In which our fish tells a tall tale.
"Forgive me, Hala," says Estel from where he has eased himself into a comfortable position on the cot and wrapped the blanket about his hips, "but was not Buttercup a citizen of the land of Florin, and should Lord Rugen have authority over her and her kin, would not he and his wife also be of the same?"
You backtrack a bit. Wait, what had you said? Which was it? Guildenstern or Florin. Wait, was it "Guildenstern," or was that from that Hamlet spinoff movie What's His Name and His Friend Are Dead? Was it "Guilder?"
Fuck. Who knows. You don't remember.
What the fuck ever. Not like Estel can go looking it up.
Oh, god, yeah. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. It was Guilder wasn't it.
Yeah, you may have started telling Estel the story of The Princess Bride out of desperation just to shut him up.
Every day since Estel woke up it was some new refrain of "I do not understand. Who is this 'Jesus!' that you call on?" "What people call on their god to damn a pot that you dropped simply because it was too hot when you picked it up?" "'Twas kind of you to mend my shirt and other clothing, but I have not seen stitches like this afore. Where may you have learned of them?" "Have you any kin? They must be a fair distance from Bree. When last were you amongst them?" "What mother does not teach her child how to store foodstuffs for the winter? Where do you come from that you would not know this?" or "So strange that we have so much speech in common, yet of what origin is this word 'oh-k?'"
God! He was a pitbull with a chew toy. Would. Not. Let. It. Drop!
You finally just stopped answering his questions with some vague non-answer and substituted your own. "And where are you from, Estel?" "What family do you have?" "'If', Estel, 'if,' the word is 'if.' Why do you use three words when you could just use that one? How do you not have 'if' in your vocabulary?" "You don't exactly speak like you're from Bree, either. What could that possibly mean, I wonder," "What kind of money is in drifting from town to town and across the Wild? Asking for a friend," and then, finally, "All right, Mr. Mysterio, what's got up your butt about needing to know everything about me?"
He gave you a terribly puzzled look after this last one.
"What have my buttocks to do -" he began, but you wave him off.
"Not the point," you said, and handed him the bowl. Swiping up some ash from the fire pit with the bundle of grass, you went back to scrubbing the grease out of the pot.
He dunked the bowl into the bucket and swished it around in the water. Oh, he was attempting to appear pleasantly confused, but you caught that flash of a mix of impatience, and, well, strangely enough, grave concern before he regained control over himself.
Yeah, you may have sighed a little overly loudly at that.
"Very well, Hala," he said. "You must forgive me. 'Tis not oft we encounter things that are new to us. I was but curious. Should you not wish to speak of your past or the people from whom you come, I shall trouble you no more with my questions."
And that was that… for a little while. You washed and he rinsed and dried, cradling his hurt arm against his chest in a sling but managing the task easily with the other. He didn't ask you anything. You didn't say anything. Not that washing up usually takes very long. It just felt like it did.
"But should we have naught to speak of between us, the hours in each others' company threaten to be very dull, indeed."
You may have slammed down the pot a little harder than usual after that.
Fucker. Just. Could. Not. Let. It. Go.
Fine. Okay, the hours when the light was too dim for much fine work but too bright for sleep were their own form of torture. Fair enough. And yeah, maybe he'd find your own story far too outlandish to be believable. It's not like you've ever heard of anyone else here appearing out of nowhere and being threatened with a very confused farmer and his hayfork because some stranger refused to come out from behind a stall in their barn due to how very naked they were. At best, he'd just think you were not quite right in the head and write you off. Who wouldn't? And that's the best case scenario.
And so you yanked the towel from his fingers and pointed at the bed. "Fine, you want a diversion? Sit!" you commanded, and he shrugged and eased himself from the bench to the cot. There he stretched out and watched as you sat on the rushes and stirred in the chamomile flowers you had picked earlier in the day and a pinch of dried ginger root from a drawer on the high shelf above the bench into a pot of simmering water.
What the fuck are you even doing?
And what the fuck are you going to come up with? You could sing -
No.
Yeah, no. Not doing that again.
Okay okay okay. Okay. Sure. What the fuck. Why not?
"When Buttercup was born, the title of the most beautiful woman in the world was held by none other than a servant of the royal house. Every morning, it was her job to set her clock and climb down out of the hayloft before any of the royal house had awakened. This was in the days after royal families, haylofts, mantelpiece clocks, and trains, but before steam engines. It is a little known fact that express trains were invented before what you and I would call engines or, actually, even before railroads -"
"I know for a fact the dwarves of Erebor and the toymakers of Dale together make mechanisms of a delicate -"
"No!" You point the stick with which you had been poking at the coals at Estel, and his brows lift nearly to his hairline. "You said you wanted to be entertained. You are going to be entertained," you say, and then falter, waving the stick about. "Just, you know, go with it."
At that, he lifted his hands in surrender and resettled, beating on the pillow to fluff it up so he could rest his head and watch you as he listened.
And so you proceeded, Estel reclining on the cot and you poking around at the fire as if that had anything to do with anything other than keeping you from thinking too hard and getting all self-conscious.
You've gotten through much of the introduction and on to Westley's departure, when, during a pause when you pour out the tea into cups for both you and Estel, he asks, "And so this Farm Boy, Westley, he does naught but serve Buttercup with great reverence. There would seem to be somewhat of love there, but I do not understand why he does not declare it."
"Are you sure he doesn't?"
"I do not recall him doing so."
"Hmm." You take a drink. "Let's see. 'Farm Boy, fetch me that pail.' 'As you wish.' 'Farm Boy, milk the cows.' 'As you wish.' 'Farm Boy, beat up these boys who are harassing me.' 'As you wish,'" you say, deepening your voice and infusing Westley's responses with as much unresolved sexual tension as you can.
He frowns, which, though you're not sure what you were expecting, was really not quite the reaction you thought you were going to get.
"Is that the custom among your folk, then, to declare your love through acts of service?"
Fucker. Could. Not. Let. It. Go.
"Ai! A plague on your stiff neck, Hala! I meant naught by it!" Estel downs the last of his tea and, with a lurch, leans across the bed and sets the cup on the bench with a sharp clank.
It seems that he has read enough of the irritation on your face that you need not sacrifice your dignity and begin singing a certain Disney song with a very repetitive but pointed refrain that just might rhyme with "Get bit bro."
You know it. How could you not? Your little brother had played it over and over and over when you visited. Out of self-defense you may have made up your own lyrics and sung them back to him. After he stopped whaling on you he'd joined in, giggling and adding fart noises, the goofy little shit.
God, there was this one time, when that little shit was four -
No.
Just… no.
Estel grunts as he slowly, and very awkwardly, attempts to lay back down. He's a little hampered by the fact he has only one arm he can use and that slice across his hip and into his side makes bending an unnaturally painful act. You would help him but he is being decidedly pissy and you're having a hard time coming up with much empathy.
"No matter. 'Tis a poor choice. Better for the regard to not be returned than to lose the love you hoped to gain only for lack of courage." He's finally made it. He lets loose a loud breath.
You snort. Geez. Everybody's a critic.
"I speak but the truth." He strains to grasp the edge of the blanket, which has become entangled around his feet.
You watch him struggle. You are not going to offer help. Nope. Not when he's being such a dick.
"Are you done?" you ask after the blanket slips from the tips of his fingers for the third time and he collapses to the pillow and, closing his eyes, pants at the rafters.
"Aye, I yield," he says.
All the smug vindication you feel drains from you when you catch a glimpse of his face before he lays his good arm over his eyes and, with some effort, slows his breathing. There's something frightened and resigned in his face. Something about being this helpless is absolutely fucking him up.
You sigh and get up. The big idiot.
He strains to sit up and lift his leg when you tug at the blanket.
"Stop, don't irritate it further," you command lightly and nod at his hip. He lets his leg go limp and allows you to pick his foot up by his heel and release the blanket.
"Even you have limits, you big lug," you say as you shake out the blanket. "And you're a pretty big guy and used to being on your own and taking care of yourself. Give poor Westley a break, yeah? I mean, he has nothing and lives in a hovel like this," you say and gesture at the walls about you, "and Buttercup was the daughter of his master and, well, who was he compared to her? What do you think his chances would have been?"
"Better than he had should he have kept his silence," comes the quiet response. You halt in spreading the blanket over Estel. His lips are tightly thinned, as though there was something he very much was feeling but was very much going to keep it tightly held behind them.
Well. Shit. Yeah. What can you say? He has a point, and one that sounds like it was hard-earned. And it's not like you ever shut up and kept it to yourself when you fell for someone.
He takes the edge of the blanket from you and eases himself about, getting comfortable again.
You back up and scratch at the nape of your neck. "Do you, uh, want me to continue?"
"Nay," he says sharply, "not tonight."
You shrug. Okay. Well, so much for that, then. You had thought it might amuse him. But, apparently not.
You pick your cup up from where you had set it on one of the hearth stones. The fire is pretty much burned out and you've already set the latch on the door - little help that would be keeping anyone out if they were determined to get in, but, you know, it's a latch, and you lock it cuz that's what latches do. There isn't much to take care of before you go to sleep.
It's quiet. There's a lone cricket chirping someplace close to the door. Probably made its own nest beneath the chest where you keep your dry food. As long as it doesn't eat the rye and potatoes and other roots you've got stored in there it's welcome to stay.
You pull your pillow and blanket from the basket and make yourself a nest by the fire. You ignore Estel's watching you. He's got that bland look on his face that is almost certainly hiding something behind it. Who knows what the fuck it is.
Whatever.
When you lay down and roll yourself in the blanket, you close your eyes and rub about the edges of the hard rectangle tucked in your pocket at your breast out of habit. A couple more weeks. You can make it.
It's not until you've really settled in and are vaguely wondering if you should be worried about what crickets eat that Estel speaks again.
"Hala?"
You make a noise you're not sure really communicates anything other than the fact you were half asleep.
"I beg you forgive me my poor mood," he says. "Mayhap, upon the morrow, you shall continue your story, aye?"
You yawn and pull your pillow in close.
Okay then.
"Sure."
"Sleep well," Estel says to the dark.