6. Vireth #4
“A bogunder.”
His eyebrows lift in question, and he nods again. “I haven’t seen one before—the last time I was here, it was something else living in the bog.”
That needles my curiosity. So, he’s been here before! When, I wonder. It’s been an age since anyone has had contact with humans.
He attempts to adjust his injured leg and winces from the pain.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” I advise.
He scoffs. “I’ve endured worse.”
Reflecting on the myriad scars mapping his body, I huff. “I don’t doubt it, but nevertheless, your leg might have opinions.”
He glances down at the carefully wrapped bandages, then back at me, and the expression that settles over his face is one I recognize immediately: the reluctant calculation of a man realizing he owes a debt he cannot easily repay.
“You saved my life,” he says slowly. It occurs to me that he does not seem at all relieved about it, but I put that observation aside for now.
“I did,” I reply. “At great expense to my boots.”
His eyes flick to the gravemaw hide red leather, now stained with his blood and bogunder bile.
“Mm, apologies. I seem to find myself in your debt.”
“Indeed,” I agree, but I don’t offer an out, or an explanation about how he might repay me, and by the tightness of his lips, the lines deepening in his forehead, I can tell it irks him.
Knights, I suspect, prefer their debts to come with clearly defined expectations—gold, favors, the occasional heroic errand.
After a moment, during which the only sounds are the fire popping and the wind rustling through the trees outside, he says, “My name is Renard.”
I incline my head slightly. It’s fitting—there is something rather fox-like about him.
“Vireth.”
He repeats the name under his breath, pronouncing it slowly and carefully, as though he is committing it to memory. Then, he glances briefly toward the door, where pale morning light has begun to seep through the warped boards.
“I was traveling to Hollowmire,” he says.
The statement is offered carefully, like bait set in a trap to see whether I will take it. I do not. I have many questions, but it would be rude—uncouth, even—to fire them all at him when he has only just regained consciousness. I’ll simply have to wait a bit.
“Seems to me you were traveling in the wrong direction when I found you,” I reply mildly. “Down the gullet of the bogunder.”
His mouth twitches. “Clearly.”
We’re quiet while we study each other—trying to put together the odd pieces of some grand puzzle that neither of us have the full picture of.
He watches me with the wary attention of someone who has spent most of his life navigating a world that usually makes room for him without much resistance, and I find myself eyeing him in return, curious about the quiet certainty that seems to cling to him even now, when he is injured, unarmed, and entirely dependent on the care of a stranger.
It must be a strange thing—an envious thing—growing up in a world that rarely questions whether you belong in it.
Finally he says, a little stiffly, “Whatever your reasons for intervening, I am grateful.”
“That is very gracious of you,” I say, because I find I am enjoying needling him with my measured replies.
His jaw flexes, and through his gritted teeth, he continues.
“And when I am able to travel again, I intend to continue to Hollowmire.”
I cannot possibly comprehend what his business is at the castle, but I would be three different shades of surprised if he attempted to turn back now. He doesn’t seem the type.
“Of course you do,” is all I say.
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
I smile faintly. “Many… interesting problems seem to lead in that direction lately. Ill omens, you might say. Besides, you give me the impression of someone who blunders forward by sheer will, instead of considering prudent alternatives.”
He bristles, but appears to quietly consider the entirety of my answer and whether it contains information he should be concerned about.
“I suppose,” he mutters somewhat bitterly, “that until I can stand without falling over, I will have to rely on your hospitality.”
I glance around the ramshackle little cottage, with its sagging beams and perhaps excessive population of mushrooms.
“The accommodations are modest,” I reply. “But you’re welcome to take your rest here.”
Exhaustion seems to tug at him once more, and he sinks further down into the half-rotted bed.
Outside, the forest is beginning to wake.
The trees stir in the dawn breeze and a few lonely crows call to each other through the damp quiet.
I find myself wondering—somewhere beneath the cautious conversation and the lingering unease—if this means something, finding him here while I’m trying to make good my escape.
I cannot afford to linger, despite the magnetic pull I feel here.
Was saving this particular human truly an act of compassion?
Or simply the beginning of another complication?
With my luck, it is almost certainly the latter.