Lonely Travelers #2
He dragged himself up and opened the door, squinting into the hallway’s pale light. Aries stood there—hair disheveled, face pale, fists clenched at his sides.
“You haven’t come out in a week,” he snapped. “I thought you were dead!”
Collin blinked, slowly surfacing from the fog of sleep. “I’ve been eating... late at night,” he said. “I refill the water. Empty the pot. I’m not dead, just... not in the mood for breakfast conversations.”
It took a little more coaxing, but eventually, Aries was satisfied—relieved, even. Once assured Collin wasn’t buried under a pile of quilts, he let him return to his silence.
Once winter fully settled in, Hadria’s presence at the cabin became nearly constant.
Her relationship with Aries had reached its next stage—more physical, more intense, the kind of closeness that blurred boundaries and claimed space.
She began leaving more of her belongings in his drawers, in the sitting room, by the hearth.
Eventually, she might as well have moved in.
For Collin, it meant there was nowhere to hide.
Nights became difficult. The walls were thin.
The lovers’ whispered affection, their laughter, and their lovemaking—all of it spilled into his space like smoke under a door.
At first, he stuffed his ears, pulled blankets over his head, tried not to hear.
Eventually, he stopped noticing. Or pretended to.
Daylight brought no greater peace. Hadria had a way of studying him like a map, always trying to uncover what direction his thoughts were heading.
The less he shared, the more she probed, and the more she probed, the more he withdrew.
He began leaving the house for long stretches of time—claiming errands, seeking peace, or simply walking until the cold dulled everything inside him.
In the quiet hours, his thoughts sometimes drifted toward the shifting culture outside their isolated home.
Across Crimisa, touched by sailors from the Blue Isles, a quiet revolution was taking shape.
It wasn’t just about marriage anymore. Women were speaking more openly about desire, about choosing pleasure instead of duty.
Even amongst his circle of friends, the air had changed.
He remembered the book Nic had gotten from Helen—written by a woman from the Blue Isles and meant, originally, for women.
But the boys passed it secretly amongst themselves, wide-eyed and whispering, the way people do when something feels both sacred and forbidden.
Its pages were full of truths no one had taught them, sketched with grace and clarity.
Even Collin found himself quietly taking notes in his mind, storing away thoughts he didn’t yet know how to use.
But none of it prepared Collin for the loneliness of living beside a couple in love. None of it told him what to do with the aching silence that crept in when the door shut and the room fell dark. He wasn’t jealous, just displaced.
Lately, he had taken up a reckless habit—seeing how far he could get before exhaustion or the storm forced him back.
Twice now, he’d barely made it home before a storm hit—once escaping just as heavy snow rolled in, and another time waiting out the blizzard in the North Town Chapple with a doctor and a stray dog. Even two days ago, he’d turned back just in time near Stargazer Creek.
It was foolish, of course—testing winter’s mercy like this, but he wasn’t wandering aimlessly. He knew exactly who he wanted to see. He kept trying, again and again, hoping the snow would hold off, it never did, but today felt different—more urgent, more final.
The wind finally quieted, its sharp fingers loosening from his collar.
Collin turned north, angling down the slope, snow crunching beneath each heavy step.
His arms moved in rhythm, pumping low at his sides, cloak dragging like a reluctant shadow.
Frost had started to gather along the fur trim of his hood, weaving silver into the edges.
His muscles ached, but he welcomed the burn. It kept him present. Kept him from thinking too much. There was a strange comfort in the cold—like the mountain didn’t care who he was or what he'd lost. It just asked for movement. Endurance. Breath.
And so he gave it.
Every time the wind bit at his face, every time his boot sank deeper than expected, something inside him braced. Not with fear, but with stubbornness. The worse the conditions, the more tightly that quiet fire in his chest seemed to hold.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe this was the kind of trial the gods still honored—not ceremony, not sacrifice, but the private kind. The kind where no one watched. Just a man, the snow, and the silence. Nothing left but his will.
A stag stepped out from the snow-heavy shrubs without a sound—tall, lean, its flanks dusted with frost. Collin froze mid-step. He hadn’t heard a thing.
Normally, he might have reached for his bow. A beast that size could feed him for weeks. The hide could be tanned, the bones used, the meat smoked and saved. But he hadn’t come to hunt today. He hadn’t come for anything, really—only to walk.
So he stood still and watched.
The stag was bare-headed, his antlers long since shed, leaving his crown smooth and strange. Winter had stripped him down like everything else. Still, he held his ground, studying Collin with eyes that felt too knowing. Like he recognized something in him. Something familiar.
For a long breath, they simply looked at each other—two living things moving alone through the cold.
Then, without ceremony, the stag turned and vanished between the trees.
The hush returned all at once, deeper than before. Collin exhaled slowly, his breath blooming into nothing. His heartbeat sounded oddly hollow in his chest.
Just for a moment, he’d felt less alone. Not saved, not seen—but acknowledged. As if the forest itself had paused to say, you’re not the only one out here.
But now the stag was gone. And the only watchers left were the trees.
After several miles, the path began to rise sharply beneath Dragonfly’s boots.
The mountain revealed itself slowly—first in the strain of her thighs, then in the shift of her breath, as though it were testing her resolve.
The forest thickened around her, the trees closing in like sentinels, their branches weaving a quiet labyrinth she didn’t mind getting lost in.
The trail she had been following faded in places, replaced by narrow deer tracks that meandered through the undergrowth like secrets—and she followed them, as if the mountain might whisper one meant just for her.
More than once, she veered off course, climbing over fallen logs or pushing through brambles until the path reappeared like something half-remembered.
But she didn’t mind. The detours felt familiar—like the way her life had gone lately, winding, uncertain, but not wrong.
The mountain, even in its steepness, was honest. She had time.
The whole day stretched before her like a promise, or maybe a question.
And for once, she wasn’t in a hurry to answer it.
A gentle rain had come and gone throughout her climb, more mist than storm, like the sky was undecided.
The clouds thickened slowly, dimming the day until it looked like evening had crept in early.
She didn’t mind the gloom—it suited her.
The quiet grayness matched the ache she carried, as if the mountain, too, remembered something it had lost and wasn’t ready to speak.
Dragonfly stopped when she found herself in the presence of a massive tree.
How many people would it take, arms outstretched, to encircle this ancient giant?
She tilted her head to glimpse the canopy above.
The lowest branch was easily a hundred feet high, and the trunk rose beyond sight, vanishing into the mist. Around it stood younger trees, much smaller by comparison.
This one had clearly stood alone for a very long time.
She studied its lofty boughs, heart quiet.
Was loneliness a curse only humans knew?
Or did all living things carry some sense of it?
Had this towering being once felt its solitude before the birds came, before the beasts and men arrived in this land?
Had it watched the passage of the sun and moon with longing, waiting for kin?
And when the others finally came, did it rejoice in their company—or mourn the loss of silence, the end of being singular?
A sudden weariness pressed down on her—mind, body, all at once. Maybe this was a good place to rest. She sat beneath the old sentinel, letting her back sink against its rough bark. Even through her coat, she could feel its age.
She licked her cracked lips. What she wouldn’t give for a sip of water. In her haste to leave the farmhouse, she’d forgotten to pack anything—no canteen, no bread, not even an apple. She hadn’t planned this hike at all, just walked out the door and kept going.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head, listening. No stream, no creek, no whisper of water nearby. Only the steady pulse of her breath and the faint dripping of rain through the canopy. No birdsong, no small rustles in the leaves. Even the forest seemed to be holding its breath.
Winter in White Wood had a way of stretching time, turning days into gray repetitions.
For the young, boredom bred invention—or mischief.
Most nights, the public eatery filled with laughter, music, and the low murmur of shared secrets.
It was where new friendships were made, old ones rekindled, and romantic sparks were fanned into brief, flickering flames.