The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Crows' Rest, pt. 1

More than an hour had passed when the beast began to flag and then slowed. "Two people's just too much, I know. Sorry about that." Oh, so Lark was telling the horse to stop.

Able straightened, again exposing his face to the zipping shards of ice. Lark slipped off and continued to apologize to it as he rearranged the tack to switch to the other one. Able got down to stay out of his way.

He'd thought he had mentally prepared himself for snow, but sinking down into the frozen fluff and watching it blow the world into crystals before his eyes was beyond his imaginings. A bright moon was somewhere above, adding a hushed glow to the whirl of clouds. The platelet coat was as heavy as his heart, but it shielded him from a fierce wind that somehow refused to howl. His heart shielded him from nothing. A hand tugged at his, a hand he wanted to hold, but the feeling was gone from it.

"We need to keep moving." Lark wouldn't meet Able's eyes as he helped him up again.

The second horse might have been tired from the first stretch of jogging, but it was perhaps eager to get out of the storm as extended its stride farther than the first had. Lark and Able rocked back and forth in time to its breaths, a mocking simulation of the night that could have been. Their bodies were pressed together, but all Able felt was an empty chasm between them. He closed his eyes and sought something else to think about without success.

The second horse began blowing like the first had after a shorter period of time, and the first was blowing even louder now behind them. Lark asked for more, again and again, with his heels, all his gentleness left behind in that cabin. But the horses started giving more. The dull clumps of the hoof beats became hollowed rings as they passed off the forest floor and onto the road. Able braved the flying ice to look around. Lamplight glowed rings through the storm ahead.

Lark slowed them down to an amble as they turned off at the lane and up into the yard of a way station. The ground was starkly white under the lamps, effectively dimming the sky. Despite everything, Able found himself charmed by the frost-coated stable and wagon house and finally inn that Lark pulled to a stop in front of.

"Swords!" Lark's call was strong though fatigued. "Swords have come to Crows' Rest!" He slid from the horse's back, so Able followed suit. Snow bit into the skin above his ankles as his pant hems rested on the surface of it. His teeth chittered against each other in protest. The door opened while Lark was gathering the reins.

"You know you're supposed to knock and say that quietly?" chided a tall, bearded man from the doorway. "Who goes?"

"Blackbird. And guest."

"Prudence!" the man barked behind him into the house, then descended the steps to them. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I know." Lark nodded so vigorously he swayed on his feet—or maybe he was dizzy? Tired? His mouth ran quickly enough: "I'm not supposed to be over here, but something happened and I...damn, I shouldn't stay, but these horses are spent and—"

"Lark, you're freezing," the man interrupted, his black, bushy eyebrows folded down.

Lark blinked then reached up and touched his reddened nose and wiped away mucus with his thumb. "No?" But he was shaking.

Able touched his back, hoping to assure him if not steady him. "We can talk by the fire at least."

A tall woman came down the steps as well, looking disgruntled as she shrugged a large coat on. Her gaze softened as looked them over. She gathered the horses and led them away to the stable. Able kept his hand at the small of Lark's back to encourage him to follow the innkeeper into the still warm front hall.