The quaint village of Knotwood, just a few miles from Bree-town, was almost unrecognizable in the dark deluge of the storm. As dusk fell, the light from the brooding sky became an eerie shade of green, and the wood pressed in on both sides of the path with wet, black trunks. Taite peered out from beneath the hood of the man's cloak, her hands clenched together in her lap while she shivered, though she was not cold. She could see angular shapes in the distance where the land dipped down into a small valley, and tiny specks of warm, golden light were among them.
"Think on it, miss, will ya?" said the man sitting to her left.
She felt terrible that his own garment was draped around her body, and he was being soaked to the skin by the rain. It was a rather pointless thing to feel, since she was just as sopping as he was, even with the cloak. In fact, it had gathered enough moisture on its own now, and it was little more than a heavy weight to bear. But he had been kind to offer it, and the faintest mote of goodness from another soul would not be turned away tonight. "Aye, I will," she replied in a barely audible voice.
"I'll leave ya at The Crow's Claw Inn then, like I said," he went on, in a tone that bordered on shouting to be heard over the dull roar of the downpour and the squeaky rattle of the wagon. "You said you've been there before, aye? Innkeep's a nice chap. Few of these crates are for him, in fact." He jerked his chin vaguely towards the back of the wagon.
Taite said nothing. Her eyes had fallen half-closed as her companion prattled on. When the quiet stretched for more than a few seconds, she became curious and peered over.
The man was rubbing his thick fingers over the short stubble of a patchy beard on his chin. His dripping eyebrows were drawn forward and down in a thoughtful frown. “He owes me quite a bit for these bundles. Bet I could get a bed out of him for it,” he mumbled to himself.
She felt her eyebrows arch upward. Was he talking about a bed for himself? Was he going to leave her to fend for herself after all? He hadn’t said anything about where she might sleep for the night, only that he would leave her at the tavern and return in a few days to see how she fared.
The wagon rattled around a turn, and she suddenly recognized the narrow street. The lamps cast ethereal halos in the rain, and atop a little hill on the left sat the Crow’s Claw, its windows inviting with firelight. Her eyes drifted over to the opposite side of the lane, and directly across from the inn was a small cottage. Zeyl’s house.
Was he at home? A rush of desperate longing to see him flooded over her, and was immediately clashed with a horrible disgust at her own selfishness. What would he think, to see her drenched to the bone, her face battered, standing on his doorstep in the darkness? Whatever peaceful evening he was currently enjoying would be shattered and thrown into uproar because of her. Yet, hadn’t she hurried towards Knotwood because she didn’t know where else to go? Because his promises had been the only beacon she could think of after she’d fled her brother’s house?
There was little time to think or decide anything, as the man turned the wagon into the narrow lane leading up the hill towards the inn. The poor horse who had so faithfully and willingly trudged through the mud, set his powerful legs against the slippery earth, and foot by foot, they ascended.
Taite turned to gaze back towards the small shack that grew tinier still, eventually almost disappearing in the misty gloom. If she knocked on his door now, he would be forced out into the rain. Forced to seek another place to sleep. She didn’t doubt that he would do it for her sake. But she could not bear the thought of it. The thought of turning his night topsy turvy, all because she had a brother who could not control himself while drinking. It wasn’t Zeyl’s fault, and she wouldn’t make it his problem.
She was spared having to ponder these miserable thoughts any further, as the wagon jolted to a halt, and the man clambered down from the seat next to her. He hurried round to her side and reached a hand up. “Easy now, miss. Take yer time. Ground’s gonna be slippy.”
As she leaned over, trying to grasp onto his shoulders, awkward and stiff to be so dependent on a stranger’s touch, she felt an immense gratitude that it was dark and raining, and no one could witness her embarrassment. The man’s sturdy arms held true, and she was safely lowered to the mud. He even reached back to grab her walking-stick for her, without being asked.
Their shoes squelched together in a peculiar rhythm as they walked through the soggy muck and climbed the steps to the inn’s front porch. Taite trailed behind the man, having to mount the stairs one at a time, but he did not seem put out by this, and he held the door open for her with a smile.
The two figures who stood on the mat, pattering droplets of rainwater and looking rather like a pair of drowned rats, drew a wide-eyed gape from the innkeeper. Taite lowered her face as the men exchanged hurried pleasantries. She wanted to vanish entirely. She felt the cloak gently removed from her shoulders, and was thankful for the warm air from the nearby hearth. A terrible and sudden exhaustion seized her, but she felt hands on her arms, guiding her towards a chair by the fire, while low voices murmured back and forth over her head.
Her clothes felt utterly awful and abhorrent against her skin; wet and pasty. She heard some sort of cloth being shook, and then the hands steered her to sit carefully. Her eyes crept open to see a blazing fire just a few feet away. The chair in which she sat was large and deep, and had been covered with a blanket, which the innkeep now draped lightly over her lap. “Just rest, lass,” he said gently.
Her head had never been so heavy. It felt like a stone upon her shoulders, and her neck could not hold it up. As her eyes slipped shut, she could hear the two low, concerned voices muttering behind her.
