by H Stinington
CHAPTER TWO
More conversation between Lady Meridan and her staff drifts by Felix’s unhearing ears. Eventually a hand on his shoulder points him in a direction and he starts walking. Along with three footmen, he ventures into dense forest beyond the castle opposite the refugee camp. After a while the men have to take hatchets from their belts and hack at briars and saplings to form a path. Another hand on Felix’s shoulder stops his pained steps. If he squints, he can just make out a structure covered in a thick curtain of ivy and nearly swallowed by brambles.
One of the footmen blows out a breath. “We’ll take the shack. Brycen, you the shrine.”
They set about chopping away foliage until the front of a rough building of stone and mortar and thatch emerges. Alongside stands a stone table upon which Felix counts seven foot-high statues placed on two levels.
“Right, that’ll do,” says the lead footman. He turns and strides back down the path. The others follow.
A request for food and water very nearly makes it out of Felix’s mouth before he bites it back. Gods, perhaps an hour in and he’s already come within an inch of breaking his silence. And yet, his empty stomach knots and his throat is parched. He thinks of the few bites of bread and sips from a waterskin he shared with Sam that morning. Their last meal together. Fresh grief wells up, and Felix trudges the last few steps into his new home.
Yanking hard to free the door from mud packed against the threshold and in the hinges nearly saps the last of his strength, but he makes it inside. The floor is dirt strewn with ancient rushes and spiders that flee from Felix’s tread. There is a woven mat by a window and at the back a tiny hearth, next to which sits a wooden bowl and cup, an hourglass, a book, and a skull. Everything is caked in grime. Felix lifts the book’s cover with one finger, but exhaustion, hunger, thirst, and sorrow quickly crush his curiosity. For a while all he can do is sit and stare at nothing.
Eventually, a vague thought to the dropping temperature gets him up and collecting detritus from the footmen’s battle with the foliage. He fills the hearth with rushes and twigs and stacks more wood beside it. He then pulls his flint and a small stone from a pouch on his belt and strikes a flame. The simple activity leaves him trembling and dizzy, and he collapses more than sits by the fire.
It’s all right, he thinks as he lays his head on the floor and fog fills his mind. As long as Sam gets to the monastery, as long as he’s safe, nothing else matters. Felix reaches out a hand and lays it on the book. He sends his first prayer to whatever gods he’s tasked to revere- Please protect my son.
Shadows close in, and he escapes into dreamless sleep.
He wakes more tired than before, barely able to lift his head and regretful when he does. The shack’s grime seems to have coated his throat. He tries to remember if there was a stream between here and the castle, but his mind wanders in and out of focus. Not that he could walk to this hypothetical water source in any case. His limbs tingle with weakness. Even his ruined ankle hurts in a diffuse, distant way. There’s nothing he can do. He wonders idly how long Lady Meridan will believe her new hermit is praying for her family’s well-being. It will likely be months before anyone finds him. He wonders if animals will bother to gnaw at his bones. It won’t be worth the effort.
It’s all right, he reminds himself again as darkness returns. He’s done the only duty required of him. He sent his son to a good place, where he can build a life in safety. Sam will remember him, maybe even tell his own son about his father, someday. Perhaps not, if he takes vows as a monk. Either way, Felix is at peace.
Then, somewhere very far off, a voice speaks. He can’t hear the words, but he feels movement. Someone is lifting his upper body, cradling it. Someone soft. Cool wetness splashes against his dry lips and the voice becomes clearer, “... Please, please, please... Oh, don’t be dead. Drink. Please...”
The woman sounds so desperate, Felix does his best to open his mouth and take a sip. The water feels amazing as it rushes down his throat. He almost moans before catching himself.
“There, yes, that’s it. Thank the gods. I thought you were gone. You’ll be all right now. Keep drinking.”
He takes gulp after gulp until his stomach gurgles and cramps and he flinches away from the woman’s waterskin. Wondering who in the Meridan household remembered his existence, Felix peers up to find the beautiful blue eyes from before gazing down at him. The woman smiles and sunlight filtered through ivy makes her look like a living goddess.
“That’s enough water, I suppose,” she says, “Rest now, I wouldn’t want you to get sick. When you’re ready, I have some soup you can try.”
Felix is almost certain he ought to move away, that it is unacceptable for a hermit to lie in the arms of a lady. And that’s what she surely must be. Her dress is as fine though simpler than Lady Romilda’s, and her skin is clean and pale. But he’s too weak to crawl away- the best he can do is shut his eyes again and stop gaping at her beauty.
But they pop back open when she jostles him slightly. “Hey, don’t drift off. We may not get lucky a second time. Here.” Thankfully she shifts onto her feet and props him up against a wall. It’s hard to keep track of her, but he tries to as she moves around the room. She picks up a large branch and uses its leaves to sweep dust and spiders out of the doorway. Then she stirs a pot that hangs above a fire in the hearth. After that, she pulls a cloth from a pocket of her dress and sits down, taking the wooden cup in hand and cleaning it.
“I’m sorry, truly,” she announces. She doesn’t look at Felix, but it seems slightly less likely that she’s addressing the cup. “Carson was supposed to assign a servant to deliver food and water, but it slipped his mind. Like so very many things.” She puts down the cup and picks up the bowl, scrubbing at its surface with severe focus. “It won’t happen again, I’ll see to it myself.”
Felix can only sit in dull silence while she moves on to the hourglass and the book. She hardly reacts to the skull’s empty-eyed grin, just wipes its dome to a faint shine.
“There, that’s put things in some better order.” She smiles slightly and shakes her head, ‘Gods, I’ve walked in here and rearranged everything without even introducing myself. My name is Cassandra. I’m... I’m the wife of, uh, Sir Thornton, the son of Lady Meridan. He’s away now, fighting. A-and you, you’re, ah...”
They blink at each other across dead air. Felix frowns, wondering if this is some very unsubtle attempt to get him to break his silence. She could report him to Lady Meridan, and have him tossed back out. It seems an odd pastime for a lady, but then, what would he know about such things?
Cassandra’s gaze drops as she grimaces inwardly. “No speaking. Of course. Please pardon me.” She looks at him again and draws her lower lip into her mouth for an instant. “I don’t know your name. I don’t think anyone in the house does. That’s... odd.”
She won’t get it out of him easily, of that he’s certain. Although, he does find himself wondering what it would sound like in her lilting accent. It’s been such a cumbersome thing all his life, but perhaps she’d improve it somehow. He glances over at the pot in the hearth.
“Oh, the soup, yes, would you like some?” Cassandra’s already moving with the bowl in her hand. It has a knob on it that allows her to scoop up a serving. She kneels in front of him and brings it to his lips. Felix can’t fathom how she bears this indignity but he’s still too weak to stop her and his heart is thumping so hard he thinks she’ll see it beneath his tunic. So he drinks the savory herb broth, and endures a mix of guilt and a strange kind of pride when Cassandra smiles brightly.
When half the soup is gone she sets the bowl aside. “That’s probably plenty. We shouldn’t overtax your stomach just now. It was difficult to eat regularly on the road, wasn’t it?”
She’s doing it again, trying to trick hi
m. This is a better attempt- the sympathy in her eyes is quite convincing. But it won’t work. A nod or shake of his head isn’t speaking, but he shouldn’t risk it. So he just stares.
The sympathy dies. “Right, well, I suppose you’re feeling better now. But you should rest for a while. I or- someone will come with food and water twice a day. You have my word. So, all right. I’ll- oh wait, one moment.”
She stands and picks up the woven mat in the corner and carries it outside. Felix can’t see much from his angle beyond clouds of dust and the flicking corners of the mat. Cassandra’s soft grunts of effort come through quite well, though. Soon she reenters and lays the mat between Felix and the fire.
“There, that should do. Lie down now.”
Felix hasn’t been put to bed in decades, but that doesn’t stop Cassandra from easing him away from the wall and onto his right side on the mat. She builds up the fire until heat rolls over his face.
He expects her to leave, but instead she stays crouched behind him, and even lays a hand on his arm. “All right. You rest. Sleep is probably the best thing for you. I’ll- someone will come check on you and bring more food and water. And some candles. Consider it done. Good bye.”
What a strange lady, Felix reflects after she’s left and a more comfortable weariness finds him. He’ll have to stay on his guard, or she really might trick him into speaking.