Rumlok （Part 3）
The next morning, Gareth rose before dawn to check on the girl.
He gently removed the damp rag and pressed his palm to her forehead.
To his astonishment, her fever had vanished.
Carefully, he unwrapped her bandages. The wounds were no longer red or swollen.
How could it be?
He had seen countless infected wounds before. Even with the best medicine, healing took days, sometimes weeks.
Now, he could only stare in disbelief.
By midday, Rowena awoke, weak and unsteady.
Gareth prepared a simple meal and made sure she drank plenty of water.
Within hours, she managed to sit up in bed.
The Dissolver, relieved of his anxious burden, became animated—chattering with delight.
He spoke at length about Gareth, his new friend, recounting stories and advice Gareth had shared.
Rowena listened with a polite smile, but she was wary of the stranger.
Although Gareth had been nothing but helpful, she suspected his kindness might vanish if he learned they were Etherian. She kept a firm grip on the ancient scabbard and discreetly instructed the Dissolver to keep her short sword hidden, mindful of the Etherian crest on its hilt.
Uncertain if he could trust the travelers not to slip away again, Gareth stayed near the shelter all day.
He busied himself with chores outside, but whenever possible, paused to eavesdrop through the door. Curiosity gnawed at him as suspicions about their true identities took root.
How were they so resilient?
Rowena's swift recovery defied reason. Surely, they would want to leave soon.
But the road ahead was perilous. Gareth doubted they understood how much the world had changed—or how dangerous it had become.
The following morning, Rowena managed to get out of bed.
Though her calf still ached, the pain was mild enough for her to walk.
She offered to help Gareth with chores, foraging, and carrying water.
He urged her to rest, but she insisted—restless, determined to move.
Reluctantly, he allowed her to join him, keeping a vigilant eye on her. Like the boy, she never let the mysterious sword out of her grasp.
The weather warmed, and the snow melted over the past few days, softening the earth beneath Gareth's boots.
All around, tender green shoots speared up through black dirt. Birds flitted among budding branches, their songs threading through the fresh, blue air.
The mountainside basked in sunlight—the world bright and impossibly clean.
While the Dissolver split wood at the shelter, Gareth and Rowena slipped quietly through the woods in search of edible plants.
The previous day, they hardly spoke.
She appeared standoffish, unapproachable. Still, he could tell by her bearing and polished speech that she was raised far above Gareth's own station.
But today, as she moved through dappled light,
her smile soft,
her words polished,
Gareth felt awkward.
He had never known how to speak to the highborn—especially not to a woman whose beauty was usually matched by a reputation for being snobbish and uptight.
Curiosity finally outweighed his trepidation. He drummed up the courage to ask the only question he could think of to get her talking.
"Where did you get that nasty scar?" Gareth blurted, nodding toward his own side so she'd know which one he meant.
The question hung in the air, blunt and unrefined.
It was something he might've said beside a smoky fire among fellow gladiators, where scars were tokens of stories well-earned and pain endured.
Rowena stiffened. The question broke her composure.
Chaste and modest, she found the question intrusive. Her cheeks flared. No man had ever dared comment on her body before; certainly not a stranger in the wild.
She shrank from his gaze.
"I... I don't remember," she murmured, voice barely audible.
She turned sharply, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face. She pretended to search more intently among the ferns.
Oblivious to her discomfort, Gareth continued to pry.
"You don't remember? That's hard to believe—it's a big one." He tried to keep his tone light, but his curiosity was sharp, almost eager.
She retorted, voice tight. "You have plenty of scars yourself. Do you remember how you got every single one?"
It was a deflection, but the desperation in her tone betrayed her unease.
"Of course," he said, almost proudly.
Rowena regarded him skeptically, searching his face for any sign of jest.
He grinned. The tension eased for a moment.
"No, really. This scar?" He tapped his cheek. "Centaur's spear. Mean as a snake. This one—" he traced his forehead—"sabertoothed tiger. Nearly lost my head."
He shrugged, pointing to the crooked line on his nose. "Griffon's beak. That one almost took my life."
Rowena's eyes narrowed in wary amusement, as if weighing the truth in his wild tales.
"You could ask me about any scar, and I can tell you exactly how it came to be." He insisted, a glint of challenge in his eyes.
Rowena's gaze flickered over the map of old wounds on his skin. One in particular caught her eye; a thick white line crawling from beneath his shirt, snaking up over the muscle of his shoulder.
She pointed, testing him. "What about this one?"
Gareth's stomach twisted. He knew exactly which scar she meant. The memory surged up, chilling him and snuffing out all bravado. He stared ahead, jaw tight.
"That one," he said quietly, "came from someone I trusted. Once."
Rowena's cheeks burned as she realized she'd touched a nerve. She cleared her throat, awkwardly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine," Gareth said, sharper than he intended. He forced a smile, waving the apology away as if it was nothing.
He seized on the chance to change the subject. "You mentioned your father when you were sick a few days ago. Is he the one you're going to see in Goldhaven?"
Rowena stilled, her fingers pausing mid-search among the leaves.
She became visibly nervous. "I don't remember telling you about my father. I have no memories of anything before that night with the wolves. What did I say about him?"
Gareth studied her carefully, masking his caution. "Nothing really. You just said you were headed for Goldhaven to help your father. Didn't say much else."
She exhaled, shoulders relaxing for a heartbeat before she conjured her lie. "Yes, my father is sick. He lives in Goldhaven. We were on our way to care for him."
The words came out too fast, her voice trembling at the edges.
He caught the waver and saw the uncertainty flicker across her eyes. "Where are you coming from? There aren't many settlements here in the North. None I know of in these mountains."
Rowena's mask slipped. "We—well, er..." She faltered, then reached for a half-truth. "We're from a very small settlement just west of here."
Gareth raised an eyebrow, doubt evident in his voice. "But your father lives in Goldhaven?"
Her chin lifted, bristling with sudden defensiveness. "Why is our business any of your concern?"
He shrugged, feigning indifference. "I was just curious. The mountains are a dangerous place. Surely, your father wouldn't approve of his daughter and a young boy traveling alone."
"The boy is capable enough," Rowena muttered, "and I'm not helpless. I can defend myself."
Gareth couldn't help but chuckle, "As you defended yourself from the wolves?"
Rowena's jaw dropped, gob smacked by his impertinence. It was a look that Gareth was all too familiar with.
Her eyes flashed. "Excuse me?"
He winced, realizing too late he'd gone too far. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean-"
She cut him off, her voice cold as ice. "Our business is none of your concern." She spat, each word clipped and formal. "Tomorrow morning, the boy and I will continue our journey. Until then, I'd appreciate it if you kept your curiosity to yourself."
With a tight shake of her head, she moved away, putting cold distance between them. Gareth stood helpless in the hush that followed, old memories of failed attempts to make conversation with the highborn echoing in his mind.
Beneath his embarrassment, worry gnawed at him.
If they left in the morning, they might be putting themselves in terrible danger. He wanted to warn them of the risks, but without being able to confirm his suspicions, he was unsure how to do so.
Gareth pondered what he should do as they finished their task in uncomfortable silence,
formulating a plan that was both risky and necessary.