After thinking over the merchant's advice, Keran put all other non-essential work on hold, and put both himself and Feynriel to gathering in wood. He was better at hauling than the tranquil was, but he wasn't entirely sure he could trust the man with the dangerous job of felling trees, especially when careful questioning showed that Feynriel had no experience with felling, just with chopping. So while Keran spent the day cutting down several trees, and chopping them into logs small enough for one man to haul, Feynriel dragged the resultant logs back to the outpost.

They were both sore and tired from the extra work when they returned home at the end of the day, even more-so once they'd stacked the logs so they could dry properly, making the start of a square pile of criss-crossed layers, set on two of the larger logs to keep it up off the ground and allow the air to circulate better. It was only when they went indoors that Keran realized he hadn't put anything to cook for their supper, nor had they baked bread that day. Breakfast had used up the bread from the day before – lunch had been hard tack and sausage, eaten at the clearing. He groaned.

"Feynriel – go fill the boiler and start it warming while I make supper," he said tiredly, then headed off to the pantry to see what he felt like cooking. "Come back to the kitchen once it's lit."

Something simple, he decided. Simple, and comforting. Porridge. Not the thin, salty greyish gruel that was served up in the templar dining hall some mornings, but real porridge. He set water on to heat, and added a little bit of his precious seasonings – cloves, cinnamon, and a grating of nutmeg – then once the water started to boil, sifted in handfuls of oats, stirring well after each addition so there'd be no lumps. He also added a handful of raisins, some chopped dried apple, and a good-sized dollop of maple syrup, then let it simmer, stirring the pot regularly. It didn't take long to cook; the porridge was ready to eat by the time Feynriel returned. They ate in the kitchen, sitting on stools at the work table, and were hungry enough that they scraped the pot clean between the two of them. "Just leave it all to clean up tomorrow," Keran told Feynriel when the other man started to carry everything toward the sink. "Let's go have our bath."

They had both been putting on condition with the daily workout from cutting wood over the last couple of weeks, Keran noticed as they were stripping down. Feynriel's shirt was noticeably tight across the shoulders, and the musculature under it better-defined than it had been the first time the pair of them had shared a bath. There had been a softness to his shape, a sleekness, that was almost entirely gone now. His shoulders were broader, his thighs more muscular, his stomach flatter. Keran's own body reflected similar changes, though on a lesser scale, as he'd already been pretty muscular from the exercise of wearing heavy armour and working with sword and shield for so many years. Swinging an axe did use somewhat different combinations of muscles though, different movements, and he could feel the soreness of having worked hard all day as he climbed into the bath.

Feynriel was apparently more than a little sore as well – understandable, considering he hadn't been in as good shape as Keran was to start with. As the tranquil lowered himself into the water, his face actually left its usual calm blankness briefly, a brief grimace of pain twisting it. The grimace vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, but seeing it at all startled Keran. He hadn't realized that the tranquil could have real expressions; he'd only ever seen them either blank-faced, or wearing the slight smile that some of them adopted. Though he supposed it made sense – pain was a physical feeling, not an emotional one, and there was no reason why they wouldn't still feel pain, Or pleasure, come to that. They certainly felt hunger, got tired...

He did find himself wondering just how much pain Feynriel had to be in for it to show, as it just had. He'd seen the tranquil be visibly sore before, after heavy work, but apart from him moving slowly and stiffly there had been no sign of it. Certainly not in his expression. He kept half an eye on him as the two of them bathed, and could tell by the way the man was moving that he was definitely stiff and sore – possibly even in real pain. He began to worry a little – if Feynriel injured himself, would he even think to stop working, or to mention it to Keran? Or would be keep on working, despite injury. Just the thought of it made Keran feel slightly ill. He'd always dismissed stories of tranquil working themselves to death as just stories, but... what if there was a kernel of truth to the tales?

"Feynriel – are you sore?" he asked. "You look stiff."

"Yes," the man answered, the same unvarying 'yes' with which he answered most questions.

Keran frowned. "How sore – just stiff from too much work, or are you sore because you hurt yourself?"

Feynriel paused, face blanking in that way that seemed to happen when he was thinking – even more still and empty than his usual expression. When some time passed without him answering, Keran tried rephrasing the question. "Feynriel – do you hurt? Are you injured?"

A silence. "I hurt," Feynriel agreed. "I do not believe I am injured."

"Just very sore?" Keran asked, feeling a little relieved.

"Yes."

"All right," he said, and sighed silently in relief. "Do you know what to do if you get injured?"

"Yes. Stop working, and tell someone that I am hurt," Feynriel answered promptly.

Keran smiled slightly. It sounded like Feynriel was repeating a rule he'd been told. Though he still worried a little – he and Feynriel often worked some distance apart. What if the tranquil injured himself, and then made the injury worse trying to get to Keran to tell him that he was injured? He ended up spending most of the bath asking questions and working out answers with Feynriel, until he was reasonably satisfied that the tranquil knew suitable things to do in any of the most likely emergencies that might befall him here.

He still didn't like how stiffly Feynriel was moving when they were getting out of the tub though, especially since the heat of the bath should have eased a lot of the soreness already. He made the other man go through a series of simple bends and stretches, and decided it was his back that was the problem. When he carefully felt Feynriel's lower back – the first time he'd ever laid hands on him for any reason, he was vaguely aware – he could feel the tenseness in the muscles there, and had some idea of just how painful that could be from his own experience. It made sense to him that it was the tranquil's back that was the problem; dragging logs put an entirely different strain on the back and shoulders than chopping wood did, so Feynriel had spent the day exercising an entirely different set of muscles than he had until now, or at least exercising some of them in different ways.

"Go get ready for bed, but don't go to bed yet," he told Feynriel, then headed to his own room. He pulled on his own nightclothes, then got out the container of warming salve that he used when he had a strained muscle or cramp, and went to the tranquil's room. Feynriel was standing by his bed, dressed in his nightshirt and a rather baggy pair of leggings, a lit candle-end on one of the tables the only light.

Keran had him pull the bedding down to the foot of the bed, then lay face-down on it. He pulled up the back of Feynriel's voluminous nightshirt, then scooped out some of the salve and began working it into Feynriel's lower back, working his way upwards and outwards, firmly massaging the knotted muscles. It was something he'd learned how to do pretty much out of necessity while still a trainee – you couldn't massage your own sore back, and the trainees traded the favour of such massages back and forth.

He worked his way up and down Feynriel's back, feeling the knots gradually loosen under his hands. He could feel the other man relaxing. And smiled, almost laughing aloud, when Feynriel started to snore softly. He decided to take that as a sign that he'd done a thorough enough job on his back, and carefully rose to his feet, shaking out his own hands and wrists. He carefully tugged Feynriel's nightshirt back down, then pulled the bedding up over him, frowning when he noticed the tranquil had nothing but a single sheet and blanket to cover him. He must be half-freezing at night, as cold as it had been lately! And cold would undo whatever good the massage had done.

He stripped the blankets off the other two cots, and added them over top of the sleeping man. Feynriel didn't stir at all; he was clearly deeply asleep. Keran pinched out the candle, and went back to his own room.