Gregory and the Prisoner
Winter had brought some cloudy and ugly days with itself. The skies, that during fall had been so breathtaking, so beautiful, mixing deep blues with pinks and purples during the day, allowing the sun rays to shine freely over the lands of Zaron, were now covered by terribly grey clouds that threatened to bring a storm. Thunders echoed blustering, scaring children and making dogs bark all over the kingdom in response, as if it were a conversation. Mistress closed the windows of their little wooden houses, and hurried to the clotheslines, quickly collecting their laundry, complaining about the mud that would come with the rain. But life went on normally: horses kept pulling cart loads led by campestral elves, carrying sacks of rice and beans that had been picked that same morning. Merchants and traders carried on with their business at the fair, selling handicrafts in their armed tents for when the rain came. Couples wandered hand in hand by the fountain.
Kenny took a noisy bite from his delicious apple as he watched that whole mess going on around him. He had a few more hours until it was time to work, so he sat down on one of the street's stair-step, that lead to a little archery store, and contemplated the elves' movement with a suggestive smile on his face.
But Gregory didn't recognize his presence there, even though he was very close, because he was too involved in a heated discussion with Henrietta and Wendy. Wendy's long dark hair was pulled back on a complicated braid that fell on one of her shoulders. Her dress' sleeve was long and flowing, waving around as she gesticulated with her hands. She was so different from most women, especially the human ones (since they were the women Kenny knew better): she dressed so elegantly, always in pastels, with delicate fabrics that hugged her curvy figure in a very insinuating way, yet never vulgar. Her bodice marked her waist very well, and her long dress skirt was so voluminous that made her hips look bulky. She was beautiful. Henrietta seemed to be the exact opposite. She had no intention of looking like an elegant and graceful woman; her skirt was in burgundy velvet, and there was nothing underneath making the volume (nothing other than her truly large hips, that is). The ties of her bodice were in green, but a very dark one, nearly black. Her lips wore a lipstick that had the same color of her dress, a purplish red, like the color of wine, only darker. She only wore dark colors. She was a fat and obscure woman who Kenny feared a little bit, although she had this magnificent face that resembled a sculpture, under heavy makeup and deep dark circles under her eyes. Kenny enjoyed looking at her.
She looked pissed.
Henrietta lit a cigarette in the middle of their discussion; it was so hard to find women smoking, Kenny still hadn't come across one since he had been in the Elven Kingdom, at least until now. He could only hear parts of the conversation, because every now and then their voices were smothered by all the other noised happening on the street.
"You weary me, Gregory." She said in a blasé tone, blowing her smoke dangerously close to his face.
"Henrietta, my dear, it is not my fault that you're far too ignorant to understand such simple things. If the two of you aren't happy with my decisions, refer your complains to the head chancellor. I simply do not have the time to deal with this."
Waving his hand indifferently to them, Gregory tried to go on his way, being immediately interrupted by Wendy's dainty hand, that was so much stronger than it looked like. The grip was full of anger. She didn't just stop him from walking further, but also pulled him back, approaching her face to speak closely to him, trying to avoid a scandal. Her voice was low and indignant, but not low enough that Kenny couldn't hear her.
"We don't owe you any obedience."
The look sent by Gregory was strangely familiar; perhaps that was just the way he looked at everything that displeased him, that's why it felt so familiar to Kenny. He tended to displease Sir Gregory a lot. Kenny observed how his eyes analyzed the hand that had dared to grab him, taking a while to ponder about the manicured nails dug in his arm over the coat, and then he raised his gaze to look Wendy in the eyes like she had just committed a sacrilege. Henrietta just watched the two of them with a frown, just like the blond man behind the three elves, whose presence remained unnoticed.
Not letting go of him, Wendy said in a louder tone:
"For some reason that I fail to understand, since I'm so ignorant, the king sees value in your contributions, but…"
"Well, I can say the exact same thing." He interrupted, facing her up close with a defiant glare, pulling his arm back, and Wendy allowed, letting go of the man. "You're blind by your foolish beliefs. You're mediocre and incapable. And you are speaking to a Lord of the castle, young girl, so I recommend you don't forget this."
Henrietta took one last drag on her cigarette, then threw it on the ground and lifted the bar of her dress to smash the butt under her heel, listening to the man's words, not necessarily absorbing them; unlike Wendy, whose eyes seemed to burn in fury and her lips soon parted to give him a long and eloquent reply. But Henrietta's hand on her shoulder made her hesitate, and the bigger woman spoke instead:
"Let's go, Wendy. It's not like this Lord's insanity will pass through the king's approval. When the matter comes to the board, he'll be discarded. You know that."
Despite being a passionate woman, Wendy was very reasonable. She glanced to the man that stared at both of them with disbelief in his expression, like a teacher who had been disrespected, and that face only worsened when Henrietta gave him her back and started to walk away, promptly followed by the other woman. Gregory took his long fingers to his jaw, smoothing his soft skin with the tip of his digits, keeping his chin duly raised to show everyone how dignified he was.
Kenny couldn't help but notice the mischievous atmosphere around that man. Maybe it was his hair. It never failed to scare the crap out of Kenny how that hair never moved, it was perfectly smoothed back with gel in a cowlick, and not even one strand was ever seen out of place. That hair was pure evil.
"Man, you really don't know a rat's ass about talking to people." Gregory heard the presumptuous voice coming from behind him, muffled under a loud chewing sound that really got on Gregory's nerves. He turned around to find the former prisoner, McCormick, holding an apple in one hand and a condescending look on his face. That made him despicably sick.
"What do you want, you fucking worm?"
"And that's exactly what I'm talking about." He replied, snapping his fingers. Then, he stepped forward to get closer to the other man. "If you were in my place, having to convince thousands of people that you're not some stinky murder, you'd be totally fucked."
"Yeah? Well, there's a good reason why I'm not in your place. I'm not a profiteer tramp like you."
Kenny smiled, shaking his head as he raised both hands in a defeated gesture.
"Hey, I'm not trying to judge here. You don't need to get all defensive. I'm just stating a fact: people don't like to listen to you because you always talk down to them, like they're nothing. And I'm offering you a friendly advice." He took a pause. "Well, maybe not friendly, since I don't particularly like you. Let's say I… Find it unfortunate that such a smart guy ends up being underestimated because nobody can stand a conversation with him."
Gregory diverted him with an ironic laugh, snorting, shaking his head negatively right before turning his body to get away from there. But his legs didn't carry him much further. He turned back to meet Kenny's gaze, and the former prisoner was still standing there on the same spot, taking his apple to his mouth for a new bite. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, but it didn't properly show up, or else it would be insulting. It was hard not to smile because he could see so well the inner battle occurring inside of Gregory that instant.
At last, the Lord couldn't keep his words from coming out, as much as he wanted to.
"Who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that? You're an intruder here. You're despised. Your little speech hasn't changed a thing. I have my dignity, I won't be judged by a project of human shit like you."
"Really? The elven people hate me? That's funny, you see, 'cause I didn't even have to pay for this apple." He replied with a smirk, playing with the fruit between his fingers. "It was given to me because I'm so nice to the lady who sells them."
"You're a poor bastard. I pity you."
"Yeah, well, offending me won't change the fact that I'm saying the truth. You think you're respected here, but that's mostly because of your inflated ego. Nobody likes a man who can't listen to others."
"I'll arrange that the king gets you to wear a muzzle, like the dog you truly are. You speak too much."
"I've known men like you. Powerful, who enjoyed stepping on others, thinking they were above everyone else. Alone, they have been ruined. Gregory, it doesn't cost me shit to give you an advice. You have every right to ignore it. But being liked is a virtue, and kindness is very much valued here. Believe me, I know it. If you keep treating your mates like you treated those women… Well, that can really fuck you up."
Blowing the air out of his lungs, Gregory of Yardale walked away in heavy steps, towards the castle, exercising his right of ignoring it.
. . .
Token and the Prisoner
Token Black spent his mornings resolving the castle's designate issues, corresponding letters and tending political relations with other kingdoms, concerned about the war. And he spent his evenings debating with other counselors, elaborating government plans and their applications before presenting them to the king, approving and denying tactics, concerned about the people. But during the afternoons, Token Black's only concern was the poor. He was the son of an important baron who owned and commanded the whole fleet of ships that imported and exported products across the ocean. His family had always had tones and tones of money. The Blacks had a very close relationship with the royal family for generations, and his father had been an intimate friend of the former king, Kyle's father. Gerald Broflovski and Steve Black had played together as children. Their own children, however, Token and Kyle, didn't. When they were kids, they barely spoke, since Kyle didn't appreciate the company of other rich boys. When they were teenagers, they learned how much they had in common: Kyle loved literature and history, and so did Token, resulting in many afternoons spent in the castle's giant library, studying tones of books and discussing them for hours. That's how they became so close.
The point is that Token hadn't grown up knowing poverty. He remembered so well of the shock that it was when he first met the kingdom's poor villages, realizing that the world wasn't made of gold and diamonds after all. And that many people had nothing to eat. The Elven Kingdom wasn't a poor one; it had a nearly impeccable income distribution and the workers were highly valued, but Token still wasn't satisfied. That's precisely what brought him to take off his jewelry that worth more than those people's houses, and his expensive clothes made of Egyptian fabric, to dress ordinary clothes and get his ass down from his aristocratic position to work serving food in a small thatched house. "House of Holy Charity", that's how it was called. The tenebrous rain went on pouring down, making the sky so gloomy and dark that it looked like night was falling already, even though it was only two in the afternoon. The smell of spinach soup filled the ambience, and it was delicious, coming out of the steamy crocks, spreading through the room that was more crowded than usually, probably because of the rain.
It had been surprising, to say the least, when Token was informed that Kenny McCormick had been fitted to work in the House of Holy Charity, since he hadn't done very well working in the stables with the war horses of the king's guard. Nobody had specified to Token what exactly had gone wrong between Kenny and the horses, but after two days working with the blond, Token understood that the problem hadn't been with the animals, but with the elves who he worked for. Kenny was sloppy, unfocused, hard to lead and was always late. At the same time, Token was impressed with the human's sympathy while he served the bowls of soup; it took him five seconds and a warm smile, but Kenny could make every miserable person feel at home. He also had strong arms and was very helpful when they needed to unload the cart that brought the ingredients, carrying heavy sacks inside the kitchen on his large back. Token used to do that with barely any help, since most of the workers were women and he was a gentleman (even with those women who were much bigger than him). Kenny had no problem with carrying weight. That made Token start to consider the possibility of this working out just fine.
In that afternoon in particular, he was starting to lose his well-known patience. Kenny had already come in late, as usual, but over ten minutes ago he had disappeared with the excuse of getting more clean bowls in the kitchen, with the house full of hungry elves. Token dropped the wooden soup ladle over the table and cleaned his hands on his apron, angrily walking to the kitchen, pushing the door open with his butt in an aggressive way. As he had expected, there was no one. Token took a deep breath, heading to the back door that led to an alleyway. Now, the rain had being reduced to a few thick drops, nothing awful. Token didn't even notice those drops as he walked to the street with a frown, checking the surroundings, finally meeting Kenny with his gaze. He was a few feet away, leaning forward, talking to a little boy.
It was only when he approached them that Token could realize the boy was wearing a coat way too big for his skinny body, the same coat Kenny had been wearing before. Token wasn't an impulsive man; quite the opposite, actually. He slowed down as naturally as he could before getting too close to them. The little elf also wore a brown beret that covered his pointy ears, and his face was stained by what seemed to be coal. When the boy saw Token, he quickly bowed for him, which made Token smile and wave his hand so that the boy would straighten up again. The older elf stood beside Kenny and put his hands on his own thighs, bending his knees to be on the same level as the kid.
"What is your name, my child?"
"Melvin, Sir." He promptly said with his mouth full. Only then, Token noticed that he held a small bar of half-eaten chocolate on his little hands.
"Melvin, are you enjoying your chocolate?"
The boy raised his huge hazel eyes to look at Kenny as if he sought for reassurance before he fervently nodded his head. A gentle smile lightened up Token's severe figures, calming the boy's heart, especially when the aristocrat patted him on the shoulder.
"Very well. Go play, my dear. Come back if you need anything."
After spending two seconds standing completely still, Melvin nodded one more time, keeping his eyes wide and staring, as his little hand smeared with chocolate touched the coat that covered his body, hesitating, looking at the coat's owner.
"No." Kenny said to him. "Take it with you, please."
The boy, who couldn't be over eight years old, stared at him in disbelief before launching his body towards Kenny for a very quick and tight thankful hug. He wrapped his thin arms around Kenny's hip, pressing his cheek against the blond man's stomach. And as soon as he let go, Melvin ran away, obeying what had been told him, closing the buttons of the coat that nearly dragged on the ground.
Kenny sighed heavily.
"Look, I'm sorry. I saw him through the window, he seemed cold, I came out here to invite him in, but he had already had soup, so he really wanted a chocolate…"
"No." Token sweetly interrupted him, raising his hand in the air. "It's alright. I won't rebuke you for giving a boy some chocolate. Just get in, Kenny. The house is full today."
Kenny took a long look at the other man's face, under the slight impression that – like every single time they had spoken – Token wanted to say more than what he was actually saying. A knot rapidly formed in the blond man's throat, but he simply obeyed. Token, on the other hand, stood there in the middle of the street, feeling the cold air getting under his clothes and drops of rain fall over his head, but he was far too entertained with his own thoughts. Something about Kenny McCormick fascinated him. With all his concerns, all his reservations about the relationship between his king and that man, Token couldn't shake away the feeling that, deep inside, the former prisoner was a good person. A truly good person. The kind of man who would die for what's right, who had the courage of a lion, the kind of man you have to admire. And that thought disturbed Token immensely.
. . .
Stanley and the Prisoner
Along with the night came an insanely aggressive rain. The streets were desert, most elves had retracted to their rooms when the skies started to pour water incessantly and thunder started to get louder, but it was already late at night. The dark haired warrior came out with a lampion on his hand, lightening his way in the pitch-dark of night, but still, the light was too weak to be called useful. He was already soaking wet; his shoes produced this grotesque noise as he walked, as if he wore sponges on his feet, and he wasn't yet able to see the damage the mud had made on his boots. He shielded his eyes with one hand so the rain wouldn't worsen his already impaired vision.
"Sparky!" Stan yelled, but his voice was too low compared to the rackety sound of thunders and water spouting from above.
He wore a coat made of the thick fur of a mountaineer bear, but it wasn't enough to keep his body from shivering, since he was waterlogged on the inside.
Only a few meters from him, Kenny came down the small stairs that connected the castle to the garden, frowning as he saw the man in the darkness, shaking a lampion as he claimed the name of his beloved dog in the middle of the night. The blond had just paid a visit to the king, who now slept deeply in the coziness of his room, warm under covers, perfectly happy. It was painful, leaving his room. How tempting if felt to just lay there with Kyle until morning came, feeling his heat (Kyle's body temperature was absurdly high), but he had to go before the sun came up. To be honest, he couldn't sleep anyway for several days now. So night walks had become part of his routine, they were much better than mentally torturing himself in bed. Being alone with his consciousness had been fucking terrible lately, especially when he was beside Kyle, who slept like a baby. He'd only lay down when he was near the exhaustion, completely certain that he would pass out.
"Stan!" He shouted, looking around hesitantly, licking his lips. He was unsure of what to do next. He didn't want to go after him, since Stan was in the garden under the rain and Kenny was wearing scuffs on his feet and his shins were exposed. He wore a thick overcoat that protected his nearly naked body underneath. He really didn't feel like getting wet.
But the warrior didn't recognize his presence, much less heard his call. He was too distracted snapping his fingers, whistling and yelling Sparky's name over and over as he crossed the garden like a homeless man. To Kenny's disturbed consciousness it wasn't a matter of choice anymore. He ran down the last steps of the stair, careful not to slip, and his cloth slippers splashed in the pools of water that had formed on the ground, absorbing the liquid like two sponges, making a sound that was even worse than the one Stan's boots produced. Luckily, or not, the only sound that could be heard was the sound of falling rain. Soon, Kenny's naked legs ran against cold wind, each step squirting dirty water on his shins, creating a discomfort that he would only feel later, as for now, his hair, his face and his clothes were equally swampy, which bothered him so much more. Once again he shouted the warrior's name in the dark, getting closer to him in the center of the yard. Up close, he could see how shaky Stan was.
"Stanley, what on earth…?" He stretched his arm to hold the man's tense shoulder, which caused Stan to turn around like a surrounded animal, lightening Kenny's face with his lamp, blinding him for a second. Kenny covered his face with his arm in an instinctive gesture, sure that he would get punched, but nothing happened.
Stan simply stepped back and lowered his lampion, staring at the other man as if he had just committed some sort of madness (which made no sense to Kenny, since Stan had been the one who caused him to be there in the first place). The darkness and the gushing water didn't allow him to see the warrior's features, but he was pretty sure Stan had just rolled his eyes to him before he turned his back on Kenny and kept walking, yelling for Sparky, going on his way like nothing had ever happened. Unsatisfied with his reaction, Kenny picked up his pace to catch up with Stan, slipping on the wet stone ground, nearly falling on his face during the process. But he gracefully recovered, waving his arms, and in no time he was beside Stanley again.
"You won't find him on this weather!" He said, screaming very closy to his face, holding him firmly by the arm to force the warrior to look at him. Stan's glare was not happy, of course, but he didn't care. "You'll get sick. Let's go inside. When the rain stops, I'll help you."
"I don't want your fucking help. He has never been alone by himself out here, he's scared and I won't leave him here." The dark haired man responded as if those words had been choking in his throat for days, pulling his arm to get rid of Kenny's grip. "You go inside."
When Stanley stepped away to proceed with his nocturnal perambulation, Kenny stood still on the same spot for a considerable amount of time, not reacting in any way. Although he hadn't paid attention to the blond, Stan still spied on him with the corner of his eye from time to time, as he crouched to look under benches and behind plant vases. Sparky loved to roll around in that garden, especially when it rained, but there was no sign of him, which made Stan's chest tighten in agony, but there was a certain relief in his heart when he heard a husky voice calling a name. Not his name, no, not this time. He turned his face to look for Kenny's figure, further away this time, as the blond shouted:
"Sparky!"
He was walking in the opposite direction.
Stan frowned, watching him for a moment. He blinked a few times to get rid of the rain drops that had accumulated on his eyelashes, licking his lips to feel a bitter taste in his tongue. Kenny McCormick whistled and called for his dog, screaming at the top of his lungs, tapping his tights over the soppy coat that covered him, saying "here, buddy". And Stan didn't understand. The cold penetrated his skin, shaking like a scared calf, soaked even inside his boots, and the top of his head hurt from all the water being dumped on his scalp, and for all the gods, he did not want to be in that situation. At all. But he had to. And he couldn't understand why would this man, with who he had such an unpleasant relationship from day one, be willing to go through the same thing – or worse, since he was so poorly covered – for no good reason.
But he didn't try to understand it at that moment. He felt a smile showing up on his lips, but didn't allow himself to delight from this feeling for too long. He just kept on looking.
The castle's yard was large enough so that, in a couple of minutes, he couldn't hear Kenny's shouts anymore, and Kenny couldn't hear his either. Stan searched through the bushes, behind statues and fountains, under every single stone bench, among flower-beds, whistling and insistently trying to find his buddy cornered somewhere. Sparky was a very ugly and crooked dog, a pooch with faulty pelage and an oddly long nose, but Stan loved him like one loves his family.
So he searched. And he looked. And he called. And he sought. And after about twenty minutes, he was crawling on the floor with a very low perspective of getting up, resting his forehead against his arm, breathing heavily.
Whining in a small voice, hugging his own torso in an attempt to conserve heat, with his bones sore and no longer able to feel his fingers, the warrior dragged his body to one of the benches and sat down. The rain had ceased a little. Stan's head was boiling on the inside, while the rest of his body shook trying to combat the unbearable coldness. The extremities of his body and face were nearly freezing. He still tried to whistle, in a failed attempt to be heard, but he was too exhausted to project his voice in a louder tone, or to make any noises that could overcome the sound of the rain, for that matter. He took one hand to his forehead, trembling and weak, feeling the thermal shock between his cold palm and his heated head. Kenny was right, he would get sick. But he didn't care.
"Stan!"
The warrior raised his head quickly.
It took Kenny a while to emerge from the clumps, all marshy, dripping water from head to toe, now barefoot for some reason, but despite all that, he had this triumphant smile on his face. His fist was closed, holding something that Stan couldn't identify, which soon lost importance when his mucky, muddy and stinky little dog came running from between Kenny's legs, jumping so quickly towards Stan that he tripped on his own short legs, keeping his tongue stuck out as his mouth formed something very similar to a smile, that is, if dogs could smile. Stan believed his could. He got down from the bench, falling with his knees on the ground, spreading his arms to welcome Sparky, who jumped on him like they hadn't seen each other for years. He licked the drops of rain on Stan's face, wagging his tail as happily as a dog could.
"Boy, where have you been?" Stan asked Sparky, holding his fat little cheeks, squeezing him gently. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Don't judge me, but I had ribs in my room. I went to grab a piece, just to see if he would sniff it and come out. He licked some, I hope that's okay." Kenny explained.
"Yeah, yeah, it's fine."
"I hate to be a party pooper, but there's ice forming on my eyelashes. Can we go in?" He asked, involving his torso with his arms, trying to get warm.
Stan nodded his head, holding Sparky tightly against his chest before getting up, and both men walked toward the castle in silence. Kenny looked up every now and then, sticking his tongue out to catch some of the rain drops, and Stan quietly talked to Sparky, rubbing his face on the dog's, getting mud on his cheeks. But it wasn't like he didn't already need a bath, anyway.
When they got to the covered part of the corridors, surrounded by stone columns that allowed a beautiful view to the yard, Stan and Kenny exchanged an awkward look. Sparky was completely unaware of their discomfort, warming himself against his owner's chest, what made Kenny smile. It was Stan who broke the silence.
"Why did you do it?"
"What?" Kenny asked, daring to get a little closer, raising his hand to caress the dog's disgustingly grubby fur, seeming distracted.
"Please, don't play dumb with me. It's raining so hard that the skies could be falling, you don't even like me, you had no reason to help me. What do you want in exchange?"
Kenny's gaze rose to the warrior, his eyes were narrowed, taking his hand off slowly. He crosses his arms, swallowing the tremor when a cold breeze passed them.
"I'm not the monster you think I am, Stan."
That being said, he let the air go through his nostrils, turning around to leave without expecting any answer. After two steps, feeling that Stan hadn't moved, he turned his face to say in a smoother tone:
"Kyle really loves you. So… How bad can you be anyway?"
. . .
Craig and the Brother
It was late. Craig couldn't tell if the rain had stopped or not, because the drops kept falling from the trees' leaves nonstop, and the thick branches protected them from the heavy rain, not allowing them to even see the sky. They were extremely close to the trunk of the biggest tree they could find in that dark and dense forest. They had been warned about the cold, but not enough to psychologically prepare them for those cutting nights they had spent exposed the freezing open air, sharp wind and long rains. He was sitting on a stump, annoyed by the unpleasing feeling of his wet ass, trying to distract himself by whittling a piece of wood he had found that same afternoon. He was trying to make a horse out of it, but he had never been all that talented in whittling things. He raised his eyes to the man sitting next to him, who kept his head down and hugged his own body, shaking like a wet dog. All Craig could see was that dirty honey blond hair that looked unexplainably greasy and wet at the same time, and soon Kevin lifted his head, whipping his hair back to meet Craig's gaze.
"Can we build a fire?"
"No." Craig responded immediately, getting his attention back on the soon-to-be horse. "No fire."
"Damn it, Tucker."
"It's the king's order. No fire."
Kevin spread his legs apart and started to pick some small and wet branches up, breaking them in anger, grunting when they were stubborn. He tried to remain in silence. He really did, because that was usually the better way to handle a night like that. It wasn't the first time, and it absolutely wouldn't be the last time that Kevin spent his night (or several in a row) sleeping outdoors in low temperatures, and he had learned that silence could be your most faithful allied if you wanted to survive. But annoyance overcame all of his knowledge.
"Fuck his orders. It's not his fat ass that is freezing out here, now, is it?"
"Kevin. We can't leave tracks. You know that."
He did know that. He wasn't inexpedient, he knew that fire could blow any cover, no matter how much they remained hidden. His cheeks were slightly warmer than his hands, so he tried to warm his fingers by pressing them against his skin.
"Let's go through the plan one more time." It was all that Kevin said, choosing not to insist about the fire.
He had been friends with Craig Tucker for many years, although they hadn't been childhood friends, since Kevin was five years older. Five years stopped being a relevant age difference when Craig became a teenager, and they both found this strange and almost instant tune: they were recluse people with difficulty of communicating through anything that didn't involve sarcasm, umbrage and anger. They didn't like to talk and they didn't like people in general; they both saw the world through this dark kaleidoscope due to some bloody and obscure experiences in their early lives, emerged in war. Craig had always been an undemonstrative boy, armed with a thick shield of "I-don't-give-a-fuck", exactly like his dad, a man as tall as a building who had never learned how to say what he felt. Kevin was much like his father too, in every way he wished he wasn't.
They understood each other.
Craig pressed his index finger between his eyebrows to relieve a headache.
"Let's give it a few days to observe him. We'll stay on the trees as much as possible, when we approach the castle. At night, we'll look for food. I'm sure there are rabbits and snakes we can kill."
"How do we pass the gates?"
"There are no gates. The woods are their gates. It won't be easy, but we'll manage. We have to be patient and see what Kenny is up to before we go down and talk to him."
"For how long?"
"It depends on what we see. And on how long it takes for us to get him alone, or find out where he sleeps. Maybe it's easy to access. It won't be long. But… I don't know, I have my apprehensions."
"Are you afraid he gave up on the plan?"
Craig finally looked away from his wooden horse, that only now had started to get the shape of a horse, and took his pinkie finger to his mouth, using the nail to pick on something that was stuck between his teeth. It had been bothering him since dinner. Kevin grabbed a tin cup that was resting on the ground, next to him. It had been green once, but the color had peeled off by now. Inside, there was some rum, which he drank.
"Yeah." The dark haired confirmed.
Kevin turned his face away from Craig to spit on the ground. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.
"My little brother wouldn't do that. Don't get dragged into the king's delirium, that dude is fucked up in the head. Do you hear me? Ken is a little slow, that's all. We came here to help him."
"Haven't you even stopped to consider that maybe Cartman is right? Because… If he is, then you should start to prepare yourself. You know, in case we…"
"He is not right. Jesus, Craig." Kevin interrupted with no doubt on his voice, tapping the side of his tin cup. He shivered and grunted in annoyance. "I know Kenny. Family is the only thing that matters to that kid. He knows what's at stake here, he ain't stupid, the king has our family on the palm of his hand. How do you think Cartman convinced him to come here in the first place? He gave our sister the throne, but he would kick her off and throw us all on the street at the smallest sign of betrayal. We've been on the streets before, Craig. We can't go back. Kenny knows that."
"Yeah…" He replied vaguely, passing his thumb over the little face of the horse. "I hope you're right."
Craig disagreed profoundly, but he wouldn't say a thing about it. Both men chose silence for the rest of the night, quietly guarded by the drops of rain accumulated on the leaves of the trees that protected them into the wild.
. . .
A/N: You guys must remember the episodes of South Park when the boys were playing Game of Thrones, right? And George R. R. Martin was all like "Oh, don't worry, the action is coming! And the walkers are coming! And the dragons are coming! And the pizza is coming! Don't worry, it's getting here!" Well. I've come to realize that I'm George R. R. Martin without the talent. It's coming, guys. It's coming.
