Chapter 4 Ren
Ren
I understand the Board’s concern regarding my decision to interview the Fargrove Clan as part of my ongoing research into the cultivation and application of various mosses.
However, given that the goblins possess unparalleled knowledge in this area, I must insist that my research be allowed to continue unimpeded.
After nearly twenty-five years of tenure, I hope that my judgment can be trusted in these matters, especially when it comes to the safety of my own person.
LETTER FROM ELWAN FATLEAF, RENOWNED HALFLING BOTANIST, TO THE ALL-ELF BOARD OF THE NELONORA SCHOOL OF THE BOTANICAL ARTS
Ren awoke with a start just in time to greet the floor face first. They landed without a scrap of grace, limbs flailing amid a tangle of unfamiliar bedding: not the moss blanket they remembered falling asleep under (as they did every night), but a loosely woven net of chunky, woolen fibers. Soft, warm, and undeniably halfling.
Ren forced themself upright, the motion as sudden as the snap of a well-oiled bear trap – and equally painful, it turned out.
Their hip throbbed with the beginnings of a nasty bruise; soon to be mottled with sickly shades of chartreuse and aubergine.
They half considered laying back down, let the dirt-dusted floorboards, still cool with the chill of night, soothe the hot swell of tender flesh, but the wool blanket knotted around their legs was too important for that. It could not – would not – be ignored.
“I told you to stay on your side of the bed!” said a familiar, high-pitched voice, rough with the barbs of broken sleep.
Oh, right. The halfling, Ren thought, recognition threading, at last, into understanding. Pansy.
While they’d been relegated to the floor, Pansy remained perched atop the bed, her quilt wrapped around her shoulders like a queen’s mantle.
She stared down at them, a halo of silver moonlight at her back.
Beautiful, even with her sleep-mussed curls, spun into gleaming filaments, now more argent than copper.
How easy it would’ve been to lose themself in such a vision, but annoyance flared just as bright, and it burned.
Like a hot poker jabbed directly into Ren’s sternum, reality reasserted itself.
“Did you just shove me off the bed?” they asked, spitting the words with acid-laced heat, as much an outlet as a reminder.
Remember who this is: a halfling who would take this cottage from your clan for the sake of her own petty wants.
“I didn’t shove you,” Pansy protested, with the sort of haughty vehemence that made it clear that yes, she had, in fact, done just that. “I simply… I nudged you. With my foot.”
“So, you kicked me,” Ren said flatly.
“Well, I wouldn’t have had to if you’d just stayed to your side as agreed!”
“I did!”
“No, you didn’t!” Pansy gestured at the misshapen wall of bedding that had once separated them, now partially collapsed, as if someone had unceremoniously yanked out part of its base.
“And not only did you steal one of my blankets, you went ahead and shoved those icicles you have for toes against me!”
Ren flinched before they could stop themself, the word “steal” cutting into their side like a knife.
They sucked in a sharp breath around it, bracing, as if that could stop such a blade from sliding deeper.
How long had it taken Pansy to accuse them of being a thief the previous afternoon? Five minutes? Less?
And yet, this time was different. This time, Pansy had noticed. Her expression softened, the knowledge that her comment wasn’t – and could never be – a casual, throw-away thing unwinding the displeasure from her features.
Ren half-wanted to laugh, the ugly, mirthless kind that was as much bite as it was bark. This halfling had stabbed them by accident.
“I’m sorry,” Pansy said after a beat, her gaze downcast. “I didn’t mean it like that. Like – like before, you know?”
“I know.” Their voice came out hoarse, flayed. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. The knife remained, lodged between their ribs. So, why had they said it was fine? Shame flashed through Ren. Were they so unwilling to burden others with the weight of their own feelings that they’d carry the load for even a halfling? Apparently, yes.
One day you won’t just bow beneath all that you’ve chosen to shoulder, their aunt had told them years ago, back when she’d still been the cottage’s Caretaker, you’ll break.
Ren had ignored her; the melancholy that had gleamed in her eyes far too inconvenient to acknowledge.
But had she been right? Even now, Ren didn’t have an answer for that.
“Here,” they said, holding out the blanket – the stolen blanket, their brain unhelpfully reminded them – as they moved to climb back onto the bed.
“Ew! No!” Pansy squealed, rushing to push them back. “Dust yourself off first! Or better yet, change into something clean. We agreed: no dirt on the bed!”
“I agreed to no such thing,” Ren said and, to drive their point home, swiped their arm, still speckled with sediment, across the sheets.
Granted, it was their side of the bed; so, if anyone suffered as a result, it would only be them.
But the distinction evidently mattered little to Pansy.
She let out a banshee-like wail and flung herself at Ren, so desperate to shield her precious bed from a few specks of “nasty dirt” that she gave no thought to the possibility that she might crash to the floor herself.
Unfortunately, she did not go alone. With fingers knotted in the fabric of Ren’s nightshirt, she pulled them right down with her, and in a staggering display of unfairness the universe decreed that Ren should be the one to break her fall.
Of course, this injustice was lost on Pansy, who shoved herself upright, using Ren’s chest as leverage, and declared, breathless and haughty, “This is all your fault!”
“My fault?” Ren gaped at her, the sheer gall of her statement overwhelming the electric jolt of her touch. “You’re the one who tried to push me!”
“Because you were trying to get dirt on the bed!”
“It was my side of the bed! What do you care?”
She huffed. “It’s still gross.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Ren grumbled. “Now, will you get off me already? I’m not a chair.”
Somehow, the fact that Pansy remained seated atop them, her legs straddling their hips on either side, had managed to escape her notice until now. But feeling Ren shift pointedly beneath her, she jolted upright, eyes widening as a rush of scarlet overwhelmed her expression.
“I didn’t – I wasn’t,” she stammered, each truncated phrase only driving the cherry-red stain deeper into her skin. “That wasn’t on purpose!”
Ren snorted. As if they needed to be told that.
Still, a strange current nonetheless prickled beneath their skin; the shock of her touch, perhaps, at last permitted to register.
They hauled themself upright, fingers scrubbing uselessly at the wave of gooseflesh overtaking both arms, as if that alone could chase the sensation away.
It did not.
“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Ren said, as much for their own benefit as Pansy’s. “Anyway, here.” Snatching up the blanket from where it had tumbled onto the floor, they gave it a good shake before extending it towards her.
Pansy jerked away with a grimace, hands flying up to shield herself from the blanket’s apparent contamination. “Keep it,” she said. “I have enough as it is.”
“Oh, do you?” Ren arched a brow. “But what if someone could tell that there’s a person under all that fabric?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Pansy replied, her voice flat with reproach. “But that’s some pretty big talk for someone who spent half the night wrapped up in one of my blankets. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Ren flushed. “I’m not thanking you for something I didn’t need.”
“Funny. Those ice-cold feet of yours told a very different story,” Pansy drawled, heaving the scattered pieces of her blanket wall back into position. To no one’s surprise – let alone Ren’s – she exercised no more care in the process than before, resulting in an equally unstable structure.
“My feet are fine!” Ren snapped, crossing their arms over their chest with a huff.
“Then they should have no problem staying on their half of the bed!” And with that, Pansy kicked the remaining dirt from her feet and flopped back onto her side, where she vanished once more beneath a crudely constructed fortress of wool and cotton.
“Whatever,” Ren grumbled, too late to be anything other than an admission of defeat.
Pulling both their moss blanket and the one Pansy had relinquished against them – because as much as they’d avoided admitting it aloud, it was warm – Ren settled down onto their back, the mirrorsponge slab creasing in a precise reflection of their form.
At that point, sleep should have claimed them.
It was the middle of the night, and they were exhausted.
And yet, somehow they found themself staring blankly at the ceiling, their pulse a dull, warm roar in their ears.
Earlier, Pansy’s presence beside them had scarcely registered.
If anything, it was… comforting not to be alone, an imperfect echo of their sleeping arrangements back in the caves, where their clan slept at least three or four to one bedroll.
But now, she plucked at the fringes of Ren’s consciousness; each rustle of fabric, each measured exhale another anchor to the waking world.
Why couldn’t Ren just forget about her and go to sleep?
It was that damnable blanket, they decided, fingers curling into its soft cords.
No wonder the halfling weighed so heavily on their thoughts.
Right now, Ren couldn’t even take a breath without being reminded of her, the way she smelled of honey and spices.
She’d enveloped them. Completely and absolutely.
And, somehow, Ren couldn’t bring themself to hate it; not in the way they should’ve.
As if this situation needed further complications…
And here I am collecting them as easily as a badger collects burs, Ren thought, forcing their eyes shut in the hope that their ever-spinning brain might finally take a hint.
Maybe it would have – eventually – if a sudden, explosive snort hadn’t spurred them back into wakefulness. Ren’s eyes snapped open, pupils flaring wide.
Had Pig decided to make her way upstairs? So far, Ren’s companion had shown a distinct preference for the cottage’s lower level. But the two of them had only been living here for a couple of days; hardly long enough to declare, with any sort of certainty, that Pig would never venture upstairs.
Ren’s brow had only just started to furrow when the sound repeated, unleashed into the world with the same amount of violence as before. And they realized that it was coming from beside them, on the other side of the blanket wall.
Pansy was snoring.
Shaking their head, Ren settled back down and let out a long, drawn-out breath. “Maybe I’m a blanket thief, but at least I don’t snore…”