Foxen Bloom, page 5
"G-good morning," Prior offered, while discretely flexing his fingers and toes to check all were present. As he did, he frowned, and glanced at his hand: where he'd sliced across his palm for the ritual-that-wasn't, nothing remained but a raised red sliver, appearing days old rather than hours. "Did you heal this?" he asked, the words forming strangely in his mouth. "That is— I mean, thank you. If you did."
Fenton blinked. Then he thrust out his hand and Prior jerked back again, narrowly avoiding cracking his head on the tree trunk. The vines in Fenton's hair flickered, distracting Prior briefly from the bloodied... something... Fenton held in his hand: a lump of pallid flesh, split open to reveal bones and a mess of organs. Blood smeared from Fenton's fingertips halfway to his elbow, glittering in places. Prior swallowed thickly.
"Eat," Fenton said. He had blood on his teeth, at the corner of his mouth.
Despite the hard seasons and poor harvests that had dogged the moorlands, not to mention the stress-thin meals he'd barely eaten since Sylvie had fallen ill, Prior suddenly found himself absolutely replete. Yet could one refuse the gift of such a being as Fenton? Was this a trick?
He eyed the flesh in Fenton's hand. The speckles of light dotting Fenton's bloodied skin were scales, Prior realised; Fenton had been fishing. Prior had thought the river all but empty, another consequence of the curse.
Prior licked his lips. He met Fenton's eyes. "I thank you, but I can't— Humans can't eat fish like that. It needs to be cleaned and cooked."
Fenton's gaze slid to the fish, then back to Prior. He withdrew his hand slowly, as if Prior might change his mind, then ducked his head and shoved the fish into his mouth. His teeth flashed once. Bones cracked and Prior quelled a flinch. Didn't people choke on fish bones? Another crack. Prior rubbed his face and glanced surreptitiously between his fingers toward his pack; his knife glinted in the open mouth, clean as it had been the day before. Fenton hadn't borrowed it. Not that Prior would have objected if he had. He merely observed that Fenton had apparently caught and torn apart the fish with his hands.
An interesting observation. That was all.
Finished with his breakfast, Fenton licked the side of his hand with broad swipes of his tongue, cleaning it of watery blood and scales. He licked in swathes as Prior struggled with where to put his attention, shifting uncomfortably.
"There's water in my pack, if you— No, you're happy with the licking, I see." With effort, Prior tore his gaze away and rose to his feet, where he dusted himself off briskly for what little good it served. He couldn't spend all morning staring. He had to return to Ashcroft.
Drinking sparingly from the waterskin in his pack, and eating some of the provisions he had rationed for his journey, Prior then gathered his bow and stepped pointedly onto the westerly turn of the trail. He couldn't bring himself to hasten Fenton along verbally, and though Prior knew that the presumption in even the minor action should make him wary, he felt removed from it. Indeed, he felt only nebulously connected to his body at all, as if he had not truly yet awoken, and his actions were but a dream. Perhaps the entirety of the past few days were but a dream, and Prior lay sleeping beside Sylvie, and neither of them would wake.
"What can you eat?" Fenton asked, suddenly from behind him. He had moved silently, and the pressure of his presence at Prior's back taught Prior the exquisite fear of a prey animal.
Prior closed his eyes. "I have provisions in my pack."
"I would provide."
I would provide. What did that mean? Prior opened his eyes and stared hard at the trail ahead, forcing his words steady. "It's early in the year for gorse, but there might be chickweed or dandelion growing nearby. Or—"
"I understand. I will go."
The weight of Fenton's presence lifted and Prior exhaled hard in relief. He didn't look after Fenton, but set out shakily westward, his bow propped over his shoulder. Another careful sip from his waterskin did little for his dry mouth, but the village well would be cool when he reached it. And he would reach it. Prior let his conviction draw him onward, and tried not to jump at every darting shadow that moved in the hedgerow hugging the trail.
After half a mile or so, Fenton caught up with him, and silently offered a handful of wild carrot and dandelion. In return, Prior gave him the last strip of salted meat from the pack, and they both ate as they walked. Rest—and possibly Fenton's intervention—had solved much of Prior's hurts from the day before, but the morning chilled his skin, and he walked more briskly in an effort to escape it. Fenton didn't exhibit any concern over the cold, if he even noticed it. He spent the morning ranging across the land near the trail, away from Prior and back again, as if Prior were a tether.
Each time Fenton rejoined him, Prior noted another aspect of his companion: the vines in his hair, sometimes still, sometimes in motion, but also the odd-shaped scar on his shoulder, the sculpted curve of his calves, the unconscionably intriguing slope of his back. Fenton's semi-undressed state kept surprising Prior, and as they drew close to Ashcroft he wondered if they shouldn't wait for the cover of night; Fenton wore little but his strangeness, and it made him seem vulnerable. Then Fenton returned from one of his wanderings with blood on his teeth and reminded Prior of the truth: Fenton mightn't wear much clothing, but power cloaked him like the promise of a storm.
Now Ashcroft waited mere paces away, bright noon buffing the village to a generous shine. Prior drew to a stop and rested the tip of his bow on the top of his boot. Children played a game of sticks and bones in front of the inn while a skinny mutt lolled at their feet. He could hear some folk nearby whistling, perhaps pinning out washing, while rhythmic clanging from the smithy acted as discordant accompaniment. Smoke curled from chimneys, and one of the Greaves boys stood on their roof, yelling at his brother. The thatch must need patching again.
In truth, most of Ashcroft needed some kind of tending. A generation ago, war had marched along the Great Road and left little in its wake; Prior could still read the resultant neglect in Ashcroft's tired thatch, on the scarred walls, and swinging from doors loose on their hinges. In empty buildings that would have been taken by newlyweds, had not so many of Ashcroft's children gone to war, like his and Sylvie's parents had. Those too young to fight had been left in the care of those too old; his grandmother had refused to speak of the war, as if silence were a ward, while Sylvie and he had spoke of little else, until they grew old enough to comprehend the chasm of their loss. Until silence warded them as well.
Sylvie. The heaviest weight on Prior's body. At the far end of the village, past the inn and the Greaves boys and the well and the falling-down statue of a long-dead lord, Prior's sister might be dead, the fire of their cottage gone cold. He blinked furiously and firmed his trembling lip, yet couldn't bring himself to lift his feet. Another step seemed impossible. At the threshold of the village, Prior lived in ignorance of Sylvie's fate. He could turn, now, and leave. If he could move.
Prior might have stood there forever, but a bleating noise drew him toward Fenton, whose latest venture had taken him to one of the goats that had the run of the village; they ostensibly belonged to the smithy, Baltair, but in truth Baltair belonged to the goats. Fenton had crouched by a gruff, grey creature and was humming at it. The goat bleated again in response.
At any other time, Prior might have laughed, but at the edge of the village where he stood, in that moment where he waited, Sylvie lived. He dared not find joy in anything else in case it diminished the profundity of that.
"Do you wait on me?" Fenton asked Prior, glancing over his shoulder.
Prior sniffed. He shook his head. "I wait on my courage. I find myself overcome."
A huff of breath. An assessing look. Visibly dismissing Prior as not his concern, Fenton rose. He made for the village proper, his long strides quickly eating up the distance. The children paused their game as he passed and the dog rolled over to watch. People elbowed each other and turned hard eyes on Fenton's oblivious back. Ashcroft was more used to passing travellers than elsewhere in the moorlands, but that didn't mean all were welcome, and Prior didn't want to chance Fenton being where the line was drawn. Prior cursed and jolted into motion, grabbing his bow and hurrying to catch up.
He puffed as he drew beside Fenton. "What are you do— Good morning, Goodwoman Hilde," Prior said, slowing to duck his head respectfully at the woman beating a rug in front of her cottage. Goodwoman Hilde harrumphed in her typical manner, not pausing in her work. Prior reached for an explanation and hoped Goodwoman Hilde's attention did not stray to Fenton or his vines. "This is a, ah, a friend of mine. A traveller from the north."
"Your half-naked friend know there's a sickness? Better off back where he came from," she said, delivering the rug a particularly violent thwap. Dust steeled her fading hair.
"Yes, Goodwoman Hilde. Thank you." When they had passed the property, Prior lowered his voice to grumble. "Thank you for your typical friendliness and ever-so-useful advice."
Fenton eyed Prior sidelong but didn't comment. Prior's cheeks heated. He'd known the sharp crack of Goodwoman Hilde's wooden spoon on his knuckles, and the bruises remained, indelible, in his mind. Her pie had definitely not been worth it.
Thankfully, most villagers were in the fields, sowing or tending to whatever they could grow in the grip of the curse, and weren't around to gawk at Fenton. They did pass another group of children, too small to be working, who stared with rounded eyes at Fenton, one reaching for him only to have their arm tugged back by another. Prior didn't begrudge their caution, only hoped it went unfounded. As he followed Fenton through Ashcroft, the loping stride that had suited the moorland seemed sinister among the familiar confines of the village, and Prior worried if he hadn't opened the village to something worse than the sickness. He and Fenton had struck a bargain, true, but what defence did that offer, in the end? Life for death. The thought chilled him.
He couldn't think on it. Not yet. He didn't have capacity in head nor heart for anything but Sylvie; a mere sliver of unbruised flesh remained, and it winnowed away beat by beat. There would be ample time later for regret.
Fortunately, Fenton was trying to pick up a goose, which provided sufficient diversion to the maudlin turn of Prior's thoughts.
"Put her down! Bloody flux, don't you know those beasts have teeth?" Prior whispered furiously, swatting Fenton's arm to make him drop the goose.
The goose fell, snapping its beak but otherwise none the worse for wear. Prior, however...
Prior's hand remained on Fenton's elbow, where he'd swatted him. Where he'd thoughtlessly swatted a forest spirit like he would a misbehaving child. Like he would argue with his sister, ready to duck her inevitable retaliation. He wouldn't be able to avoid Fenton's retribution.
Fenton regarded the offending hand dispassionately. The absolute stillness of him made Prior clammy with fear. Sound rushed in his ears like he had water stuck in them.
"I need that hand to kill your sibling," Prior said quickly. He didn't snatch his hand away—moving seemed counterproductive to keeping his fingers—but he thought about motion very, very strongly. The fingers of his other hand twitched around his bow so violently he dropped it. "Please. Sorry. Please."
The goose honked rudely.
Fenton blinked. His eyes, Prior noticed, were the colour of grave dirt. Fresh, wet earth. He tried not to interpret the colour as a sign. The vines in Fenton's hair curled around his crown of white flowers, readjusting it as a nervous man might his hat. Thorns sprouted from the interwoven stems. Beauty and danger blossomed on Fenton. A living rose. Prior couldn't look away.
Fenton's gaze flickered to Prior's dropped bow, then to Prior's hand, still on his elbow. Without changing expression, he patted Prior's hand twice, then pushed it away. Wordlessly, he plucked Prior's bow from the ground and continued on through the village.
For a long moment, Prior held one hand in the other, cradling himself as he might a wounded bird. As if beseeching. Could Fenton hear prayers? Prior couldn't recall making one, but perhaps the terror in his heart had sung out and Fenton had heard. Yet Fenton's indifference suggested Prior had only imagined giving offence. The vast chasm of understanding yawned between Prior and Fenton. Prior didn't know how to approach crossing it.
He wrinkled his nose. Best not question his luck. Sylvie always said—
"Fuck. Sylvie."
Prior ran toward their cottage at the edge of the village, which Fenton had somehow found unerringly: Prior saw Fenton's back as he slipped through their open door. Why was the door open? Had the village already emptied the property with no one to occupy—?
"Sylvie!" Prior burst through the door, and cursed as he almost tripped over another damn goose.
A firm hand caught Prior and righted him before he could fall. Grave-dirt eyes caught his and buried him.
"Hush." Fenton inclined his head toward the bed by the window. "She sleeps."
Prior swallowed against the knot in his throat. Sylvie didn't appear to have moved since he left for the forest. Her stillness on the narrow bed—beneath the window, so she might see the sun—made Prior think Fenton had attempted kindness in saying she slept, until he saw the thin blankets rise. The air smelled thick with stale sweat and the lingering char of smoke. He swallowed to clear the dryness from his throat.
As he went to the bed, Prior noted a clay cup and shallow bowl at Sylvie's bedside, both empty: Baltair had been by with food at least once, then. Prior must thank him for taking the risk. The sickness didn't seem contagious, but no one knew for certain and Prior had traded on his friendship with Baltair for Sylvie's sake. He owed the man. Prior's debts were growing breath by breath.
"She looks cold," Prior murmured. Sylvie's freckles were like ink spots on her pallid skin. The curls of her hair stuck to her sweaty brow and he gently brushed them away, then readjusted the blankets more closely around her. "Should I close the window? She prefers it open. But should the wind carry sickness—"
"The window matters not," Fenton interrupted, his voice low.
Prior glanced over his shoulder. Fenton had set Prior's bow against the wall and he was examining the inner side of the open door, head tilted, hands on his slim hips. As Prior watched, Fenton stuck out his tongue and licked the scratches on the door, then pulled a face like a child trying a new food. His vines rippled in his hair. Prior opened his mouth to ask what Fenton had expected a door to taste like, but he thought better of the question. Fenton might answer.
Prior found himself smiling at Sylvie as he imagined what she might make of the peculiar visitor to their home. She had loved their grandmother's stories.
Overcome with sudden fury, Prior swiped roughly at his eyes. Sylvie loved those stories. Loved.
Prior's hands shook as he adjusted Sylvie's blankets again. He watched her breathe, shallow but even. With each breath she took, he managed another of his own.
"Why doesn't the window matter, then?" Prior finally thought to ask, voice swampy in his ears.
He started when Fenton appeared at his shoulder, close enough to feel the heat rising from Fenton's bare skin. They needed to find him some proper clothes. Prior caught sight of the mud caking Fenton's feet and added boots to his mental list. The surmountable task was pleasing to consider, if asinine. He clung by his fingernails to normality. Shirt, boots, perhaps trousers if Fenton desired. They were of a similar size, and Fenton the smaller, so Prior's old clothes might suffice—
"The mark on her throat. What is it?" Fenton asked.
Prior frowned. He had seen no mark. Leaning closer, he moved the blanket he had tucked over Sylvie's neck. A faint discolouration, almost like a fingerprint, bruised her skin.
"Dirt?" Prior suggested.
Fenton made an odd noise through his teeth, like a bird call, if the bird had been trapped in a barrel of nails. He leaned over Sylvie and for a terrible moment Prior thought Fenton would lick her, and he didn't know how to prevent it from happening, but Fenton only sniffed deeply and withdrew. He wrinkled his nose. His eyes grew distant.
Impatient, Prior raised his eyebrows. "What is it?"
Fenton tilted his head. "Salt and ash."
Salt and— It was like speaking to a rock but somehow even less helpful. Fenton had no sense of urgency. Sylvie was dying and he didn't care.
Taking a fortifying breath, Prior reminded himself that Fenton didn't care. He released his tight hold of Sylvie's blankets. Smoothed them flat. Fenton was not like him. Prior needed to remember that.
"What does 'salt and ash' mean? Is it the curse?" Prior asked.
"Of a kind. This place reeks of my sibling's magic," Fenton replied.
"Y-your sibling? A sister? A brother?" Prior hadn't thought to ask before. It didn't matter, but he couldn't parse the implications of Fenton's statement.
"Sometimes."
Prior blew out a breath. It didn't matter. Fenton could be as obtuse as he wanted, if only he would break the curse. But then Fenton jolted, so slightly Prior only noticed due to their close proximity, and squinted into the middle distance. He slid his gaze to Prior.
"You may call them Lorcan, if you must."
Lorcan. A name it seemed Fenton had just remembered, though surely that couldn't be the case. Prior nonetheless filed the name and Fenton's odd reaction away for future consideration.
"Thank you for telling me," he said.
Fenton returned his attention to the window. To the world beyond Sylvie's sickbed. "I must find them. There is something untoward in their magic, and if this blight is left unchecked, it will surely drown all in its path."
Prior spoke through gritted teeth. "You will go nowhere without first healing Sylvie."
A muscle flickered in Fenton's jaw. He didn't meet Prior's eyes. Sunlight burnished him in gold, when it had left Sylvie a ghost of herself. Flowers bloomed in his hair in a spring garland. The sight struck Prior like a slap. He commanded himself to calm.
