Chapter 3: Two paths changed

After that, a brooding silence engulfs us for the next few hours.

I guess we both hope that if we just wait it out, it will go away.

But if anything, the link gets clearer as the hours pass.

Where at first I just got a broad sense of his rage and pain and confusion, I can now pinpoint it.

There is a desperation caused by his inability to stop me invading his mind. He fears that I will find his secrets. That I will break whatever connection he still has to his past. He is sure that he will lose himself if that happens. Keeping his promise is what keeps him going.

The pain slowly but steadily grows with the despair as the hours pass. He bites down on it like he'd bite on a piece of leather when extracting an arrow from a wound. Only, he doesn't know how to extract me. Or the warmth that comes with our connection, whether we like it or not. He tries to ignore it, but he savors every second of it. It stirs memories that he thought long forgotten.

I swallow hard. It stirs memories in me, too. I don't know whether he can feel my emotions as clearly as I feel his. But if he does, he knows that I am so sad that I can hardly keep back the tears. Whatever he did, no one deserves to be this lonely.

"You hurt for me, but I'm not the only one who is lonely." He has turned halfway around to me.

So he does feel it as clearly as I do. "I have chosen this path."

"Liar." He says it with a tired but disarming smile.

This costs him as much energy as it does me. Maybe more. At least I have experience dealing with someone else's pain rushing through my veins. He doesn't.

"Alright. I liked the other choices less. So this is how it turned out. How I turned out."

"Who was it?"

"What?"

"The one who made your song strangle you."

I'm taken aback. This is too accurate for comfort. "My brother", I say reluctantly.

"I'm sorry."

I shake my head. "There is no need."

"Because of your guilt?"

This time I don't answer.

"Don't worry. I only know that you feel guilty. Not about what."

"Same here." My smile turns out tired, too. "You're not breaking any rules."

There is a sudden surge of pain. "Yes, I am."

"How? You're not telling me anything."

"But I can feel that my fate pains you. That you fear me but that you have also begun to like me. It feels good to me. I should have the strength to walk away. Because mine is a life of coldness and solitude. Even companionship is nothing I should expect or look for."

"You didn't. Expect it or look for it."

"Yet here we are."

"Yet here we are." I sigh. "Why did you let me heal you then?"

He sighs. "Because ending my life out of my own free will is something I can't even repent for. You being here, I had no choice but to accept."

Suddenly I can't take the forced closeness anymore and need to get up: "I'll go see whether I can find some more wood for the fire. Doesn't seem like the storm is letting up."

"Let me do that. I'm stronger."

But I shake my head. I need to get out of this space for a while.

My coat slung tightly around me, I work my way forward step by step. I try to keep the wall of the bridge in my reach as long as I can. Getting lost in a snow storm needs no more than a few steps.

Then I go out towards where I remember the trees. I count my steps and try to walk in a straight line. It would be easier without the wind pushing me around.

When I find the tree-line, I start digging through the snow and collect a bundle of sticks.

When I'm done, I turn around to where I came from. But then I stop.

The distance has done nothing to cut the connection. It is like a piece of yarn is stretching from him to me. It tells me to go to my left, where my mind tells me to retrace my steps to the right.

I clutch the bundle in my freezing fingers. What the hell. I turn to the left.

I let the wood fall in a clutter. It is close enough to the fire to dry but not close enough to catch flames.

"I could have shot an arrow at you from the forest. And probably hit you, too. Even though I'm a horrible shot."

"But you wouldn't shoot me. And that's not a guess."

"True."

For a moment we stare at each other, on the brink of a fight. But we're both too miserable and too exhausted to actually go through with it.

He relents first.

"Here", he throws me a carrot. Make yourself useful and cut some vegetables for the soup."

"Where do you get all that?"

"I get paid for my services. At least usually. Last deal didn't work out so well."

I get my knife and start cutting. He hands me a few more vegetables and then cuts a piece of dried meat into the soup.

"Were you ever tempted?"

"To do what?"

"To end your life." That hasn't let go of me. Most Gods forbid ending your life. It always seemed cruel to me, but I guess it's not good for the magnitude of the flock.

"Every day."

There is no more emotion in the statement than when he's talking about soup.

I guess it makes sense in his case, too. If they wanted him dead, they could have killed him. They wanted him to suffer. "Seems cruel to me. Logical, but cruel."

He just shrugs.

But I can't see it with the same apathy. My father was right in this about me, if not in much else. My heart is weak. I see pain and I want to heal it.

Only in this case I can't. I avert my eyes but I can't avert my emotions as easily.

His voice is almost warm: "Then think about it logically, Ghost. Rationally. Not with the things this- whatever it is - are telling you. This is the worst punishment my people know. It is reserved for those who deserve it. I'm not worthy of your compassion."

"And you already know that that doesn't change a thing." I throw the last of the vegetables in with the rest. "It's who I am, Deadman. Until the storm is over, you'll have to deal."

He looks at me as if puzzling something out: "You're not scared anymore."

"Of you? No. You wouldn't shoot an arrow at me, same way I wouldn't shoot at you."

"Yet you know that I am dangerous."

I laugh. "I don't doubt it." Then, more serious: "I'm dangerous to you, too. In more ways than you can know."

"Can your song kill?"

I hesitate for only a second. Then I nod: "Yes. But there has to be an anchor. I can tell the flesh to knit. Or the opposite. It hurts me something awful, though."

"So you have done it before?"

I bite my lip. Only in dire need. And I always try not to kill. "Yes."

He doesn't need any more details then this. He nods. He hasn't expected anything else. Then he pries the knife out of my hands: "Is that how you came by this knife?"

"Give it back." I hold out my hand, hackles immediately raised.

But he doesn't listen and instead turns the knife around in his hands, examining the sigils. "The royal seal. I can hardly believe you came close enough to a member of the royal family to steal this."

Quietly seething, I ask him: "How do you know it wasn't payment for my services? You know my healing powers are outstanding. There was no need to pry the knife from a dead man's hand."

"Dead man's hand indeed", his thumb strokes the in-lays in the hilt: "Ravenwings. Our dead crown-prince's sigil."

"Hand it back." I emphasize every word.

He looks at me curiously, obviously feeling the seething rage at his taking the knife, but not understanding it at all.

"Here you go." Hilt first, he offers the knife back to me.

I quickly sheath it. Only after that do I calm down. I shake my head: "You don't have to believe me but I came by this knife honestly. And even though I use it to cut vegetables, it has value to me. I will not let anyone take it from me."

"And you should have been able to tell that I wasn't going to."

I feel towards the resonance and I know that he tells the truth. He wants me no harm. At least not right now.

He chuckles: "Seems like you are more reclusive than me. Didn't think that was possible."

This time it's me who can't share in the joke: "I have my reasons."

"Look", he sighs. "I'm a dead man. Whatever you did, it can't be bad enough for me to freak out. If we can find a minimum of trust, maybe we could be useful to each other."

"Useful?" I need a moment to get his meaning: "You're proposing that we travel together."

"Is that insolent?"

I slowly shake my head: "No, not insolent, no. But dangerous."

He shrugs: "Truth to be told, I don't know yet whether I like it much, either. But the way I see it, we're going to confuse each other with this – thing - anyway. If we stay together, at least I can earn us some food, you can heal me when it's needed. Win for both of us."

"How do you know I'm not a wanted criminal?"

"Are you?"

"I'm –", but I don't find any words.

"You're on the run. Got that much. But I don't think you're a dangerous criminal. Have met a few of those. They try the opposite of saving your life usually."

He's right, of course, I'm a lot of things but a dangerous criminal is not one of them.

I haven't actually taken the possibility he's proposing into consideration. If I do, I should tell him the truth. I should tell him the danger he's going to be in. But telling him is dangerous to me. "Let me think about this, alright?"

He nods and stirs the soup.

The next few hours pass slowly. The storm loses some of its raw power, but it's still snowing heavily.

When the soup is finished, we eat but no conversation comes to mind.

Getting ready for the night consists of braving the snow once more, then getting my blanket.

He's sitting in front of the fire, not moving. There is no need to check on his wound again. I can feel from here that the cat-gut is dissolving into the freshly knit flesh and he will keep a much smaller scar than he should as a reminder of this episode.

When the fire burns low and he's still not moving, I finally ask him: "Wanna share? Since you lost your blanket."

He looks at me strangely. "There's no need."

I sigh: "Apart from that you're already freezing. So you'll just wake me up with your shivering."

"It isn't a good idea."

"No, it isn't. But really, it isn't a good idea to camp outside in a snow storm. Or to get yourself taboo'd. Or to -", I break off. "I'm willing to share, anyway."

He thinks about it for a moment, then he nods.

My blanket is big enough for me to wrap myself into it twice. Both of us, more difficult. He straightens away from me as much as he can but every little movement, every involuntary twitch, and a leg brushes a leg or an arm brushes the other's side. It makes us both uncomfortable. But still.

I lie awake listening to his breathing. It takes an eternity until he finally succumbs to sleep and his breathing turns even and deep. Only then do I allow myself the luxury of letting my guard down.

I cry for a long time.

It is easy for me, figuring people out. I can look inside them, at least when I sing, but with most of them they have never learned to keep their emotions out of their expression.

It has been one of my first lessons, when I was so young that I can hardly remember it. It was painfully re-enforced, too, when I didn't manage to stop the tears from falling or the silly giggle from spilling over. It has only been through the lessons in healing that I found a modicum of comfort in expressing what I feel.

For him, it is a lesson learned much later. But it has become second nature so much that I'm not even sure he can figure out the feelings he has. Unless it is pain. I feel into the connection, very carefully, and even while he's asleep, I get a steady supply of pain from him. Diluted, not as intense, but I have to feel past it, have to feel deeper, to get anything else.

Underneath, there is – resolve. It feels like a rock. No matter how many waves crash against it, it will not break. It also gives him stability and calmness. I cannot tell whether he has accepted his fate as utterly as he wants to make me and himself believe, but he is resolved to accept it. Maybe the difference isn't all that big.

It's part of the healing to learn how to insulate your own feelings so you don't get confused when looking for someone's pain and strength. It should be near impossible for him to untangle our emotions. But he had no obvious troubles with it.

I go looking for the part of him that concerns itself with me. It's a small part. Hard as a nut. But a nut is nutritious. It has healing powers, too.

Suddenly I become aware that his breathing has changed. Then I notice the changes in the connection. A short burst of alarm, followed by a tightening of all muscles.

I keep my breathing regular. There is no cause for alarm.

It is an old trick, portraying the emotions you want your patients to feel and thus mirroring them back into them.

The alarm disappears. For a long moment, he stays where he is, his arm brushing my side and his face close enough that I can feel his breath.

A different feeling shows up in the bond. It's bright and shiny and good. Immediately he draws away from it and from me.

I sigh. He has more willpower than me. I was enjoying his warmth and touch. "Deadman?"

"Hmm?"

"Alright. I'm coming with you."