The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Sandwiched

Able didn't remember dreaming. He did recall a commotion outside that had brought him the wherewithal to decide he didn't want to be awake, and that had been enough to delay his actually waking up until now. What time was it? What time had it been when he lay down? He was starving again.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, then spotted his clothes sitting just inside the tent flap, perfectly folded under a thin line of daylight. He slid out of the covers and the borrowed pants to take a good look at his knee. A splash of discoloration indicated the point of impact, but the swelling was less than yesterday. Some prodding and flexing further indicated that this was only a contusion and nothing worse.

Still, he carefully worked his way into his trousers. They were not only dry but thoroughly cleaned. Was this Lark's handiwork or had he fobbed the task off on someone else? Just wondering that got Able's mind producing stirring images of Lark's hands working over the clothing and folding it, tapered fingers running along the side creases to double-check— He decided to believe in some laundress just so he could put the damn clothes back on his body.

Able opened the tent flap and stepped out into the crisp air. It was brighter than yesterday, so perhaps it had been overcast then and was sunny now, but he still could not see the sky. The area was quiet again, only several groups of a few people standing around talking, and Red stepped up beside him from just out of his periphery.

The tiniest smirk winked across her mouth when he started, or perhaps it was a sneer. "I was instructed to give you this, since you slept through breakfast." She held a small packet out halfway through the meager space left between them

Able forced himself to take it and lifted the corner of the wrapping to discover a sandwich. "Thank you," he said as he unwrapped it the rest of the way.

She did not reply but merely stood by with her arms crossed, a casual enough stance if that hookblade wasn't stashed inches from her dominant hand. His formerly ravenous stomach twisted and shrank away. Able looked up from his sandwich at her. Could he ask for more personal space without seeming combative?

"You think you need my permission to eat?" Red guessed with a quirked eyebrow. "Or you think it's poisoned?"

"No." Able sighed and bit into the sadly dry flatbread. He labored his mouth around it, swallowed, then looked at the looming Black Sword. "Is this how we're to spend every meal?"

She raised her eyebrow. "Are we to pretend you never got our message?" A straight confession. Huh.

"We're all going to consider ourselves fortunate that I was not caught with a message I wasn't even aware I was carrying," Able retorted.

"You flip back and forth through that notebook of yours often enough." Red wore a quarter of a sly smirk, which was more than enough smirk for her. She might even have sensed the chill that crept through him.

"This isn't the Black Horizon," he mumbled and surreptitiously glanced about for anyone who might be listening in. He was not so lucky.

"And I'm not the agent meant to look for you there." She gave more of the air of a shrug than an actual shrug. "Yet here we are."

"...does that mean you'll answer my questions?"

"Probably not. I get to ask first: What are you doing here instead of there?" Like they had some sort of claim on him? Or had he just managed to shake the agent who had been monitoring him?

Able frowned against the icy tremors around his lips. "Well here was somewhat beyond my control, while there sounded like a trap."

"A trap?" She quirked her eyebrow. "Why would I need a trap to catch you?"