(Writer's note: Thank you to everyone who has continued to read on this far. It's hard to pick back up something you have put down for so long. Probably it reads a little choppy, and has problems with continuity; thank you all for still being game. It's much appreciated. -W.G.)
In the middle of the woods six crows converged above a clearing. Down in the center of the clearing a tall black-haired man lifted his head up to look at them, then turned back to what he was doing: rolling one of the bodies at his feet so that it covered over a wooden shield lying in the dirt. The crows shouted at the man until he left. One of them hopped down the branches onto the shoulder of the body, dug its claws in, ruffled itself, and had just ripped away the wet edge of the tunic when the tall man returned.
The Hound noticed, as he brought the girl back into the clearing, that when he showed her the evidence of his protection- like now, as she gazed expressionless at the tumble of men at her feet, or before, when he'd made her look at the head of the man who'd tried to drag her from her bed- he felt a prickle of dissatisfaction. He was not near honest enough to name the dissatisfaction for what it was. Instead he waved a hand overhead, shooing the angry crows away, and scowled at her.
"Those men would tear you apart if it wasn't for me."
She turned. Her eyes lifted to his, brows knitted; he read the hesitation in them as dubiousness, and it set his teeth on edge.
"Believe it. But look at them now."
He watched her lashes obediently lower, watched her eyes' cool sweep over the bodies. The prickle within him grew. Had someone dropped Gregor's body at my feet, I would've...
She gave him a small concessionary nod but her face showed a dozen conflicting emotions, none of them pleasure. His mouth twitched. I would've been more grateful than this. But then the image of a bloodied, hulking body laid out in the dirt before him flashed in his mind; he found himself shrinking from it in spite of himself. Or I would've feared the man who could drop Gregor at my feet, maybe. Or else hated him. Gregor's mine, after all. The Hound breathed out, deflated, and nodded back to her, hollow in his chest.
The older man had nothing worth taking in his pockets nor in the flannel pouch he wore stitched inside his tunic: some coins, a pair of gloves with the fur worn away, a rolled-up linen bandage, dusty walnuts, beads on a string. He took the bandage and then, sighing, put it back. The thought of dying with only walnuts and stolen plate to one's name gave him a sourness in his heart. Besides, the bandage was not that clean.
The big-eared man was richer. Unlike the others he'd carried his bag on his back, not packed it on the runaway horses, and from this the Hound took a passable skinning knife, a hoof pick, salt, and, best luck, a bladder of wine. Rolling him over, he saw that the man's shirt was held together with a brooch like a woman's dress. He ran the pad of his thumb over the tiny lock on the back, fumbling, and when it slid open and he held the brooch in his palm he saw it was not brass but old gold, very old, and strange; some forgotten god, with leaves around its ancient little face. Whose grave this came from, I'd like to know. He ran a nail over the tiny sightless eyes and shuddered. The frozen ground of the North sometimes spat out things like this, and they all had this look: primordial, alien, implacable. No. No, I wouldn't.
He turned and looked over his shoulder, and whistled. She caught it in the air. He watched her brow smooth, watched her distraction, turned back to his task.
He pulled open the thief's torn shirt. Underneath his skin was already cooling. Here was the rolled bundle of lace the man had used to divert his attention. He looked over. The girl was still absorbed in the pin; he unwrapped one edge of the lace.
Not gold. Neither was it what he'd feared. The glint that he'd seen was the handle of a comb, carved silver with narrow teeth of polished bone. Cupping it in his hand, hiding it from sight, he turned it over. In amidst the curling, Northern-style carved animals was the name Dara. He half-turned his head and watched the girl from the corner of his eye.
She had no comb. He knew her very well now, as fully as he hadn't before, and the urge to walk over and hand it to her- to give her what she wanted, to see her pleased- was as intense, or somehow more intense, than any of his own desires. He stared down at the pretty thing in his hand. She might recognize the name. He hesitated. The fate of Dara didn't interest him at all, but it would surely matter to the girl. These small glimpses of the world through the girl's eyes made everything more difficult. He set his jaw and shoved the comb back into the shirt, back against the clammy skin of the dead thief.
When he turned back she was looking evenly at him. On her breast the brooch winked dully in the light. Her hands were clasped before her. In that moment, crouching there, he saw himself for what he was. He fought the impulse to stand up tall and instead rolled back onto his heels, squatted in the dirt, spread his hands out, looked up at her, and let himself be judged.
She pursed her lips.
"The world makes us what we are," he told her.
There was a long pause before she answered him. "We could have just run."
"They'd seen us. They knew us. You're not stupid." He shrugged, turned a palm. "Remember. I'm not asking you to like it. You just have to accept it." He wiped the back of his hand across the edge of his brow where the sweat ran into his scar. "And I had thought you loved swords and battle and valor, all of this. Well, once again," he gestured to the mess around them, "here it is."
She tilted her head to the side and looked at him closely, composedly, in the way that was always hard for him.
"That was before, when I was young," she said.
He smiled at her in spite of himself.
Her own mouth twitched, a mirror of his, and then she was returning his smile, hers wide, a glinting star.
"But could you take care of me without a sword?"
He opened his mouth, and closed it, and rested his hands on his thighs and looked up at her, and did not know what to say.