The Burden of Ash and Blood - 4. Chapter 4

Over the course of the next five days, their distance from the Rothgoraian mountains grew, bringing with it warmer weather. Rough hillocks and bluffs receded to vast forests. Instead of bare branches, the trees still held their leaves. It was as though Sam and Graeme were travelling backward in time.

One particular morning, the rising sun cast its rays upon the yellow and red leaves, bathing the forest floor in a golden, enchanting glow. The beauty of it captured Sam’s heart, lifting the weight of the nightmares that still tormented him. That first night he’d shared a bed with Graeme—allowing him to sleep undisturbed through the long dark—had been an anomaly. The disturbing dreams returned in the nights that followed, and he began to question his sanity, certain the bandit would never let him rest peacefully again.

In spite of the deserted roads they travelled, Sam couldn’t deny a kernel of fear embedded deep within himself, sown by Graeme’s warning that traversing the countryside was not necessarily a safe venture. When Sam gave voice to his concern, Graeme remarked that a silent road was often the surest sign of safety. Highwaymen had no interest in waiting for travellers who never passed by. Nevertheless, the knight stated that he remained ever vigilant, even now.

Not having to contend with a train of horses proved to be a boon, and they made excellent headway each day. A nearby lumber camp carried the heady aroma of freshly hewn wood. While it tore away the beautiful canopy of trees, the empty fields allowed them to appreciate the town of Brasbone sitting proudly upon the horizon. If Sam was to hazard a guess, he assumed lumber was the primary trade sustaining it. Naturally, the place was enclosed by towering wooden palisades.

Though the sun remained bright above, they chose to seek an inn and take their rest for the remainder of the day. But the few lodgings they encountered appeared no better than the wayinns they’d been frequenting. Disappointment settled over Sam, his hope for finer accommodations quashed. Graeme, however, wasn’t prepared to settle for these shoddy inns, and after some enquiries with the friendly townsfolk, their patience was rewarded.

Before them stood The Oaken Mantle. The name evoked Sam’s memory of his parents’ resting place, cradled beneath the oak tree. The building was well-kept, lined with carved posts bearing stylised acorns. A heavy wooden door, banded with iron, bore the inn’s painted sign, which was framed by a smattering of oak leaves draped across a shield.

Passing through the entryway brought a warm rush of air—evidence of winter’s chill tightening its grip with each passing day. The mingled scent of roasted meat and spiced wine stirred a hunger Sam hadn’t felt moments earlier. The common room was dominated by a vast stone hearth, its mantelpiece carved from a single slab of wood, etched with curling vines.

“Well, I’m sorry to say this puts Gabrian’s inn to shame,” Sam said, continuing to marvel at the craftsmanship woven into its every detail.

“Mayhaps,” Graeme replied, “however we shall see if the fare matches in quality.”

Keeping to their routine at each wayinn along their journey, they sat in the gloomiest corner available. Graeme wore his hood pulled far forward, allowing him to remove his helmet and place it on the floor near his feet. Without a doubt, their supper—a venison stew served with thick rounds of sourdough bread smeared with rich, salted butter—rivalled Gabrian’s cooking. Each spoonful disappeared into the dark void of Graeme’s cowl, as though he were a hungry, invisible spectre.

Sam watched idly, sipping at the spiced wine, pleased to find it strong. Perhaps if he drank enough, he’d manage to get some much-needed rest.

“I expect we’re about halfway to Langscott,” he said. “Do you think we’ll make it before the snow hits us?”

“By my reckoning of the weather, yes, I believe we’ll arrive safely. But only just.”

“Back at Reabury, you said a big city was ideal. Why’s that important?”

“In a crowded borough, one may pass unseen if they choose.”

Sam frowned. “Okay, then can you explain why that’s important?”

Graeme took in another spoonful before answering. “At your village, my arrival imparted much chatter. Had you not intervened on my behalf, I fear unwanted questions would have been brought upon me.”

Sam’s ears burnt in embarrassment. “Wait, how’d you know I told people not to ask questions?”

A soft chuckle arose from Graeme’s hood. “It was a guess, and you proved me correct. I presumed this because they behaved in a way that was aberrant. They didn’t ask questions, and they didn’t look upon me with distrust.”

Sam considered the wayinns, and realised how each proprietor did, in fact, appear mistrustful of Graeme since he never revealed his face in their presence. Even today, as they ordered their supper, the server looked ill at ease. His accent made matters no easier, though Sam still found it captivating.

Graeme continued. “At least travelling with you, I’m not met with outright hostility.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Your presence has notably reshaped my experience, yet it still does not grant the liberty I seek.”

Sam’s eyes flitted toward Graeme’s unseen face. “You mean, pulling back your hood?”

The knight offered a subdued nod in reply. Sympathy welled in Sam’s heart, and he reached across the table to touch Graeme’s hand—the one without the leather glove.

“Sorry you have to deal with all that. But I’m glad things are . . . better with me here, I guess.”

Graeme turned his palm up, taking Sam’s hand into his. “They are. Thank you.”

A bashful smile eroded Sam’s composure, and at that moment, he wished he could hide his face as Graeme did. He pulled away too hastily, then seized his goblet to take in a deep draught—so much that he choked as the liquid flowed down the wrong way.

“And there are greater work opportunities in larger cities,” Graeme added abruptly, as though to smooth over Sam’s discomposure.

Once Sam had recovered, he asked, “What kind of work would we do?”

“For myself, guard duty and escorting are common. For you, I believe finding work at a smithy would be better suited to your strengths.”

“Oh, I kind of assumed we’d be working together. Something more . . . knightly?”

Another chuckle escaped Graeme’s lips. “Anything is possible. Consider my suggestion a final option if more knightly opportunities are unattainable.”

Sam hid his face with his hands and laughed. The wine’s effects were starting to take hold, and not wanting to lose it, he lifted his goblet to signal for another. Gradually, night descended upon them, and the drinks kept coming. More patrons arrived. A troubadour plucked the strings of his lute and sang masterfully. The performance lasted a long while, and once the man had finished, a round of applause filled the room.

Graeme turned his attention back to Sam. “Shall we retire?”

Gulping the remaining wine from his goblet, Sam replied, “Probably a good idea.”

“And will you manage to reach our quarters without stumbling, or is my aid required once more?”

Sam stood up carefully, testing his legs, then teetered slightly.

“That answers my question,” Graeme said, tucking his helmet under the crook of one arm, then wrapping the other around Sam to guide him from the cheerfully boisterous crowd.

Sam leant against Graeme as he staggered down the hallway. “I like it when you hold me,” he blurted out.

Graeme hummed in a coy manner. It took a moment for Sam’s mind to register—with absolute horror—what he’d said, and he flinched at the unfamiliar tone of Graeme’s voice.

“Gods, I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I didn’t mean that.” Fishing their room key from his pocket, he fumbled it into the lock. “That was crude of me,” he muttered, then lurched into the room while Graeme followed silently and bolted the door shut.

A low fire crackled in the hearth, delicately lighting the room with a warm glow. The wide bed drew Sam in. All he wanted was to hide under the coverlet in humiliation.

“There is nothing to apologise for,” Graeme said. “The touch of another can bring solace. There is no shame in this.”

Sam settled onto the bed and glanced up to regard the knight. Had he misunderstood Sam’s true meaning? Could he have interpreted their closeness purely as a sign of comradeship and nothing more? In a way, he was relieved.

“Uh, yeah. I guess you’re right. It’s just . . .” He found himself unable to convey his thoughts without revealing the deeper wish—to be held by the knight with more passion than mere camaraderie. Instead, he pulled at his boot laces fiercely and then kicked them off.

Graeme frowned as he placed his helmet on the dresser. “What troubles you?”

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Sam replied, “I’m just tired.”

“The nightmares still plague you?”

“I was really hoping once I was far from home, they’d stop.”

Graeme sat on the bed beside him. “The road has taught me many lessons. The unfortunate truth is, no matter how far you flee, you cannot escape yourself. Fear yields only to those who dare to face it. But even I—after all these years—have yet to conquer my own failings. Battling oneself is no easy task.”

“But what could you be afraid of?” Sam asked. “To me, you’re fearless.”

“A mere guise. I am human as any other.”

Tugging gently at Graeme’s cloak, Sam said, “So you hide yourself in more than one way.”

“Indeed.”

Sam took in a deep breath, unsure if the knight’s words were helping at all. In a way, he found himself even more distraught this dead bandit would continue to haunt him. One fact brought a glimmer of hope, however. Graeme’s presence did bring him a modicum of peace, but the barrier between them—Graeme’s need to hide himself—acted as a thorn in his side.

“Do you trust me?”

Sensing the gravitas in Sam’s voice, Graeme straightened his back and turned his cloaked head toward him. “I do.”

“Do you trust me enough to show your face?”

A long silence held between them before Graeme spoke. “Sam, what you ask of me . . .” He broke their gaze to stare at the floor, his shoulders slumped unexpectedly. “I don’t wish to frighten you, nor witness the disgust on your face—just like everybody else.”

Sam laid a hand on Graeme’s arm. “I promise I won’t.”

“You cannot promise what you don’t understand!” His tone was brusque, and he jerked away from the touch, but the act appeared to startle him as much as it did Sam. He let out a long sigh as he settled. “Forgive me. What we have between us—this maturing friendship—is more important to me than you might realise.”

That the knight would confess such feelings aloud, leaving him vulnerable to disappointment, established there was a hint of trust. The excitement this brought tempered Sam’s mind with sobriety.

“I feel the same way, Graeme. That’s why I’m asking for you to trust me.” He risked laying a hand on his arm again, and the knight remained still, accepting the contact between them. “Please.”

A prolonged silence remained held between them as Graeme contemplated the request, staring into the fire opposite the bed they sat upon. Then, with painful hesitancy, the knight reached up to pull back his hood. Sam’s chest tightened with anticipation, and in the flicker of firelight, he finally laid his eyes upon Graeme.

The knight refused to look toward him, instead holding his face—rugged, yet undeniably handsome—in profile. His eyes, furrowed with dread, held onto the flames. A short beard shadowed the firm line of his jaw, with his hair cropped to match. It stirred within Sam a reckless desire to run his fingers through the short stubble. Graeme appeared younger than the seasoned timbre of his voice allowed, though Sam reckoned there were at least ten years between them. But there was nothing disturbing to his eye. Instead, Graeme carried the raw allure of a man both weathered and watchful, as though he had become the very likeness of his helm.

“I don’t understand,” Sam whispered.

With a dip of his head, Graeme swallowed hard, almost choking with trepidation. He closed his eyes, then turned to reveal the left side of his face. The short hair ended abruptly, overtaken by thick, unyielding ridges of darkened leathery skin. Tight, fibrous sinew—like muscle stripped bare—seemed to hold his jaw in place. His ear was missing. All that remained was a hole in the side of his head.

An unanticipated gasp broke from Sam’s lips as he envisioned the terrible fire that had wrought such devastation. That was enough for Graeme to retreat beneath his hood, but Sam caught his hand to stop him.

“Please. You don’t need to hide from me.”

With gentle fingers brushing along the rim of the hood, Sam pulled it back heedfully. Graeme allowed it, but looked away to conceal his grief. Back at the farm, Sam had caught two brief glimpses of Graeme’s face, clean-shaven. Of course, having spent well over a week on the road, neither of them had bothered to shave. Sam knew well enough that hair couldn’t take root in such scarred flesh, which explained why Graeme kept his head and face shorn. But thinking back, Sam realised he’d only ever seen the right side—the uninjured side—of Graeme’s face. What had once puzzled him was now clear. It also explained why Graeme wore a leather glove on his left hand. The fire must’ve spread across the whole side of his body.

“Does it hurt?”

The knight shook his head slightly. “It feels tight, unyielding.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don't ask for your sympathy.”

Sam gripped his arm. “It's mine to give.”

The touch prompted Graeme to turn toward him. His piercing eyes spoke of such terrible pain—the trauma he endured, both physical and emotional. Having to bear the whispers and stares, Sam now understood Graeme’s need to remain encased within his armour. Wearing a helmet may invite distrust, but that was a lighter burden than outward disgust.