A/N: This is for the 'Pagan' series by Catherine Jinks, which is about a squire, Pagan, and his knight, Roland. Pagan was brought up in a monastery, ran away, lived on the streets and ended up joining the Templar Knights.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Catherine Jinks.
Night was falling, and Pagan stared ahead as they rode through the small grove of trees, attempting to find a place to sleep for the night. Pagan wasn't looking for a clearing, he just followed Roland blindly. The branches were starting to sprout tiny pale leaves. And that meant that in this cold place, it was spring. Roland had told him about the signs for spring in France. He frowned. Seventeen. He must be seventeen years old now, or would be very soon. Seventeen years old and still unsure of his life. He glanced at Roland's back. Unsure except for the fact that he knew he wanted to be with Roland for it. He supposed that he'd done better with his life than he'd been expecting. Out of a monastery and off the streets. And with someone who paid attention to him. But seventeen… it felt so old and yet so young. And quite alone. The monks hadn't been much for celebrating or marking off a child's years. He was never fully a child anyway, not like the village children he'd seen, where their mothers would celebrate each round of seasons their children survived, and give them a hug and a special cake if they could afford it. Never really allowed to play. But here he was. Alive and feeling a little unnoticed. They continued to ride.
Roland swung down off his horse, and turned to Pagan, concern in those blue eyes.
"You're very quiet Pagan." The unspoken question. 'why?'
Pagan shook his head, his hair falling further into his eyes. He dismounted and started to remove various items, to set up their camp. Roland continued to stare at him.
"Pagan."
Pagan simply said "It's spring." He crouched and began to start a fire.
A few minutes later a large hand on his shoulder stopped him. "I'm glad you're my squire, Pagan. You're… very special. I don't want to lose you."
Roland was smiling. He held out his other hand. In it was a tiny wooden carving of… what is it? A bird of some sort. Pagan took it carefully from him, confused, as Roland got up and moved to the other side of the firebed, fiddling with some sticks.
"What's this, my lord?"
"You told me once that you were born in early Spring."
Pagan smiled and put the bird carefully in one of the pouches.
Someone had remembered.