When Jarl next enters the bar, it feels different.
It’s brighter, somehow, and no longer filled with the sound of drunken laughter.
Instead, he hears conversation: people talking about their day, their dogs, their sheep, and even their sleep; people discussing their plans for tomorrow, the coming season (summer—though it doesn’t feel like spring), or even just the future (who’s going to school and where or who’s getting a summer job or taking a break); people are even talking about him—worrying about him—and Áesta, asking Manus if they’re okay.
The people that were surrounding the little daemon when they arrived are surrounding the magician, now, offering comfort and setting down some bread beside a steaming bowl of soup—one they made just for Jarl, he realizes—and it suddenly hits him: Áesta was right; he hadn’t been looking at this place and its people like it held any answers because he’d been looking at it as nothing more than a place full of drunks.
~
Ashamed at himself, at how grossly he misjudged (and who is he to judge; he is only meant to guide) them, Jarl quietly sits back down beside Manus and apologizes to the people surrounding him.
They smile at him, some even laughing, and wave it away while pushing the hot dish closer to him. So kind. The soup, itself, smells wonderful (almost divine, really—almost) and settles like a blessing in his stomach which he suddenly realizes has been running on empty for quite some time: several hours now, in fact.
How careless.
He dips his bread into the hot soup and then tastes his morsel while actually listening to those around him; he finds them surprisingly befitting of the bar’s name: very cunning indeed.
~
“There were some strange folk passin’ ‘ere this win’er.”
Jarl looks up, hopeful and probably just a touch too eager. His eyes land on a woman, vaguely familiar, dressed in loose overalls and a messy bun. He can’t quite place her face, but he knew her before the bar.
“Ah remember ‘cause we usually get complaints about the cold weather but these two seemed not ta care.”
“Really?” Manus presses, seeming to think that an important detail—but Jarl can’t imagine how. So what? There’s plenty of ways to beat the chill without a fireplace: clothes, blankets, hot soup…
“Yea; the one guy seemed plen’y warm, even outside, while the other one—Ah think ‘e were a youngin’—prob’ly didn’ feel the cold on ‘e account that he were movin’ so much.”
Young. Always moving. Jarl’s mouth falls open a little bit in shock.
Could it be?
As Manus pushes a little farther, Jarl digs into his pocket. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears and chest. Next to him (as Manus slid into the daemon’s vacant seat when they returned to sit), Áesta tenses and hisses, looking like he’s about to run away or punch Jarl straight to Hell where his daemon friends can beat him up.
Jarl quickly reassures him, “It’s not the crucifix; it’s Jasey!”
The whole table seems to pause. Áesta slowly relaxes as Manus and the vaguely familiar woman turn to them with inquiring expressions and mild amusement (or pride, in the magician’s case—weirdly). Ignoring this—and the following discomfort—Jarl quickly pulls out the photographs he shared with Father George earlier and shows them to Áesta (so he can relax fully) and then the vaguely familiar woman in overalls.
She gasps and then points.
“That’s the youngin’!”
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