#mosavi

between them: a fire. smoke drifts high and heavy into the air, acrid and sharp in his nose. the wood had been wet, but they can't afford to be picky. in his lap: his sword, a whetstone dragged carefully along the edge, the metal singing in time with each pull. he is expecting to spend the night in silence, nothing but that slow and even drag until it lulls him into eventual, fitful sleep. across from him: her. when alanna speaks, that expectation of a quiet evening slips away.

he lifts his head, mouth pulling into a hard frown. indebted. the word gives him pause. with a grunt, he shifts the sword away from him, wraps the whetstone up in its cloth and folds it away in a pouch at his belt, leans his weight forward. in the dark, lit up by the flame and its crackling embers, her hair shines, dark and glossy, the gold pieces in her hair shimmering, fading, shimmering, fading. it's a wonder, guts thinks, that she hasn't been robbed yet by highwaymen, or bandits. then again, maybe she has—and she'd tested herself against them as she had with guts mere hours ago, against beasts waiting in the dark for an opportunity. the light is all they have to ward them away.

gravel-voiced: " i don't want anything from you. " better, he knows, to keep away from things like life debts, the idea of being owed or owing. he sits back. " we were in the same place at the same time. from what i saw, you would've been fine. " it's as simple as that. tomorrow, the sun will rise, and they will go their separate ways—in the same direction, maybe, but not the same path.