Through Winter Woods

“That is true - and definitely a concern,” he mused. “You’re right, yet sometimes the best we can do for the people is to take care of ourselves as well,” Alistair said carefully. He wasn’t particularly sociable or empathetic, but Christopher was different than other people, and he didn’t want to come off as bossy or unfeeling to his friend, so he tried to very deliberately choose his words and hope for the best.

“I have been…well,” Alistair said, though the lack of conviction behind his words immediately was apparent. “Or perhaps to borrow from you, ‘well enough.’ It has been indeed far too long, although I have noting of particular import. If I’m not resting, I’m at the Barn or on patrol. Though I finally did manage to pass off a few festival duties of mine to one of the junior rangers as allowing him more responsibility, although I confess it was not an entirely selfless move on my part.”

It was much easier to focus upon Alistair and his idle chatter. A curious eyebrow was raised in the man’s direction. It wasn’t like Alistair to slough work onto other people, if that’s what one would call it. Curiosity was already tickling at the back of Christopher’s mind as questions came to rest upon his tongue.

“Well then, what is it that has become so worthy of Alistair Henry’s attention?” He offered a playful smirk in his friend’s direction, though it lacked the warmth it usually held. “A new beau, perhaps?”

His hand stretched out on the table and tapping absently, he once again fond himself struggling for words. His lacking sensitivity seemed all too determined to make sure it was well known and not ruled over by lies or pretty words. None of either of those came to his rescue. All he needed to do was answer a question graciously, was Volka really this bad at kindness? Was it something he could feel and not protect out into the open? He crossed and uncrossed his legs moved his stump from his lap to the table and back to his lap. Far too much time passed.

“I’m… Not bad, I would suppose,” the former guard finally decided hesitantly. “Things are no different, for me, though I have practiced once or twice with a sword, since that lesson of yours. What brings me here is what always brings me here. Drunkenness may help much in terms of forgetting things, but it definitely is better than constantly being sober.

As if in a show of gratitude, Christopher lifted his mug to his lips and took a drink.

The ranger did brighten ever so slightly when Volka spoke of his sword practice. In the turmoil that followed his mother’s passing, he’d forgotten all about their lessons. “I am glad to hear you have at least attempted,” Christopher replied. “Though I must offer my apologies for being such a poor teacher. I would be happy to give you my time once again when I am...” He trailed off, unable to find the word he truly wanted.

Volka pursed his lips, rubbing his palm over his stump as a number of sentences that would not have been suitable entered and exited his mind. He considered resting a hand on Christopher’s shoulder in reassurance. But he didn’t like touching people all that much. So instead, he forced a somewhat kind look onto his face.

The ranger couldn’t help giving a soft chuckle at Volka’s next words. Of course he would think that drunkenness was the solution to Christopher’s problems. But then, if he really thought about it, wasn’t that what he’d come here for in the first place?

In all honesty, Christopher simply hadn’t wanted to be at home. Every inch of his childhood home reminded him of the family he’d lost, and the grief threatened to drive him to madness. He’d been nursing the same drink for hours now, only bringing it up for a swig upon Volka’s arrival. But he relented to the offer his new companion offered, consenting with a small nod of his head.

“Though inebriation was not the intention, I will not decline your gracious offer. I cannot promise myself to be a worthy drinking companion. The mug is more for show than anything else.” He offered a small, sad smile then. He was just pathetic, wasn’t he? Too miserable to even drink, it would be better if he sent Volka on his way. But no... He was being kind. His mother would never shoo off someone who offered kindness.

The scream sent Alistair in that direction, alarm coursing through his system. Fortunately for Alistair, the situation had apparently been disarmed by…Christopher?

If Alistair was guilty of anything, it was being a poor friend to his two truest friends. They had the sort of relationship which could weather anything long-term, but the ranger had been neglecting them as of late. Maybe it was work, he mused. The same thing which kept him from fully devoting to work kept him from his friends - it was a reasonable hypothesis, albeit one that hinged on an unknown factor. Regardless, it was clear he would get little enough thinking done, and he stepped forward to greet Christopher, a small but amused smile on his lips.

“There is only the matter of the young pair who you’ve so efficiently flustered, it seems. Otherwise, it is a quiet enough night, especially for a celebration.” Alistair paused, the corners of his mouth falling slightly. “How do you fare, Christopher? I’ve not seen much of you as of late, I fear.”

But he would not dampen the mood with his own miseries. Or, at least, he would attempt not to. “Aye, it is quiet,| he said with a nod. “I suppose we should be thankful for that...”

The frown still clung to Christopher’s lips, his hand still poised carefully upon the handle of his sword. “But there is still a royal murderer wandering round these streets...and we have not yet apprehended them. I find it difficult to feel at peace with that knowledge weighing upon my mind.”

Ah, he’d failed, hadn’t he? What a morbid thing to say to his friend. Trying once more to keep his tone light, he said, “But despite that, I have been well enough. What of you? It feels like some months since we have properly spoken.”

It was easy not to reflect as he weaved through tables, tankard held close to his chest as not to spill it in his search for a place to plant himself for the evening. There were lost memories in this place, and he was here to forget them, for a while at least. Volka, however, rarely left things completely in the past.

He’d spied a table open on the other side of the tavern and was making his way towards it when the familiar build of Christopher Braxton caught his eye. Eyebrows knit inward and he made his way to the ranger’s side, waited for him to stop talking, then pulled up a chair beside him. Christopher had helped him, put up with his failures until he somewhat succeeded. That was enough to earn some measure of kindness from the former guard.

“There is no worse company than myself, I assure you,” Volka told Christopher after taking a short drink and leaning back in his chair. Something was wrong. Something had happened. What was it? Did he want to know all that badly? Could he help? It wasn’t likely, really, whatever it was. But sometimes company was important, and in thanks for the ranger’s help, Volka could provide that.

He thought about remaining silent for a few moments. Who would it help to admit his Mother’s fate aloud? It certainly wouldn’t help Christopher, and Volka certainly didn’t need to hear his unpleasant news. But through his own frustrations, he could see what the man was aiming to do. He wished to offer his help to Christopher, and the ranger could not turn a blind eye to his kindness.

“But your mother,” she said. “She needs you. The kingdom needs you.“ I need you. “You cannot just – it is not….you can’t.” She didn’t know what it was he couldn’t do, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. She told herself the only important thing was her work, her duties to the kingdom, and yet her heart knew the truth. Her mind knew the truth. Lavinia could not believe that lie when it was so transparent, when she could see herself for what she was now.

Scared. Small. Frightened.

She let the sword fall from her hands, breaking the silence. The sound of it made her flinch, and she raised her hands to cover her face, smearing the paint further. She was whimpering now, pathetic and small. She couldn’t face Christopher. She could barely face herself.

He hesitated to touch her, knowing that any perceived pity would send her flying into another rage. So he stood, stoic and silent, as she unraveled before him. He would be the strength that she could not be, if only for this fleeting moment.

“I can and I will, Lavinia,” he said, his voice gentle yet commanding. “You cannot ask me to turn a blind eye when you are in such a state. We have been through so much together, more than most could ever comprehend. But we always come out on the other side -- bruised and battered perhaps, but together. Always together. And I would have it no other way.”

Gazing into the hearth, Christopher’s mind once again wandered to his mother. He had stoked a fire for her before departing for Gabriel’s home, but he was sure it needed care by now, his mother too weak to get out of bed most days. Should he leave? He should have of course, but it felt wrong to abandon the man to the elements. And, with any luck, the work should be finished soon enough.

This was only the beginning, though. The support beams were only a temporary solution to a much larger problem. How long would it take them to rebuild this home? Weeks? Months? Christopher feared the performer didn’t have that long.

He was fairly certain the answer was no, and he quickly resigned himself to that. Even his stories, which were meant to make others happy, had failed in doing so. There wasn’t much hope for him otherwise.

“Very well then, Miss,” he said, fighting to keep himself from bowing again. “If our paths should cross again, you will have me at my most honest, and no stories shall ever pass my lips after this day.”

“I bid ee good day, Sir. Gods keep ee warm.” Hermia gave a nod of her head in a sort of half-bow, the most respectful gesture she could do.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to hear this, to be shown her weaknesses in front of her face, to feel it in the pits of her chest. It wasn’t fair to be told all this by someone she loved so dearly, someone she trusted so much. He was her right-hand man, her loyal partner and her friend. Not even Alistair knew so much about her, or, if he did, he had said nothing.

Gods above and gods below, have mercy on her. If there was any mercy in the world, give it to her now.

“Please, tell me not these things,” Lavinia cried. She pleaded, and she shouted, and it was a sad and miserable sight.” I have done all that I can, and still more needs doing. I cannot do it this way. Christopher, I beg you please.” She wiped at her face, smearing the paint, ruining the stripes. “I beg you, Chris. I beg.”

Did she think it was easy for him to see her in such a state? To know that she was miserable and there was scarce little he could do? “There is always more than needs done, Lavinia. You know this. There is never an end to bettering one’s self. But you need not suffer this work alone. I am your right hand, and we can work through this together. Just as we always have, just as we always will.”

Definitely both.

It shook her. It sat in her stomach like a stone and turned her feet to lead. He was right, though, wasn’t he? Things have a way of unburying themselves, of digging their way back into the world.

Things were stupid.

But as she looked on at the man before him, calmer than she could possibly pretend to be right now, calmer than perhaps she ever truly was with all her doubting and second-guessing. And she thought she knew this – she thought she knew that what she was doing – that being cold and rigid was the right thing to do. She was a warrior. Did not warriors feel nothing?

“I am not holding myself back,” she said, but what little conviction there was in her voice was not enough. “I am not weakening myself.” But he was right, wasn’t he? These things would always show their ugly faces sooner or later.

Tears pricked at her eyes. A single one fell.

“You are my Captain, Lavinia, but you are also my friend. And it pains me to see you this way, abandoning your feelings and refusing to forgive your mistakes. For Norlan’s sake, I have seen you treat criminals with more compassion than you allow yourself.

“It is not fair, Lavinia. It is not fair to you, or your people, or the ones who love you. Please... I know how difficult it is to feel such things, to confront and deal with such emotions. But you must -- not just for yourself, but for the good of the kingdom.”

There was nothing like the cold blue light of dawn in the wastes. They stretched on forever, and it made Adrian feel as if he was the only man left on a leveled realm – as if all of creation had curled up and gone to sleep beneath a heavy blanket of snow, and he was the only one left that drew air. Mornings like this, the ragged wind was harsh and unforgiving, but his mind was clear, and sharp as steel. He waited bundled in wolf hide and wool, his eyes scanning the dark line of woods across the desert-like expanse. As soon as Christopher arrived, they would be off – silent companions setting out into the penumbral light.

He’d brought his bow and arrow. It was the one weapon he struggled to master. It required a patient and steady hand, when everything in him burned to lash out and swing heavy iron into his foes. Still, he’d mastered every primal dance there was. The greataxe, the broadsword, the shield, and daggers. He channeled lightning, and stopped men’s hearts. But putting all that pressure, all that weight, onto one little arrow seemed incredibly difficult for him. He had but one chance to land a good shot. He’d watched too many hare, too many deer, skitter off into the enveloping arms of the Black Forest to want to do it again. Hunting was a patient man’s game, and Adrian was simply pretending to be one.

At least it felt that way.

The walk was long, made longer only by the thoughts which haunted his waking moments. But the snows always seemed so much heavier in the Wastes, and soon it took all his focus just to make certain of where he was going.

Soon though, he saw a familiar form in the distance. As silent as ever, Christopher knew Adrian’s silhouette immediately. The quiet companion who accompanied him on his hunting trips, he greeted him with a small nod of his head. “I have not kept you waiting long, have I?” he asked, immediately pulling the bow from his shoulder.

He was fairly certain the answer was no, and he quickly resigned himself to that. Even his stories, which were meant to make others happy, had failed in doing so. There wasn’t much hope for him otherwise.

“Very well then, Miss,” he said, fighting to keep himself from bowing again. “If our paths should cross again, you will have me at my most honest, and no stories shall ever pass my lips after this day.”

Perhaps too often. Yet it was better than facing a constant misery; better than allowing himself to fall to such vices as drink or conflict. For his family, he at least had to put on the illusion of strength, even if they would never know. Perhaps it was less for the sake of his family, but for his own…

“There will be no convincing you that what you have accomplished is anything less than dismal, so I shall not bother to waste my breath. You may finish your ale, but I must ready myself for the day. So if you will excuse me.”