The hunter stalked his prey. He moved silently, gracefully through the underbrush, eyes narrowed in concentration. Crouching, he removed an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and pulled the string of the bow so taut it sang. Then...

The arrow flew and landed with a twang in the bowl of a tree. The rabbit (which had been missed by a good two feet) bounded off into the shadows, free to live another day.

"Bollocks!"

William Fletcher flung his bow down in frustration, then accompanied it on the ground when he tripped over a log, landing in a pile of leaves still damp from last night's rain. "Damn," he spat, staring longingly at where the rabbit had been. It would have made a juicy meal, sure enough – there would probably be leftovers too, for tomorrow's breakfasting. His stomach yowled at the thought. He hadn't eaten in nearly two days, not counting that apple he'd snagged off that cart on the road.

He got up and retrieved his bow, and his arrow, yanking it free from the tree with a bit of effort. He'd been on the road nearly a fortnight now. Well, technically it was more like a week... a good half of the time he spent off the road, scampering through the brush and scattered trees. Every bloody day there were more of the king's men marching down the highways, headed for the border. Two nights ago, Fletcher had taken the split in the road heading towards Lawley Fiefdom. There had been fewer soldiers since then, but that didn't make the poaching he was currently engaged in any less risky. The copse of trees he currently stood in was only a few hundred meters from the road, and less than half a mile from the fief itself.

Still, a man had to eat. Or try to anyway.

Snap.

Fletcher froze. Something had broken a twig behind him. It had broken loudly too, which meant that whatever now stood in the trees to his flank was heavy, and most definitely not a rabbit. Slowly, Fletcher slid he arrow in his hand against the nock of the bow, sliding his fingers behind the ready, ready to pull back. Then, he whirled around –

Maha had walked east for a time, then walked south. Then she walked a little west, and then she suddenly realized something. She was lost. Again, for what was the third time this week. Or at least she thought it was three times. It may have been more, she had just been found before she realized she was lost.

‘And all of this,’ she thought, ‘for a blasted willow tree.’ It shouldn’t have been too hard to find just one tree. That young lad had helped her find one the other day, but she hadn’t been able to find it since. She had search along all the little creeks and streams to see if some lord or whoever it was in charge of planting trees had thought to cultivate willows along the water, but the land was still wild. She had gone in a little further on her other trips, but she had not found any willows. Other plants, yes. But she needed willow bark—she was almost out and she had at least two people that had requested a pain reliever. She had to find something today.

Someone cursed. She almost didn’t hear it, but the suddenness of it dragged her out of her dream. She hesitated for a moment—it was dangerous to approach men in the forest. But it was also dangerous to spend the night in the forest with no supplies. At the very least, whoever it was may know where a willow tree was.

She didn’t hear the twig snap, but she did see the man whirl around to face her, bow loaded and pointed at her.

Shit! Maha panicked, and the words that flew from her mouth came out in her mother tongue. “La! Don’t shoot!”

"La! Don't shoot!"

It was a woman, dark eyes wide with panic. Fletcher's heart skipped a beat and he lowered the bow. He kept the arrow in place, though – just in case.

"Who're you?" he demanded uneasily. She didn't look dangerous, but if the last few years had pounded anything through his resilient skull, it was that once in a while it paid to be cautious.

Whoever she was, she wasn't Thiasan. Fletcher had been born and bred in this country, and hadn't ever seen anyone with that complexion or those clothes. She was really quite pretty, in a strange, foreign sort of way. Shame she appeared to be wearing a big black sack. Granted, his attire wasn't much to look at either. Come to think of it, there was very little of Will Fletcher that didn't offend the eye and other assorted senses. He was stained with mud from the road, unshaven, unwashed, and his hair was full of twigs and bits of leaf-rot. "What're you doin' 'ere?"

He was more then a little filthy, but at least he had lowered the bow. Maha almost cringed at the roughness of his words—definitely not the smooth, refined speech of Arabic. He was looking at her with one of those looks, too. Definitely a Thiasan. Not like she was expecting something else; Maha was hopeful, not stupid.

Maha held up her hands—he still had the bow loaded. What did he think she was going to do? Suddenly become hashhashin and murder him? “I am Maha. I am a herbalist.” Botanist, actually, but no one here knew what that meant.

He still hadn’t put down his bow. Maha, still feeling the rush from her initial fright, began to feel her temper rise. “Lower your kus—your, ah,” Her mind clouded for a second. She didn’t normally use this word. “Bow?” Well, that didn’t come out too strong or commanding.

Herbalist. Fletcher frowned. Did she mean like a midwife? He remembered Gran Ellingson back in Fief Rochedale having a lot to do with funny smelling plants, though he'd mostly assumed they were to cover up the smell of people's insides. It would at least explain why she was out here. Plants were about all there was out here. There certainly wasn't any game.

She's just a girl. Stop bloody scarin' her! Closer inspection revealed she couldn't be any older than Fletcher himself Sheepishly, Fletcher lowered his bow, sliding the arrow back into his quiver. "Sorry 'bout that," he murmured. "You just -" He stopped himself from uttering the words 'scared me.' He doubted he'd be able to live them down. After all - he was the armed and dangerous convict. She was the one out picking daisies. "- startled me," he finished. "Weren't expectin' no company." He chewed his lip, feeling very silly all of a sudden. He wondered what she'd look like in a proper Thiasan dress. Or even a not-so-proper one...

"You should be careful out here, you know," he told her. "S'dangerous outside the cities, by your lonesome. All sorts of barbarians and criminals in the like."

“Obviously not,” Maha said wryly, feeling her temper lower as he lowered his bow. Good. Now she didn’t have to worry about him misfiring. “At least, I hope not. I do not think it is polite even in Thiasa to shoot your company when you expect them to be coming.” At least not welcome company. It made Maha wonder what kind of company he normally expected if he didn’t immediately lower his bow to a woman.

“I apologize, it was not my intention to… startle you.” Or frighten, or whatever she had done. One thing was the same in Thiasa as in Arabia; men hated admitting weakness. Men were silly like that; too strong to admit that their leg was injured, but not strong enough to keep running on it. Ali and Father had been like that, too.

Maha almost smiled when he began to warn her about strangers, criminals, and barbarians. They were in the cities, too. Barbarians were everywhere on this island, not just in the land south of here. “There is danger in the cities and villages, as well.” Warning her about criminals when he looked like a madman? It was almost cute, in a bizarre sort of way.

“With mud and sticks in your hair, I’m not quite sure if you are more barbarian or more criminal.”

"With mud and sticks in your hair, I’m not quite sure if you are more barbarian or more criminal.”

At this proclamation, Fletcher sputtered indignantly, one hand surreptitiously reaching up to dislodge the forest floor from his hair. "I beg your pardon!" he huffed. Clearly, he was a criminal – not a barbarian. He was poaching in the king's woods, wasn't he? And unlike the barbarians (or rumors he'd heard of them), he actually wore clothes. What was this strange foreign woman thinking?

"I'll have you know, I am in fact a wanted criminal, and that I am both armed an' dangerous!" he announced with no uncertain degree of pride. "Well," he amended, "probably not dangerous to you. Mainly just to them what have got it coming." Dangerous to Lords, Knights, wealthy merchants, and unattended food, as the list currently stood. Anything female and suitably attractive was really only at risk of being fallen in love with, or at least winked at in a suggestive way.

Being a criminal, to Maha’s knowledge, was not something to take pride in. But that could be her use of sense and reason, two things this man seemed to lack a little, if he thought being a criminal was a bad thing.

“Perhaps not a barbarian, not to your people, at least. You missed a twig, right by your temple.” What a ridiculous man. At the very least, he wasn’t being terribly lewd, and he didn’t think she was a threat. Not yet, at least. Some of the ones who hated her the most had first accepted her despite her obvious foreignness. Hate was really something time tempered, not mere moments.

“A wanted criminal? You cannot be terribly wanted, if you must say it. I have not heard of a wanted criminal, and I am privy to those kinds of things.” That was stretching the truth a bit—Maha was often around taverns, and those were the things that were spoken about in taverns. Hushed whispers no one thought she could understand, her own private way of collecting gossip. Maha tapped her chin thoughtfully.

“I do not doubt that you are a criminal, but a criminal may be a barbarian as well. You are too dirty and poorly dressed to be a refined sort of criminal. Besides, what sort of man goes around pointing arrows at hapless young women and demanding their names without ever introducing himself to her that isn’t a barbarian?”

Fletcher scowled, yanking the twig out, along with a fair amount of hair. "Wanted. It means the authorities are lookin' for me. Matter of fact, there's –" the words 'there's a reward for my arrest' were kept from tumbling from his lips at the last moment. In retrospect, it might not be a good thing to advertise. A bit like painting a shooting target on his face.

"There's plenty of folks who can't afford decent clothes out here," he continued, using his near slip up as a segue. "And as if you're one to talk!" he nodded to the... black.... thing she wore. "Not quite the pinnacle of fashion, less I been away from Thiasa keep longer 'an I thought." He folded his arms defiantly. So there.

She really was a strange bird. She talked all odd, and her logic was giving him a headache. Or maybe that was just the lack of food. And the sun. And the not sleeping. Probably all of them combined.

"Besides, what sort of man goes around pointing arrows at hapless young women and demanding their names without ever introducing himself to her that isn’t a barbarian?”

He scowled even further. The bit had a point. "Name's Fletcher, if you must know." He doubted she'd let the whole arrow thing go. But if was her fault for skulking around like that.

“Well, I cannot think of any other who would want a criminal, yes.” She wondered what his crimes were. Perhaps he was more dangerous then he said he was, but probably not. He didn’t have that air about him the air of a man gone over the edge.

Really, he had an air similar to that boy. If this… Fletcher was to hear of the rebellion, he’d likely want to join. It seemed to be catching like fever, the idea of revolution--the very thought of that made Maha’s stomach turn, and she looked away from the man. Revolution was not some game; it was not so easy to gain whatever vengeance for some wrongdoings, not so simple as the boy preached. Rebellions killed fathers, brothers. It raped the mothers and maidens, it scarred the children. There was no true victor in such bloodshed.

Her voice was darker when she finally replied. “It is the hijaab—it is not a fashion, it is a symbol of my submission to God, you twit. Just because your women feel that it is appropriate to show the beauty reserved for their future husbands and God to strangers does not mean that I should do the same.”

((delete))

It appeared he'd touched a nerve. Her already dusky complexion darkened even further as she spoke, voice cold and edged. Fletcher threw his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. "Easy lass. You can submit to whoever you bloody well like. All I'm sayin' is, its a bit odd for you to be commentin' on me lookin' uncivilized, when a bloke would be hard pressed to say what civilization you're from yerself. I reckon we're both a bit outside the norm when it comes to appearances, yea?"

Fletcher might not have been the most pious man alive, but if someone wanted to submit to their God, that was fine by him. Just so long as nobody asked him to do submitting to anyone. Especially not the nobility. Although, he wouldn't have minded seeing this Maha in a bodice and low-collared chemise... He briefly entertained the mental image, then changed the topic, lest the blood currently occupying his brain migrate to a lower altitude:

"Where is it you're from anyway? Ya don't look Scalian t'me..." Fletcher had attended the school of Hard Knocks, where geography had been in something of short supply.

“Of course I am not from Scalia--I am from Damask, one of the greatest of civilizations. It has been called the pearl of Arabia by many visiting caliphs and emirs.” Where the air was hot, heady, and smelled of spice and silk. When she was little, Maha thought the cloudless sky too harsh, but oh what she’d do to feel the warmth now. The sun did not shine so well in Thiasa, too frequently hidden by a veil of clouds. She had thought the streets of Damask were too dusty, but she preferred dry dust to sticky mud that clung to her. And the people, she missed her people. The women’s quarters, the vendors whose voices could be heard for miles. “Where a book is worth its weight in gold,” she murmured to herself. She looked up suddenly. Now was not the time to reminisce about home.

“A willow tree. It is what I am looking for, do you know where one is?” If he couldn’t tell she was Arab, he probably wouldn’t be able to tell willow from oak, but it was worth a shot.

"Oh." Will scratched the back of his neck. "Erm. I'm from Fief Rochedale. S'about three days hard ridin' from 'ere." Damask might be the pearl of Arabia, but Rochedale had to be the outhouse of Thiasa. It wasn't someplace he was exactly proud to have his roots in. But this lass seemed to have a bit of a sore spot for her home, and was starting to look all distant and misty-eyed. He was worried she'd start reminiscing aloud, and met her change of topic with relief.

“A willow tree. It is what I am looking for, do you know where one is?”

"What, then trees with the droopy branches?" Willow wood was whippy and flexible. You could make a decent bow out of it. "Aye. Bout a hundred paces west of here. There's a small stream with a bunch of them growin' on the banks." He paused. "I can show you, if'n you like."

“Yes, a pale tree.” Good, one was not too far away. Maha was tired, and this man was taxing what little energy she had left. “It would be kind of you to show me, yes.” A hundred paces to the west was just the kind of vague directions Maha did not need. They were too vague, everyone seemed to judge what a pace was differently.

But he wasn’t too bad, this man. Bow aside and crude appearance aside, he had not made any threats against her. He was simply ignorant. Maha frowned. He was not from here, which meant he may not know if she would be able to reach the trees without trespassing. “Are they protected? Many plant willows around water to help protect the body, and I do not want to trespass.” Life may not have been better in Lawley then it had been in other towns, but she did have responsibilities she could not just leave behind if she were caught on someone’s land.

Fletcher had set off through the trees before Maha had finished thanking him. He moved quickly and deftly, the underbrush rustling around him. Watching him made it clear that this was a man who spent a lot of time off the beaten track.

“Are they protected?" she called from behind him. "Many plant willows around water to help protect the body, and I do not want to trespass.”

He snorted. "Who cares?" Anyone who owned land was probably noble, and Fletcher felt no love for the upper classes. He'd just been poaching on this land after all. "S'not like yer gonna fell the whole tree or anythin'." At least, he didn't think she would. It would be an incredibly difficult task without an ax...

Pushing aside the thorny branches of some bramble bushes, he revealed a small stream filling a pool surrounded by a number of weeping willows, their slender branches stroking the water's surface as it eddied and gurgled, sparkling in the sun.

Somewhere, a fish leapt, spinning in the air, then landing back into the water with a splash. Fletcher's eyes lit up. Out came the bow and arrow. He pulled back, fired, and watched as the arrow vanished in the water for the course of a baited breath before bobbing back to the surface, embedded in the glimmering scales of a speared trout. Letting out a triumphant whoop, he plunged in to the ice cold water, wading in thigh deep to collect his prize.

He had taken off before Maha could really speak, and she had to run to catch up to him. It was difficult; neither she nor her clothing was made to dash through forests. Or dashing at all come to think of it. “I do not,” she huffed as she caught up to him, “wish to cause trouble is all.” But he was not listening to her as he revealed the stream.

The one thing Thiasa did have that Arabia could not match was the natural greenness. Arabia had the finest of gradens, but one could not plant such verdant plants in the dry Arabian soil. But here, the soil was rich. The willows Maha had been searching for grew tall, and little wild flowers dotted the grass. A gentle breeze whispered through the willow leaves, and the stream babbled to itself. It was really quite serene.

And then he was splashing about in the water, shattering whatever serenity the glade held. Maha was stunned and for a moment, speechless. Finally, she spoke. “What in the name of the merciful God are you doing?”

Fletcher sloshed his way back on to the bank, grinning widely. In one hand he held the fish, still spitted on the arrow. "Me? I'm having lunch! Have fun pickin' trees, miss!"

He set the fish down on a rocky outcropping that bordered the water, then began to gather dry bits of wood and dead leaves from the edges of the trees – a task that only took a few moments, thanks to the abundance of dry timber resulting from the mild drought. These pieces of detritus were quickly assembled into a little pyramid on the stone shore of the stream. Fletcher reached into the leather pouch at his hip, and withdrew two small dark stones. Striking them together, he procured a shower of sparks, and after a few tries, generated a tiny flame. This he lightly blew on, and with a bit of effort he wheedled and cajoled it into a small fire.

"You like fish, miss?" He asked as he removed a knife from his belt and began gutting his catch, pulling chunks of succulent meat away from the spine and guts as the fire cackled merrily.

Maha had never seen anyone fish with a bow before; rods and nets, but never a bow. The sight of him with a fish impaled on an arrow with that grin… Maha laughed. Did he know how funny he looked like that? Probably not, he was too set on food to care, it seemed.

“ "You like fish, miss?"” He asked. Maha blinked, nodding slowly. It felt odd to be offered food like this by such a stranger… What a funny man indeed.

“Wait,” Maha knelt and rummaged through her bag. “Let me see the fish.” Just because they were not in civilization did not mean they could not eat well. Meat was not something she normally cooked, but she had become familiar enough with the spices available here to use them in cooking as well as in medicine. If she remembered correctly, she had collected some thyme earlier in the morning…

Fletcher protested feebly as she snatched his fish away, but made no attempt to grab it back. He knew he wasn't the best of cooks – his culinary knowledge began and ended at knowing that sticking meat on a fire for a while before eating it was a generally good idea. His mother had been a decent enough cook, back when she'd been alive – making due with salted, gristled cuts and slightly rancid potatoes to feed her family. He watched Maha as she presumably improved his meal, stomach roaring in anticipation. He busied himself with finding more leaves and sticks to furl the fire, as well as a flat stone from the river, to serve as a makeshift skillet.

She really was a strange bird. Pretty, but a stickler for rules. This worried him a bit – lawful, upstanding citizens often meant trouble. But she hadn't run off screaming yet, and she was helping him cook his fish, so she couldn't be all bad, right? And she really was pretty... especially when she smiled.

"So, what I don't get," he began, poking the fire with a stick, "Is why, if'n Arabia is so nice, are you all the way over 'ere?"

Maha glanced at Fletcher briefly before turning her attention back to the fish. “It is a, how you say, long story? My father sent me to Scalia when I was much younger to help a friend study the native plants of Scalia. When it was time for my return, I received a message from my father that Damask had been caught in rebellion. When it is safe to return, my brother will come for me. Until then, I must remain here.” Maha didn’t know how many times she had told that story. It had never been easy, but it was simple. This time seemed harder. She had been thinking about home too much, she decided. While returning was going to happen one of these days, she should not become too morose. She’d never see Thiasa again, and there were some pleasant things in the murk and gloom.

Like the smells. The smell of the spiced fish cooking was not what she’d smell in her mother’s cooking, but it had a delicious tang nonetheless.

“Are you from here?” She didn’t recognize him, but Maha kept to herself. But if he knew how to get back to Lawley…

"Hm?" All of Fletcher's attention had been raptly focused on the spiced fish hissing and spitting in the fire. The tantalizing aroma teased his senses, and made made his mouth water. This woman was not only beautiful, foreign, and peculiar – she could cook!

"Eh?" His head jerked up and he blinked, mind processing the words Maha had just uttered. "Oh, er, not really. I mean, compared to you, I suppose I am... I'm from all over Thiasa, really. Man of the road an' the like, yea?" He pulled his boots off and placed his feet near the fire, letting the heat dry his threadbare wool socks, which were rather wet from his sojourn in the stream. "Never stay in one place for too long if'n I can help it. Been in Lawley once before though..." He poked the cooking fish with a stick and licked his lips. "I reckon it must've been... three years ago? Simon said it was –" he stopped abruptly, and fell silent.

Maha swatted Fletcher’s stick away from the fish. “Do not toy with it—if you are bored, then go find something green to eat with it.” She scolded lightly, taking a cursory glance over the area. It would be good to have vegetables; a meal that was varied was better for you. Thiasans tended to eat too much meat, anyway.

“I reckon it must've been... three years ago? Simon said it was –”

“Said it was what?” Maha asked, not looking up when she spoke. When he didn’t respond, Maha was curious. Had he seen someone? He had said he was a criminal—if she was caught with him, there could be trouble. Maha stilled, looking around for any sign of someone. But no one was there. What was it then?

The silence unsettled Maha. She searched for something to say. “My people,” she began, “were not, ah, men of the road as you say, but before they built their cities, they were wanderers. When I was young, I wondered what that was like.” She laughed lightly. “I think I now know what it was like, a little.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He'd let the name slip. Every now and then, he'd forget Simon was dead. Then he'd utter his name, or think he saw him in the street, or wake up in the night to ask him a question, and it would all rush back. Letting the fish be after Maha's scolding, he began to poke the coals instead, occasionally lifting his stick to stare at its smoldering scarlet tip.

“My people were not, ah, men of the road as you say, but before they built their cities, they were wanderers. When I was young, I wondered what that was like. I think I now know what it was like, a little.”

She laughed. It was a pretty laugh, but Fletcher was feeling morose now, and failed to notice. "What – cold, hungry and footsore? I'd say it's an apt description o' this life." He jabbed at the fire again, knocking out an ember, which rolled down the bank and fell into the stream with a plop and a hiss. He realized he was being rude and sighed. "Reckon that fish is about cooked?"

“In a moment, be patient.” They would need something to eat the fish on, or at least she would. Maha was used to the Thiasan style of dining—it was not too different from the Arabian way, actually--but they did not have bread to eat the fish with. Maha would at least need something to hold the fish on. Leaves would work, she had done that before. “Please, I will cut the fish while you find leaves?” Maha removed the knife from her satchel, wiping off any dirt that it had collected.

“Cold… Do you know that it is very cold in Arabia? Not in day, no. The sun cooks us, than he abandons us to the moon. We freeze at night, even in summer. But lonely? I do not think so, not for my people. They travel in family, not like you and I.”

Maha nudged the hot rock off the fire with her foot and began to cut into the fish. It flaked lightly, which Maha took as a good sign. She enjoyed the scent of spice, but not off fish, so it was difficult for her to tell if the fish itself was good. She talked as she worked. “But then again, I suppose that this life is only enjoyed by those who have wandering souls. Perhaps it is no the way we should be, if we are lonely.”

“Please, I will cut the fish while you find leaves?”

Fletcher raised one brow at her. He reached behind him and pulled a large-ish leaf off of a witch-hazel bush and handed it to her. He then stabbed a chunk of fish with the tip of his knife and took a bite, chewing and then spitting out the bones behind him. Leaves. Pssh. Growing up at the bottom of the economic totem pole, Fletcher's family had never afforded the luxury of utensils, and he saw no need to employ makeshift ones when a knife and a pointed stick worked just fine. He took another bite, saving the spices for a moment before wolfish it down.

Maha continued on as Fletcher picked another tiny fishbone out from between his teeth: “Cold… Do you know that it is very cold in Arabia? Not in day, no. The sun cooks us, than he abandons us to the moon. We freeze at night, even in summer. But lonely? I do not think so, not for my people. They travel in family, not like you and I.”

He almost choked on his food, then managed to swallow."It's better traveling with family," Fletcher agreed, looking down and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He felt the same awful pang as when he'd mentioned his brother's name. "So... how's come you're all alone? Why ain't nobody come 'ere with you? Or why ain't you found someone?"

If it had been ten years ago, Maha would have been appalled at Fletcher’s manners. But she had ten years to become accustomed to the vulgarities of the Thiasans, and Maha simply ignored his less then pleasant way of eating.

“I could ask the same of you. You say it is better to be with family, but you are alone. Perhaps you had a sister, and she found her husband while traveling?” The fish was good, even if it was fish. That was never something Maha had to eat when she was young—many trade routes passed through Damask, but Damask had not been a port city. Fish were a rarity, and smelt too bad by the time it came to Damask for most people to ever want to eat it.

“When I first came, I was with a distant relative, but we parted ways. I have been alone since.” Maha snorted. “Who would want to travel with me? Many suspect me to be a witch, and who would risk their life for whatever I could offer them?”

“I could ask the same of you. You say it is better to be with family, but you are alone. Perhaps you had a sister, and she found her husband while traveling?”

Fletcher said nothing but looked down at the crimson coals of the fire. While a moment ago he'd been famished he found his appetite oddly diminished now. He began wiping his knife off on the hem of his tunic, letting her continue.

“When I first came, I was with a distant relative, but we parted ways. I have been alone since. Who would want to travel with me? Many suspect me to be a witch, and who would risk their life for whatever I could offer them?”

Fletcher looked up. Witch, eh? It seemed he wasn't the only one society considered outside his rules. But Maha hardly looked like the wicked crones of fairy tales. He felt a pang of guilt. Maha might consider herself risky company, but he was putting her in danger just by letting her associate with him. "You don't seem so bad t'me," he offered gently. "I mean... there's got t'be someone out there with nuthin' to lose, eh?" He tried to force a smile, but it faded quickly. He sighed, resheathing his knife into the roughly-stitched scabbard that hung on his belt. Imogen had made it for him as a birthday present years ago...

"I had a brother," he finally murmured after a long pause. "Was him and me fer a long time. Ever since we had to quit Rochedale."

“No living man has nothing to lose, sir.” She discarded the leaf, idly playing with the strap. “He will always have his soul and his physical body. With me, he may lose both. I cannot ask anyone do so when the reward is so little, and no one has offered.” She shrugged. “Perhaps for the best.”

A darkness came over his face, and Maha noticed the scabbard at his side. It was not a terribly pretty sort of thing—it did not look to be the work of a professional. When Maha was younger, she would make trinkets and such for her father that had the same sort of quality to them.

“I had a brother--was him and me fer a long time. Ever since we had to quit Rochedale.” Maha lowered her gaze.

“My God bless his soul.” She said after a moment. No wonder he looked so dark, if she had understood correctly. If his brother had married, or just settled down, Fletcher could have been upset, but it would have been more anger then sadness. If his brother had found happiness, then by all means, Fletcher should have been happy as well. But she did not think this was the case. “I do not mean to pry, you must not share memory that you do not want to.”

Fletcher looked down and away, not making eye contact. He felt an odd sense of shame, cheeks flushing at showing emotion in front of a stranger. Oh, he'd played the poor-lost-soul card before for some of the lasses, and made big, puppy eyes at them. But that had just been one of the may false personas he donned – one of a variety of hats. This was real, and for the first time in a long time, he was vulnerable.

"It's alright. I mean, it happens, yea? People... die. Way of the world. We move on." He took a deep breath, and his voice grew quieter. "Funny thing is, I reckon this is the first time I've talked about it since it happened. Been over a year, but there's times I think I see him on the street, or hear him talkin' nearby, an' forget fer a second." He let out a low, mirthless chuckle that stuck oddly in his throat. Something in his chest hurt. "There's times I wonder if'n I'm going mad. An' maybe I am." He shrugged, glancing out over the water and falling silent.

She had to wonder what was worse. His brother may have passed on, but at the very least he knew his fate. Maha’s brother may still be alive, but then again, he may be dead. She would not know until someone came for her. She decided that neither was worse then the other—this sort of pain was hell, no matter the form it took.

The air in the small glade was now thick with remorse and other heavy emotions. Maha rose. It would not do to remain in such a place for either of them. “Come” she said softly, “this is no welcome place for either of us. I will gather what I need, and we will return to Lawley—things are brewing there, no one will take particular notice of you there.” There was no harm in having a companion for the return journey, and he may have an idea of where he was going. At the very least, he may be able to keep her from dreaming off too much and getting even more lost.

The change of subject was welcome. "Yea, yer right." Fletcher stood quickly, throwing dirt on the fire and stomping out the remaining coals. He was a drifter – he never stayed anywhere for long, because if he did, it eventually all caught up with him. And he doubted he'd survive his past returning to haunt his present.

But maybe, just maybe, he could change the future. Which was why he was heading into Lawley. It was a new hunting ground, a new set of strangers to rob and scam, sure, but it was also a breeding ground for revolution. He could join a cell. He could blow on the sparks of rebellion, and maybe, he'd get the chance to give them noble bastards what for. The vulnerable stoop of his shoulders vanished, and in its place came a certain vehemence and fire. He looked Maha in the eye, and nodded. "To town then!" And then he set off at a brisk clip...