Beats Entropy

It had been two days since he’d slain the Beast of Cog Hill, and she’d said little but “thank you” and “how far”. And “Eleanor”; her name was Eleanor. Beyond those small offerings she rode stiff and mute, small hands gripping the saddle edge, breasts held as far back as could be managed. Her husband (to be) slowed the horse to a sullen canter, preventing her tumbling off again. The were both tired; slack and unstrung by the sudden ease of tension. He slumped forward, broad shoulders folded inward, sore and unwilling to feel her flinch against him. He’d rescued as much of her as could be freed. It was over and they had begun the long ride home.

—————

Where others would have wept, she stared; looked away her grief in the trackless sky. Every twilight, when they stopped to make camp, she would find a place and pour her self into the horizon. He was ill equipped for counsel: a killer by deed and trade, he’d been little more than blade since boyhood. Still, he was there and she was his, so he felt obliged to try.

“Are you all right” he asked, his thick country speech burring the words.

A pained smile and a shrug met the question.

“As well I could be” she said. Lying like the prisoner she’d been, little truths that mean nothing.

He watched her sky, trying to sort his words. Nothing came. He set the thickest blanket beside her. “It’ll be cold tonight” he said, then moved back to his bedroll.

She thanked him inaudibly and pulled the rough wool over her shoulders.

————————-

Another night. Curiosity and cold had driven her closer to the fire, until she was sitting a few feet away from him. The light of the low banked coals stretched his raw boned face, hollowed it. Unused to company he stared shyly into the flames, but enjoyed the sound of her being near. Gradually their silence took on a companionable tone, and then broke entirely.

“Why did you come for me” she asked.

A simple question, but Daffyd hadn’t the imagination to lie, and was often at cross purposes.

“I don’t know” he said.

Eleanor was intrigued enough by the non-answer to animate a little.

“You don’t set out on a hopeless quest for no reason. You must have wanted something out of it. Glory? Gold? A new life? A name? “

A rueful, cautious smile spread with each guess. Her curiosity charmed him enough he tried to explain what had set him into motion.

“No, none of that. I suppose I didn’t really expect to find you. Just a way out from somewhere ugly; at least moving towards…something, never occurred to me I’d get there.”

Eleanor snorted a surprised laugh.

“How bad was your life that wandering a cursed wasteland seemed like a way out?”

Daffyd flushed and looked back into the fire.

“People with happy lives don’t go on quests, they lead their happy lives. Would rather I stayed home? “

Eleanor considered the question.

“I don’t know.”

—————————–

Daffyds back had near been broken in his struggle with the Beast. It drew him down and forced a careful step he was ill used to. Other wounds were deeper still: he’d fought with abandon and found it lingered, slow and grey. Every dawn he checked his weapons, worrying at the nicks and scars that marred their edge. Eleanor would watch and wonder at their damage.

“How many have you killed” she asked.

Daffyd polished more intently.

“More than I should’ve; enough I stopped counting” he said.

Eleanor swallowed, an unwelcome flush creeping down her cheek and throat.

“Did they deserve it? “

Daffyd wiped at his sword, and then sheathed it.

“No one deserves that; the world just happens” he said.

Eleanor drew her knees against her chest.

“So you’re just a killer, then?”

Daffyd barely registered the blow. His scarred hands packed away his weapons with little prompting.

“Were you just a prisoner?” He said.

Eleanor bridled at the comparison. Daffyd continued before she could speak.

“You’re not now” he said, tossing her the reins and turning his back.

They gathered their camp and set out in silence.

———————————

Eleanor rarely washed, and never bathed. The grime of the road caked a scarf around her neck; a sour armor hung from her near ridged clothing. Graceless and dun, she little seemed the Princess she’d been; the person she was returning to. The heat of summer was rising and with it an intolerable humidity.

Raw from sweat damp leather wearing at his flesh, Daffyd dismounted irritably. Helping Eleanor down, he closed his grip around her wrist, licked at his thumb, then rubbed a clear patch through the dirt on her forearm.

“You don’t need that for my sake: it’s been a while, but I don’t take what isn’t offered. And your stink is starting to scare the horse” he said.

Glaring, Eleanor pulled back her arm like she’d been burnt.

“But you’ll get it anyways won’t you: my hand and everything attached to it. Damaged goods free to anyone to finds them” she said, spittle spraying in angry gobs.

Stung by the sudden reversal Daffyd turned to walk away; Eleanor’s grip closed around his wrist, pulling him to face her. She had a fevered strength.

“That was the arrangement, was it not? Save the Princess and her life and dowry are yours to damn as you please. Just be sure to keep the tainted dear away from her purer brethren.”

Daffyd balled his gauntleted fist hard enough the leather creaked. His wasted eyes looked through her; jaw clenching down his frustration.

“There was pile of perfect husbands at the bottom of that hill, you’re welcome to go back and try and put one of them together” he said.

“I…am not…your… prize” she hissed, releasing his arm on the last syllable.

Daffyd watched her walk away without comment; numb. She was right, though it changed nothing.

——————-

It was harder for them both after that. They’d seen enough it was no longer the silence of strangers. There was no safety in it. Each made little consolations to try and ease the mood: he rode slower, and slept first so she could grieve in peace; she was careful to give thanks for honest kindness, and ignore the longing in his gaze; manners in the absence of ambiguity.

The wasteland fell away and each settled into to their desperation. The glow of the rescue had past and they were forced to consider the life ahead of them. Too long in wandering, locked away, they would never be the kind the kingdom had lost; that they would rejoice. Their dreams were close enough to see the scars; and on they rode.