Helen’s story was a common one, but no less heartbreaking.
“My family wanted to avoid the bandits, my good sirs,” the kid said over the fire. “Father wanted to go around the village, and so we did. But mother was still taken by bad men. Father tried to fight them, but he–he–”
Aster took off his own coat and wrapped it over the child’s trembling shoulders. So young, this child, and already she’d had to bear witness to such horrible things. It was easy to forget that children like her faced these realities, especially back when Aster was too busy ticking off names from his hit list, but here, in this second life, he swore that he would do everything in his powers to tip the scales a little bit. One good deed per year to balance things out, at the very least.
“Do you remember their faces?” Aster asked softly, but no less angry. Seething. Enraged – and whatever other word for it that the scribe had in his sleeve. “Revenge is no small matter, we’ll make them pay–”
“--Aster.”
Florence’s voice snapped him back to reality. He had no idea when exactly he had stood up and gotten ahold of his knife, but it was on his hands, and his feet were raring to go. He glanced at Helen, who was now huddled next to the scribe, and the scribe, who made it perfectly clear that he didn’t like nor trust the child – was now holding a protective arm over her.
“Sit down,” Florence ordered, and that was that.
Aster plopped back on the snow, unable to look them in the eye. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t–”
“But can you save them?” The child suddenly cried out. He broke out of Florence’s grasp and crashed into Aster, causing him to fall back into the snow. Helen had loomed over him, tears in her eyes, as her little hands clutched the lapels of his shift. “I know where they are sir, but I–I—”
More tears.
“They’re alive?!” It was Florence, whose hands were quick to comfort the child. He grabbed her by the shoulders in an attempt to get her to focus. “When was the last time you saw them?”
“J-just this afternoon, sir,” the child said, trembling. “I almost got caught, so I had to stop following for a while…”
Now Aster must have eaten something bad, or had fallen asleep sometime ago. One moment the scribe was a simple bystander, and the next moment, he was asking the child legitimate questions, from her safety to little details such as clothing and landmark locations. It was seamless, the way the conversation flowed between them, almost as if he held no regard whether or not he was talking to a child.
Perhaps it was all Helen needed. She continued to answer, seemingly forgetting that she was crying. In his strange, roundabout way, Florence was actually helping her calm down.
She also explained how she was able to meet other travellers and told them her story, yet none dared to help in fear of their life. Pathetic. They couldn’t have at least pointed this child to people who could help, given her something to eat, or at least taken her with them!
“It must have been scary for you,” Florence muttered, in a voice that he probably thought Florence wouldn’t hear. “But you’ve done well. You kept yourself safe, you got the information you needed, you asked the adults. We’ll take it from here.”
The child sniffed. “Thank you, sir.”
“It was—” he never got to finish his sentences.
The child threw her arms around Florence, hugging him. All while she was crushing Aster.
He coughed out loud.
“That’s touching and all,” he called out, “but you’re both forgetting something.”
Florence broke free from the child first, cheeks flushed. “If we’ve forgotten it, then it must've been unimportant.”
Aster glared at him. “Oh, really? Then I hope you can fend for yourselves.”
The child immediately stood up, and began pulling Aster up.
“I’m sorry! Please help us, sir!” Helen cried. She was doing her best to pull Aster up with her little arms, with no avail. Of course. As if Helen could do anything with those noodle arms!
He made a mental note to add something heavier for breakfast.
“No.”
He was only joking, of course, but then the child turned to Florence. One look was all it took for the scribe to get off his seat, wipe the snow off Aster’s back, before whacking him upside the head.
“Stop messing around. We’ll leave first thing in the morning. It’s your turn to keep watch.”
Aster didn’t miss how Florence gave his blanket to the kid and let her sleep in the tent.
***
The next morning, the three of them followed a steep path towards a cave, which Helen claimed to be the ‘hideout’ of the ‘bad men’.
It was a small detour from their original route to the outskirts, less than a hour’s walk from their camp but still strenuous given the cold. Florence had been silent on their trip the whole time, probably anxious, but he doubted it was for the child nor her parents. By the time Aster had fallen asleep during his watch, he’d been surprised to find Florence already awake, writing his notes.
When asked what was wrong, Florence’s reply was the same:
“Not your problem.”
Which meant: it IS a problem, anyhow, but nothing Aster could solve.
Aster doubted it. Many of the world’s problems could be solved by two things: either you shut up the people causing problems with money, or you shut them up with knives. Both have been plenty effective.
Normally, Aster wouldn’t care less about Florence’s problems, but at this moment, the two of them were about to enter an unknown place with potentially armed men. It would be anticlimactic, if someone like Florence got shot down or killed just because his head was in the clouds. Aster didn’t even get the chance to have it roll on the floor yet!
He nudged the man with his foot. “Hey. You didn’t tell me what your problem, earlier.”
Florence glared at him, but didn’t dare speak. All around them, the forest seemed to have gone deadly silent, with bloodlust so potent that Aster could almost taste it in the air.
Aster attempted to nudge Florence with his foot again, except it was a little too strong and it ended up more like a kick. He hit the back of Florence’s leg, causing the man to stumble in the snow.
“Seriously,” Florence yelled, exasperated, “What the hell is your—mmph!”
“Shh,” he put a finger on his lips, while the other covered the scribe’s mouth. “Stop yelling. You’re going to get us killed.”
To prove a point, Florence bit into Master's hand, making the man scream a little. “Fuck you–”
“Are you okay, sirs?” Helen’s voice rang out, and both heads turned to see the little girl standing a few feet away from them. It was a little strange, seeing her walk so confidently in the daylight, almost as if the crying little girl that they found last night was nothing but a dream.
“We’re alright, kid!” Florence called back, in that sickly sweet voice that definitely belonged to His Highness of the lifetime past. “Uncle Aster’s old injuries just flared up, I need to check them just a little bit.”
She began walking towards them, concerned etched in her face. “Oh no! Is he alright—”
Helen had taken them downhill, towards a cave flanked by two cliffsides. It reminded Aster of that dilapidated courtyard – the perfect amphitheatre for someone about to die. The cave’s mouth opened like the steps towards the gallows, beckoning travellers forward. Meanwhile, the cliffs reminded him of the balconies where the audience should have sat, if only Aster’s death had been as grand and spectacular as he had imagined.
The situation wasn’t so different from the one they had now, but those cliffs…
“No!” Aster found himself calling back.
“???”
“He’s alright!” Florence answered for him. “It’s just, um, his injuries are a little horrible to look at. For a child.”
“Yes!” Aster piped in, “It’s unsightly. The stuff made of nightmares.”
“Stay where you are,” both of them said at the same time.
The two exchanged pointed glances.
Aster: You caught it too, right?
Florence: No shit.
Aster: We can’t go in there. We’ll never be able to get out.
Florence: We have to.
Aster: There are archers on both ends, they’ll block any way out–
“You promised,” Florence said with gritted teeth. He deliberately tightened the makeshift bandage over Aster’s hand injuries to prove a point, which, again, seemed like a very dramatic and petulant thing to do – but effective, nonetheless. “There are three people in this world you must never lie to, and children are one of them.”
Aster had been tempted to ask about the other two, but for now, he settled with being the voice of reason. “That only applies if children aren’t lying to you, themselves.”
Florence’s eyes widened a little at that.
“Children are far too young to be called liars, you know,” the scribe said softly.
Children are children whether they came from Taratus or Elyssia.
What a beautiful world that must be, if there existed a world where children could be children and adults had hearts that matched their physicality.
A flash of silver glinted behind Florence. The longer Aster got to know him, the more he found it was hard to believe that this was the same man who would survive numerous assassination attempts in the future, given his lack of situational awareness and tendency to leave his back open.
Thankfully, that assassin in the future was tasked to keep him alive for the time being. Before Florence could react, Aster immediately shoved the man aside and grabbed the arm of his attacker.
True to their suspicions, archers sprang up from the cliffside, flanking the cave. One, two – perhaps a dozen archers had their bows trained onto them, ready to unleash a rain of steel.
“Let her go, or we’ll shoot!” Someone yelled.
“Aster–what the fuck are you doing?” The scribe snarled at him.
Aster ignored him. He held the knife tight against the kid’s throat, sparing no effort in crafting the image of a ruthless killer. Which isn’t hard to do – given who Aster used to be, and still was.
Old habits die hard, so it seemed.
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