back.

When I arrived in the clearing, a few minutes later, I found Dajoën up and a small fire burning. The mist hadn't thinned, but the light had gotten a little better, and he seemed his usual alert self.

A small amount of smoke curled listlessly outward from the flames, rising only slightly before spreading into the mist. But the air smelled noticeably more of cedar than it had. It was a welcome change.

"I had hoped not to wake you," I said, and sat down close to the fire. I pulled my blanket tighter around my shoulders, then put my hands up to warm near the flames. Dajoën's blanket was already rolled and tied to his pack.

"I slept enough," he said, and smiled. Even in the dim light, the green of his eyes sparkled, and almost shone. "You look tired, though."

"A bit," I said, and nodded. "Too many thoughts, I guess."

His smile faltered, ever so slightly. "I know," he said softly, and quickly turned away. He pulled a skin from his pack, stepped around the fire, and walked off toward the river.

I stared into the flames, and must have lost track of time, because when I looked up again, he was stepping back around the fire, the skin full.

My hands were feeling warmer, so I forced myself up. I decided that the blanket would be too much of a hassle, and I dropped it near my pack; it slouched down into a damp, little heap, and I stared at it on the ground for a some time, shivering for both of us.

When I turned back to the fire, Dajoën had a small copper pot filled with water arranged over the flame.

"Tea?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Maybe later, if you want it. I was thinking of adding the leftover grouse to a stew of kanth and dried fruit." He shrugged—one shoulder. "It is a special occasion, after all."