Wherein a tentative agreement is reached.
Ow.
You raise your head and blink into the bright light before falling back on your cot and squeezing your eyes shut. Doesn't help. Red, red, red pulses against your eyelids.
You tug the pillow from beneath your head and flop it over your face.
Better.
You've apparently slept well into the day. You may have stumbled aloft at some point, needing to go out in the garden and relieve yourself and stared down at this big something bundled up and laying on your floor until your brain clicked into gear. Oh, yeah. But, otherwise, you were dead to the world until mid-afternoon.
When you finally blinked awake, sun streamed in through the window and open door, reaching all the way to where you're sleeping.
Gah, you'd been dreaming your old apartment was on fire while wheels squeal and grind against the tracks as an L train makes that turn below your fire escape. No wonder. The sun had been full in your face.
I mean it is a really nice day out, one of those early summer days of high clouds lazily moving across the sky and cool air drifting in the door. The scent of green grass warmed by the sun wafts over with the breeze. You should get up. Really. You should. You're getting up. Right now. See? You're up, stretching, feeling refreshed, wishing you hadn't slept in your pants, and, by the film on your teeth, that you had actually scrubbed them before bed. But, still, you're scuffing over the rushes, wandering over to the door, and trying to figure out where that harsh scraping sound is coming from.
What is that sound, by the way?
That, more than anything, actually gets you up. You thrust the pillow off your face and are forced to sit up so you don't get another face full of sun.
And you sit there. For a while.
You stare at the path and sparse grass growing around it outside the frame of your door. For a while. It's quiet.
Why is the door open?
Wait.
What were you going to do?
Oh god. It's going to be one of those days, isn't it. You've been running around so much, pushed from one demand to another, that now no one is yelling at you because they want something from you and, even though they've just told you about it, you are already late getting it to them, all you really want to do is just sit and not think until you feel a bit more human. Maybe you'll eat something. Maybe you won't. You're definitely not going to cook. Nope. Definitely going to be a low effort day.
Fuck.
You've got to start Mistress Blackthorn's laundry today, don't you. You won't meet her deadline otherwise.
Fuck.
You don't have enough wood to heat up the laundry overnight for a proper soak.
Well. Double fuck.
Yeah, she shorted you the fee she promised. Less than full but more than half over some pretend deficiency. Poor Pim, that child needs to see a gastroenterologist, either that or a demonologist. There is nothing natural about that child's digestive system and what it produces. Hazel is still very pregnant and under advisement not to pick up anything heavier than a loaf of bread and Mistress Blackthorn still very cheap, so she keeps giving you laundry to do regardless of her very pointed and loud complaints about your work. If you had a pledgeholder to represent you to the Bree Council she couldn't get away with it, undercutting the market and grossly underpaying you like this. But, you don't, so she can. Eventually it's going to catch up to you. Eventually Hazel isn't going to be pregnant anymore and is eventually going to want her work back, but you're still going to be the cheaper of the two. Guess what's going to happen then.
You certainly have a talent for pissing people off with extraordinarily little to show for it.
With supreme effort, you push yourself to standing and rummage around on the shelf until your hand lights on the hazel twig you keep up there. You gnaw on it a bit to soften up the shredded end and then hunch over and rub at your teeth and gums, wishing there were such a thing as toothpaste here. Or, well, rather that you could afford the salt and spices used for toothpowder here.
By the time you've risen to your feet and are rubbing at your face and scuffing over the rushes on the floor to get a drink from the barrel by the door, the grinding noise has started up again.
Oh, okay. Whatever.
When you stumble out into the garden half-heartedly munching on a heel of bread, you halt and squint into the sun. Listen, your brain may still not quite be online yet, but you would think that the tunic and coat with its accoutrements of belts and quivers and scabbards and knives and pack would have clued you in.
Oh, wait. Was that the hilt of a sword poking out of Estel's scabbard? You're tempted to backtrack to double check.
Estel looks up even before you round the corner. It's a warm day, and he's down to his breeches and shirt with the collar open and sleeves rolled up to his elbows sitting on the tree stump you use for splitting wood into smaller pieces. He's got your bow saw propped in his lap and is running the whetstone against the grooves of the blade.
You blink at him.
"Oh. He's still here," is your first thought. "God, he needs a haircut. A shave might be a good idea too," is your second. I mean, there's manly scruff and then there's patchy whatever the hell that is that he's sporting. Your third thought might have something to do with his hands and the exposed forearms they are attached to. Seriously, you've seen the guy naked, but somehow it's this simple bit of bared skin at his throat and arms that is suddenly sexier than anything you've ever seen before. It may have something to do with the unselfconscious confidence with which he is testing the edge of your saw blade with his thumb.
And then you blink at the garden. Bound sheaves of green rushes lean one against another along the fence.
What?
Estel clears his throat, weighing the whetstone in his hand. "I hoped you would not take offense, but I did note those upon your floor needed replacing."
"Uh. Yeah," you say, mentally counting the bundles. "I've been meaning to get to that."
"There were none within six furlongs of the Bree gate and I had to travel further afield along the canal to find some worth the effort," he says. "Their season is nigh their end."
Oh, they have a season.
With a sigh, you put your back to the wall and sink to the ground, the bread dangling from your hand.
Fuck.
"You did not know this?" he asks and, when you shake your head, turns the stone about in his hand, considering you.
You know he wants to ask you. 'Where are you from that you wouldn't know this?' Because what idiot wouldn't know such a thing? Right?
You, you are the idiot. How much would it have cost to replace them if Estel hadn't come back and just how cold would a bare dirt floor get in the middle of the winter?
His lips are all pursed while he gently tosses the whetstone in his hand. His eyes dart from the wall above your head near the roof to the garden to the fence and back to you.
Yeah. You know what he's seeing.
It's been a while since you've been in the garden in the full light of day. The daub has crumbled and needs replacing in parts along the wall at your back. If you don't get to it soon, the whole back wall is going to crumble in the rain one day. The woodpile is not so much a pile of wood as it is some dry, rotted branches jumbled atop a bed of twigs and scraps of bark. A few posts of the fence have rotted where they meet the ground and lean drunkenly against the wattle holding them upright. At least you've kept the garden free of weeds. Well, relatively free of weeds.
Yeah. It's embarrassing is what it is, seeing this place through Estel's eyes. I mean, you knew how squalid things were when you first arrived. It's not like Mrs. Thistlewool had had the strength and mobility to take care of things for a while even before she took you in. And since then you've spent so much time trying to earn enough to keep yourself warm and fed, you've not had much time to devote to upkeep, much less the money to make repairs.
"I meant no criticism. I am sure you had thought of it, but should you not replace what you have soon and built a store of more, you would come to regret it come winter when you wished to keep warm."
Oh, he's still talking.
Yeah, you knew that. It's just. You thought you had time.
"I have offended you," you hear and blink out of your thoughts to find Estel peering at you, a strangely uncertain look on his face.
You wag the bread feebly at him. "No, it's not that," you say. "I just… I'm not…" You stop there. Unable to form fully coherent thoughts, you rub at your eye. "I don't think I'm fully all the way awake yet."
"You shall need more," he says, motioning with the stone at the bundles. "'Twas all I could carry. Mayhap, upon the morrow, I could take you where they are still plentiful. I would not recommend going on your own, nor so soon upon sunset, as it is nigh a mile upon the Greenway and close to the Downs south of Bree."
The Downs. Why does that sound familiar?
You squint at him. "You want to take me to the Barrow-downs?"
"'Tis safe enough in the full light of day, should you not go alone and remain wary." He goes on when that doesn't seem to be enough, "I shall be with you."
Oh, well, in that case. Sure. Let's go.
You snort and gnaw off a corner of the bread. He watches you chew it.
You were being sarcastic here in case that's not coming across.
Look, the more the fuckers around here put him down the more likely you were to think that they were wrong about him, but you're not about to follow him out to the middle of nowhere.
"I would not mind another trip. 'Tis not that far," he offers.
"Let me get this straight, Estel," you say and point the heel of bread at him as you swallow. "You want to take me out to a deserted area, where nobody from Bree ever goes…" He sighs and his shoulders sag the further you get into your little speech. "… all by ourselves, just you and me, where no one knows where to find me if I go missing."
"Hala, should I have wished to have killed you, I would not need to entice you from Bree to do it nor to turn suspicion from me."
Lovely. Just lovely. How reassuring. Good to know there's nothing stopping him. Like, oh, you dunno, maybe a conscience, or a moral code, or something else along those lines.
"Hala, aye, I have given you little reason to trust me, but I would hope you not hold me to the worst said of me by those who know even less of me. I have taken you at your word," he protests and throws his hand with the whetstone wide, balancing the bow saw against his thigh. "Would you not put some trust in me in return? At the least, I would hope you could take me at my word I am not some stick at naught cut-throat plotting to dispose of you and take what little you have."
"Dude! The only reason you're still here is because I don't trust what is said about you. I know exactly how wrong they are about me. So, give me a little time, huh?" you exclaim and gesture broadly right back at him. "You sat next to me on my floor last night winding yourself up and getting all prepared for if I gave you the wrong answer! Jesus!"
You scrub at your head with your free hand.
"Great! You've decided to trust me? Awesome. Wonderful! I'm thrilled, touched even," you go on, completely forgetting your neighbors and what they might overhear if you raise your voice. "Maybe I don't trust you. Yeah?"
He clenches the whetstone in his palm and then, taking a breath, sets the bow saw aside. He leans it against the stump he's sitting on so that he can rest his elbows on his knees, making himself smaller.
"I do not understand," he says, looking at you so earnestly you're having a hard time returning his gaze. "Then why did you not turn me out? Why then offer comfort and allow me to sleep at your hearth?"
Well, isn't that the question.
"I never said I made sense," you mumble.
"Hala," he says and then halts, uncertain, "what must I say to -"
"I need for you to earn it, Estel!" comes bursting out of your mouth and you immediately regret it when he winces and his face grows pinched.
"Look," you say and scratch at your head, thinking. "I know you're going through a lot, okay? I know you had a life before you came here and I'm betting you're going to have to return to it, yeah?"
He nods, though he is slow to do so. Even that simple confirmation of his intentions seems to be given against his best judgment.
"But you're obviously not packed up and gone." You point loosely at his lack of coat, pack and various other bits of leather and metal. He's not dressed to go anywhere anytime soon. "That means you're staying here for a reason. There's something around here you have to take care of."
He sighs. He's still looking at you earnestly, squeezing his hands around the whetstone. He shakes his head. "Hala, I dare not -"
"Yeah, yeah," you say, waving him off. You kind of figured that's the answer you would get. You weren't even really asking a question. "Fine!" you say and gesture broadly at the world around you. "There are things about yourself you cannot tell me? Fine, okay. There are things you're going to be doing that I can't know about? Okay, I mean I'm going on trust here that you're not some highway robber sneaking out at night to go slit people's throats, but I'll live with it. So, honestly, I don't need for you to 'say' anything, but you damn well better show me how trustworthy you can be, cuz I'm not working with a whole lot over here."
You punctuate the end of your speech with a bite from the bread. He says nothing as you chew at it. It takes a while. It may be more than a little stale. You'd pocketed it from The Pony's kitchen behind Cook's back before it could go in with the rest of the slop, and then forgotten about it.
"'Tis fair," is what he says after you've swallowed.
"Damn right it's fair." You then shrug and pluck at a crumb on the cloth of your pants. "And maybe you can tell some of the stories every once in a while."
This brings a slight smile to his face. "Mayhap," he says and picks the bow saw back up. "I know most of poetry and song, but should that not be to your taste, I could tell you somewhat of the history of the peoples of Bree and beyond."
"Yeah, that would be good," you mumble. Yeah, you just gave him implicit permission to stay. You decide now is a good time to munch on the rest of that heel of bread you've been waving around.
He nods at your nonexistent woodpile. "You shall need to lay in wood ere the summer begins in full or it shall not be near dry enough to burn come the fall, unless you wish to smother yourself in smoke. As it is, you shall need softer wood so as to dry in time. Those burn the quicker than hardwood and you shall need more."
"I know I need more wood," you say, trying and failing not to sound defensive. Okay, you knew you needed to stockpile some for the winter but you had no idea about soft versus hard or how long it took to dry out. "Fuck you. Are you going to help me with it or just point out the obvious and make me feel bad about it as usual?"
He bites at his lip. If you didn't know better, he looks like he might be attempting to hide a smile. "Mayhap I shall do somewhat about it this time," he says and shakes the whetstone in his hand until he has it grasped in his fingertips.
"Good idea." You give him a thumbs-up.
"And what plans have you for what remains of the day?" he asks as he winds the stick that pulls the bow of the bow saw taut and puts the blade under more tension. He tucks the stick against the middle board of the saw to keep the bow from unwinding itself.
"Well, first I'm going to finish my breakfast, if that is all right with you?"
He smiles and gestures for you to continue before going back to grinding the whetstone against the saw blade.
Asshole.
You sigh and give in to the inevitable. "And then I'll try to figure out what we're going to eat for dinner and start Mistress Blackthorn's laundry."
He makes a sharp noise. "Ah, then I must finish here and venture out to see what I can find of dry wood so you may heat the water o'er the night."
Yeah, that actually would be a huge help. "You could try over by the mill -," you begin, but Estel shakes his head.
"I know of a place," he says, keeping his attention on the saw blade.
Yeah, all right. You shrug and, gnawing on the last of the bread, push against the wall to thrust yourself aloft. "Sounds like a plan, then."
You stretch your arms overhead and yawn. "When you get back you can add your clothes to the laundry," you say and brush at the crumbs on your shirt.
He gives you a skeptical glance, but what can you do? It's not like he can fit in any of your clothes and you don't have anything else to offer other than some cloth cut from Mistress Thistlewool's dresses and shifts he can use as braies while the rest of his stuff is soaking.
And so this is how you find yourself out back in the garden over your large tin pot pouring finely aged, vintage urine into steaming water and trying your very best not to add your own vomit next to it. Yeah, you have a whole system of lidded buckets you keep in the garden for just this purpose. Fun times. What you wouldn't give for old fashioned bleach. Well, this is old fashioned bleach, very very old fashioned bleach. And it is as nasty as it sounds. You're breathing through your mouth and still it's just too much and you gag into your shoulder at times.
It's even affecting Estel over where he is using your ax to split logs on the tree stump. He makes a pained face when the breeze wafts the steam his direction. It's not like he has anything to cover his nose with. You may be making quite the fashion statement wearing what is left of Mistress Thistlewool's second best dress after you ripped strips off most of the skirt to bind Estel's wounds, but he's down to a square of dark blue linen you loaned him tied about his waist as braies while his clothes swim around with your own and Mistress Blackthorn's laundry in the soup of water and ammonia you're mixing. Good thing you live on the wrong side of Bree and the wrong side of the Road, where your garden butts up against land used as pasture by the citizens of Bree who own something to put in them. You'll only be offending the delicate sensibilities of their cows and sheep instead of them.
You can't blame Estel when he leaves you out there on your own and goes inside.
You are surprised, however, when he reappears soon after with one of the linen cloths you use as a kitchen towel. He's placing a long, green leaf of something on it and folding the cloth to capture it within it as he enters the garden and crushes and twists in between his hands.
"This should help," he says, holding it out to you, but you just kind of look at it helplessly. Your hands are filthy with what you're cooking up.
He catches on quickly, stepping behind you when you nod at his offer, and ties the cloth as a mask about your nose and mouth.
Wow. That's… so much of a relief. Oh my god.
He gives you a smug little smile at your surprised look. He's got another length of cloth and he twists it, releasing a bright, green scent. It smells like cut grass and lemonade and something else you can't quite put your finger on. You have never smelled anything like it.
You pull in a deep breath. "What is that?"
"Kingsfoil, Hala," he says, backing up. He's still got that smug little smile on his face. "Should you wish more, I know where it is to be found." He stretches the cloth between his hands. "But, alas, it requires you come with me to the Barrow-downs." And with that he covers what you know has to be a shit-eating grin to end all shit-eating grins, and turns back to splitting and chopping wood.
Well. Well.
Fucker.