A/N

This chapter was written much faster with basically no thought, because I was rushing just to put one more chapter in here, so sorry about the possible poor quality and/or typoes. Feel free to comment.

Chapter Six Words of Winter

The town was so ordinary, its name fades from my memory. But there was cold, and there was whiteness; a thin sheet of snow draped itself across houses and fields, and the snow itself - which got in our eyes and mouths and made it hard to see six feet in front ahead - created a pure kind of whiteness that brings to mind a childhood innocence and safety. Little did I know that the day marked the end of my childhood.

There was an inn, with the usual folk and music and bowls of hot stew, and we stayed the first night so as to avoid arousing suspicion. I remember in particular a blacksmith who sat across from us that first night. His arms were massive cords of muscle, and I shuddered at the thought of being caught stealing by someone like him. For all that he was nice enough, inviting us to sit at his table and exchanging conversation. In return for being nice to us, we plied him with wine and ale until he had told us all we wanted to know about this small town. And there were others, too, at the inn, but their faces and names were normal and plain, and there was nothing memorable at all about them.

There were stables, where we rested our horses and rubbed them down; there were farms along with the people who worked on them; there were the usual hills and valleys, and, when the sun set, it lowered itself toward the snow-covered hills in one last golden embrace before sinking slowly, leaving the sky a midnight blue.

But there were two things that were unusual about the town, and those were there the orphan and the hermit.

It wouldn't do to have us all come or we might suspect, so it was just three in our party - my father, a queer man named Sorg, and I. Sorg was inefficient in many things. He couldn't pick a pocket for the life of him, for example. But he had a mind like a knife, when he chose to use it. Other times he wandered off, sometimes walking in circles and talked to himself in a sing-song tone. He was our main intelligence gatherer, my father the leader and decision maker, and I the small one who could pick lick locks, run interference, and climb through windows if necessary.

You? You were able to climb through windows?

Yes, Bast. I was once more limber than I am now. And I didn't scrape my legs when I did it, either.

You have to teach me sometime.

(I can imagine what your use of such a skill would be, and I rather think they aren't quite altruistic. I refuse to teach you.

No less altruistic than your use.

The plan was not to stay long, just a hit and run on a man called Fremen.

By all accounts Fremen was an unpleasant man. The blacksmith from the the night before had related to us how, in times of hunger, Fremen would shove past long lines of peasants waiting to buy a bit of stale bread, throw a few coins down on the table ("Always just a little less than what it actually cost," the blacksmith told us, "as if he wants to make some sort of point, although what tha' is I haven't a startlin' idea") and remove a whole loaf of bread from unwilling, but unresisting hands.

His gaze could kill, the blacksmith said. He simply looked dangerous. No one wanted to start up with him, although that the few that did eventually get up the courage regretted it forever more. My father tried to get the blacksmith to tell him what, exactly, Fremen had done to these people, but the blacksmith refused. His eyes went wide and his naive fears got a hold of him. After that, the only thing left to do was set our beds and go to sleep before a warm fire.

The first thing we found when approaching Fremen The Hermit's house was the boy. He sat barefoot on the front step, absent-mindedly strumming some sort of instrument - I later learned it was called a lute - and singing to himself. My first reaction was to turn away in embarrassment as such a scene - he looked to be about my age, yet he occupied himself by playing with a toy?

But there was something about it… special wouldn't be the right word, more like private, that I was looking at him while he undressed himself; layer by layer falling away, carried into the wind, until we were seeing his true self, naked of any cunning and deception that us humans naturally use to clothe ourselves... The boy seemed so peaceful when he played, like he didn't even notice the cold or the snow biting into his bare feet, yet the notes were sad, slow, and enchanting. Without noticing, I was drawn in. The simple chords twanged and wafted through the air, rising, higher, and falling…

I couldn't quite make out the words he sang - something about Sir Savy-something or other - my body moving on its own accord, I leaned closer to try and catch-

"Hello there, can I help you?"

We all froze, guilt clearly written across our faces. It seemed Sorg and my father had also been mesmerized by the music.

My father recovered first. "We've been traveling and we're hoping to find a bit to eat, a place to sleep… Would I be correct in assuming this is the residence of the local inn?"

"No," the boy replied slowly. His gaze flitted between us, trying to understand whether we were joking, or whether we were truly that ignorant and uninformed. "This is the residence of Fremen the Hermit. He doesn't really take kindly to strangers."

"Oh?" My father managed the innocent-bumpkin look perfectly. "Why is that? Just doesn't like new people, that it?"

"Well, he is called Fremen the Hermit for a reason, you know," the boy said a patient tone.

"Ah, ah. Good point, young lad. Now, you don't by any chance know where Fremen is right now, do you?"

"I do."

"And he is… ?"

"In the house. Behind me." The boy's tone was flat. He seemed to be growing bored of the exchange, which was, of course, the point.

"Good, good." My father's tone was just a little too jovial. It would've been much easier had Fremen not been home, but that would probably be too much to ask. He was a hermit, after all. He paused, trying to think of some conversation starter. "I don't suppose we can see him?"

"No. You can't."

"Well, then, lookee here, see? Say, what's the instrument of y-"

"A lute."

"Think I could hear a few notes? Maybe some lines of Tinker Tanner? Say, are you sure Fremen is home."

"Yes, I'm sure," the boy said shortly. "And if your boy comes one inch closer toward that window he's sneaking at, you'll find out exactly how much Fremen is home."

I froze.

My father narrowed his eyes. He hated threats. "Now see here, boy, I'm sure you don't know who I am-"

"I know exactly who you are." The boy fixed us all a stare. "You're Thallia Lochees, leader of the "most efficient" - of that word can be applied to yokels like you - or at least the most infamous, thieving crew under the civilized four corners."

Now it was my father's turn to freeze. "How…?"

"You think I'm dumb?" The boy smiled thinly. "Anyway, I don't want to stop you. I want to join you."

For a moment, my father was lost for words.

Time seemed to stand still: Frothy snowflakes slowed their descent; Sorg, who up to this point had been humming, sitting on the ground cross-legged and playing with a snowball, paused as well, squinting into the distance with a confused expression.

I strode over to where the boy sat, and held out my hand. "Not many can take advantage of my father like that. I may be overstepping myself a bit, but seeing as my father is indisposed, let me be the first to welcome you into the crew."

After my father recovered, we made introductions.

His name was Arliden, and he was an orphan. If you have ever wondered why Kvothe does not mention his paternal grandparents, I suppose that is the reason: he never knew them.

Arliden told me that Fremen the Hermit allowed him food and a small allowance in return for cooking and housekeeping.

"And music?"

"No," Arliden shook his head. "He hates my music. That's why I have to go outside to play."

I was already cold from the few exposed minutes - and I was wearing a coat. I shivered for him, and he smiled. He seemed much older than me because of what he went through, although it was clear that, if anything, I was the elder.

Arliden had started complaining about all the chores Fremen ordered him to do, when, suddenly the door behind him slammed open. It was too light outside to see into the dark hallway beyond, but I made out the silohouette of a massive man, looming in the small, wooden doorway.

"What's this garbage, Arl?" His voice was hoarse and gruff, but low, dangerous. He paused, his head swiveling between Arliden, to me, my father."

"So you're the hotshot thief running around with his merry crew of idiots, eh?" He took a step forward.

"Does everyone know who-"

"Shuddup! Arliden, who the Hell do you think you are, letting them come here?"

Arliden was silent. His face, before all-knowing and filled with bravado, was white with fear.

The snow suddenly seemed to pick up speed; swirls of white surrounded us and pushed us back. We gazed at Arliden helplessly.

Realization dawned in Fremen's voice. "Unless you've turned traitor. Unless you want to steal from me, too, eh? I said eh, boy?"

It seemed impossible, but some strange word issued from Fremen's house and the snow became a furious, suffocating white that thudded down on us all. It turned from natural snow to some unnatural abomination in an instant, and I saw Arliden go down in a pile of snow that jumped up to cover him.

It was a mistake to come here. Not all superstition is baseless. From the looks of him, my father noticed it too. (Only Sorg took no notice. He seemed happy to have more snow to play with.)

Then the snow cleared somewhat, and I could see Fremen's face red with anger. He screamed, and this time I heard: "Arlisvedi!" the word had power in it, I knew, although I had no idea of the meaning.

A roaring sounded in my ears. My vision shook. I felt pressed to the ground my some unseen weight.

Then everything went black.

"Are you okay?" Arliden stood over me, his face full of worry.

Surprisingly, I was. "Where's my…"

I bolted upright. I shook unsteadily and my hand grasped at Arliden for support.

What was that? Why am I alive?

Sheets and sheets of silent white snow.

Then I understood. I finally understood, and I wished I hadn't; the reason I wasn't dead was because…. I wasn't the target of Fremen's rage.

That would be my father.

His body lay not ten feet from where we stood.

A/N

Don't worry, Chronicler's father isn't dead yet, although he will die eventually, as was mentioned in chapter 2 or so.

Due to certain circumstances, I won't be able to continue this fic as of now. Even now I had to dash this chapter off, so there was much less thought, not to mention revising put into this chapter. (Actually, this chapter was supposed to pan out much differently - I had originally planned for Arliden to always be part of the band, the only reason I didn't put it in the previous chapter was because there didn't seem to be a good place. Anyway, I pushed it off, and this is what happened!) I may continue, eventually, but currently it's actually impossible. If you enjoyed and want to see more of the story, please review!