The fire was lit without much difficulty. He had watched others do it so many times in recent days that his movements started forming somewhat of a routine. He knew he was being helpful, and he relished in that feeling.
He started rummaging through his packs, searching for the supplies needed to start preparing the stew. A warm meal among friends, what more could he wish for? His eyes idly glanced over the small labels tied to each small jar of spice, all carefully selected to be fit for carrying on the road. He would have taken all of the inn with him if he could, but this was enough for now, now that they are away.
He sat at the table, dipping his quill into the ink and carefully scratching the paper, writing out each word in this tongue of Men. Salt. Parsley. Sage. He would pause every so often, glancing behind him to make sure Cedmon was still asleep.
There was a curiosity in him that settled in and burned as he heard the calm, rhythmic breathing. Nothing would change if he read the note now, he would still need to leave. Cedmon would still escape through the windows as soon as he could walk again. All would stay the same as it has been for years.
Still, unconsciously almost, he felt his hand starting to search for a note from within his robe. The once neatly folded paper was now wrinkled, yet still unopened. For a moment he hesitated once more thinking: There is nothing new he could tell me now, we have spoken enough, all that will remain is this silence and this waiting until he comes to try and speak again. But terrible curiosity burned through his throat, he could not control it anymore.
And so his fingers acted on their own, unfolding the note before him almost against his very will and his eyes searched it with an increasing rush:
To Galtharian Crownlight-
Cedmon turned in his sleep, the covers around him rustling and Galtharian jumped in panic, fingers folding the note on command and hiding it once more under the robe.
All was still for a moment, time measured only by the steady breathing of one who rests. But in his ears, a word stood echoing louder with each quickened heartbeat:
Crownlight, Crownlight, Crownlight, Crownlight, Crownlight...
He shook his head, dropping the small jars of spices into his pack, only barely seeing them in front of his eyes. He rushed now, attempting desperately to outpace the memory that was unfolding. This is not the time to think of this. Not now. Not in this hurry.
Fingers traced over the wooden doorframe, as was habit, as was done countless times before. He settled his fingers into the familiar scratches of the wood, the natural carving, the worn paint. His forehead was leaning against it as he whispered 'Forgive me, I must leave again.' but now this was different. His eyes shot up to Cedmon one more time, only realizing moments too late that he was not alone in his halls, not this time.
He took a hesitant step towards him, reaching his hand out. His fingers brushed over the covers that shielded the sleeping figure and he gently pulled the fabrics closer over his shoulders. He bit his lip before letting a whisper escape his lips: 'Leave. Leave again. And I will still wait for you.'
A rustling of fabric, a clanking of glass jars on his back. A tall goat waited for him impatiently as he secured her saddle and jumped onto her back. She was ready, she did not need his instructions but he still leaned down to whisper 'To the Pony, Petal, we must make haste.'
If he is alive, there is hope for us yet.
