Questions

Cream lynx fur embraced familiar, neck to thigh. Rise and fall shallowed out into stillness. Collar lining flirted one final time. Distant horse lips flapped wet. River barked; a pet? Crickets bade farewell. Oaks waved. Heron.

“Master?” the boy whispered.

A flash behind closed eyelids like a light pointed right at him.

“Master.”

Marcel let in cool night air, filling his heavy lungs. Eyes opened, blurry light filtering through black tree limbs overhead. It was not dawn yet; had he even slept?

He tilted his head right. The boy lay under a modest blanket on his bedroll, gazing up through the oak canopy at the clear night sky. He almost looked peaceful here. Like he belonged.

“Aust.” He rumbled low. “You need sleep.”

“Karsten…” Aust glanced behind him where faint lantern illuminated wagon canvas. “He thinks— No. He said—”

Marcel righted himself, heavy coat pooled at his waist. Wet chill replaced lingering heat, bleeding off him through his thin black shirt.

“Go on.”

“Am I just a bed warmer?” Aust asked, looking directly at Marcel now. His eyes caught the glow from the distant lantern. “Is that what masters and apprentices do?”

“Oh.”

A bark from the river again, wet flapping rose to silence. Marcel ran his hand through his hair and pulled at it harder than he meant to.

“Some. Not us.” Words came out quiet.

He heard him exhale heavily in the dark, like he had been holding it in all day. Probably had, knowing him. Trees caught wind, stopped. Thin moonlight reflected on cheek before he flipped around on his bedroll, back now to Marcel.

His boy was starting to ask questions without good answers. No comfort, no sage advice, and no examples. He missed when he used to ask why someone had lied. Gods above, how Marcel missed those days.

He watched his apprentice fail to hide in front of him. He stood.

The coat came with him. With a single flap, dew lifted free. Billowing on the way down, he guided it slowly over his apprentice’s blanket. He pushed the coat under his shoulder then side.

“Cold tonight.” Marcel whispered. He tucked the opposite side once. “Get some rest. Your watch is next.”

He wiped his cheek before returning to his own bed roll. Rustling leaves, flowing water, and broken breathing muddied until emptiness won.

A dry, hoarse call came on southerly wind. His pike pointed north first, left hand grabbing the base, the other glided up smooth ash. He scanned the wall of trees as he turned.

Half-lowered to graze, a buck with one antler raised to notice Karsten. Grass stopped bobbing in its jaw, ears flicking once. It resumed, dirt falling from intact roots. It bowed its head. Karsten’s pike pressed back into the road.

He figured as far as watches go in this cursed heap of oaks, getting started by game ain’t so bad; hell, it could’ve been brigands like yesterday.

Marcel had the two wagons lined up, right on the side of the road; Karsten wouldn’t have done it that way. Sure, could only see the one unless you really looked. Trouble was: robbers and thieves were always looking.

The old lantern hung where he’d left it, flickering and swaying from a sad hook. Some idiot had decided that a now-cracked knot was a good mount point. He pulled the lantern close enough to his face to feel heat, brass on brass groaning. The candle confirmed his gut. Something always did.

First notch gone.

His arm stretched out, lantern held over the kid. Orange lantern light blended with yellow. No, the cocksleeve. He felt his face scrunch up as he stole a glance at Marcel to confirm; found him out cold, black shirt, under some brown fur.

Karsten looked around, wondering if anyone else saw this goddamn excuse that was supposed to take watch. Over here, pampered, while the rest of us risked our lives. Only thing that noticed was a dumb, annoyed, brown horse. Figured. That’s his luck.

Blunt end of his weapon pressed into Aust’s shoulder.

“Up, kid. Your watch.”

He waited. He was patient. Leather sole tapped against dirt softly.

Karsten crossed his arms. The kid’s eyes flicked about under their lids— he was fucking dreaming.

Lantern set down by his foot and metal loop tinked against the cover. Not sure why he waited, he already knew it was going to be like this. He’d asked. Marcel hadn’t even looked at him when he did.

What had been a scowl on his face deepened. His pike lifted, pulled backward, then came down flat across the kid’s chest. His eyes snapped open.

“Your watch.” Karsten grumbled. He left the plaything; probably bare under there anyway.

A dozen steps away now he kneeled down at his bag. He fumbled at the straps with fingers that felt wide, swollen but not; almost angry from gripping a pike since dawn.

Karsten’d laid out his bedroll and blanket anyway. Did it before he even realized he was doing it. Hadn’t heard a thing from behind him— the kid probably fell back asleep which meant no one was keeping watch.

Fine. When a bear or some beast would come, he’d watch it eat the kid before waking everyone. He smirked. Nature was a cruel, beautiful thing.

His ass met padded leather, his leg spasmed in relief. He rubbed his calf and took a good look around. Kid was gone. Lantern was too. Karsten figured he must’ve been more tired than he felt to miss that.

Back to the river, Karsten looked along the whole campsite and roads. Nothing but old trees and empty road.

Lantern light caught the corner of his eye, he looked upward. The little shit was on top of the wagon. How did he— when did he? Karsten realized the boy was messing around in that damn book by lantern light, facing camp, back to the trees.

He grit his teeth and walked over to the fucker, weapon swinging at his side and boots finding every twig.

“What are you doing?” Karsten asked. He failed to whisper it.

The kid didn’t look back at him, hand shifted lightly across the book, charcoal scraped roughly against parchment.

“Sketching.” He mumbled, sounding distracted. “My watch.”

Karsten’s pike planted a half inch into the dirt road.

“That’s not how you watch, kid.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Your master teach you that?”

“No.”

He thought he felt the handle yield, but it was just his fingers giving out. He let a breath out and checked the road both ways because someone ‘ought to.

Karsten looked back up at the kid, perched atop the wagon in his stupid, oversized dark green coat. Only thing that’d changed about him was that his hood was down. Finally got a good look at him: pretty face, maybe fifteen, silver ear clip, delicate hands. Bet his master chose him for the face and dressed ‘em himself. The thought unwound something in him.

Another breeze swept south, brought along decay, a persistent green smell, and what might be old fish.

“You should sleep. Long day tomorrow.” The boy mumbled.

He was dismissing Karsten. Did he really think that Karsten could sleep, knowing this twat was sketching instead of watching for brigands.

“Your back is to the danger.” Karsten grumbled.

“Wrong.”

“Wh— What?” he asked, almost loud before it shifted to a whisper.

The night was warming up. Leaves shifted overhead, eagerly dropping seeds with the slight breeze.

Karsten took a few steps to the side of the wagon, directly below the kid. He thrust his pike at the open sketchbook, butt forward. Clean. Kid’s not even looking.

Leather squeaked. The pike lurched right in his grip. He lost his stomach.

The handle slipped free, he scrambled as his hands opened to meet earth. He closed them around crushed acorns and dark gravel.

Metallic, wet decay filled his nose and heavy pounding in his chest arrived. Lying there, on his knees below this kid, Karsten took several breaths.

Bent over on the ground, he looked up. The kid stared from atop the wagon. Bags dark under his eyes. Charcoal gripped backwards between fingers, parallel to the wrist.

The damn sketchbook closed with a flat thwap.

“It’s mine now.” the kid murmured. He broke eye contact to inspect the pike, now held high. Like spoils. He turned his back to camp.

Karsten stood, hands dusting sharp leaf fragments from leather. He looked to his empty hands then back up at Marcel’s apprentice again.

“Huh?”