Runebound

II

“I suppose I am.”

* * *

His cloak shrouded the ground beneath him. Knees drawn to his chest, arms fixed around his legs, Branwen gazed at the crackling fire. Wood popped, smoke coiling into the evening air. It was a comforting smell, the scent of burning kindling. It’d been ten minutes since Tilus left Branwen on his lonesome to hunt. The light from the fire illuminated the space, flames licking the stone border curled around the pile of twigs and dry leaves to contain it. He’d asked Tilus if he could’ve accompany him, yet was denied. Tilus had said that someone needed to keep an eye on the fire, and that someone was the Almaythian prince. “I cannot believe I said that,” muttered Branwen under his breath. Retracting his arms, he straightened out his legs and went to lie back, but paused at the sound of leaves crunching underneath hefty bootsteps. Out stepped Tilus from the brush, an arrow dripping blood in one hand, the still body of a rabbit clutched in the other; fingers gripping the ears, its black, beady eyes lifelessly staring at Branwen as Tilus approached. Branwen caught his bottom lip between his teerh. He glanced up at Tilus after gazing far too long at the wound; an entry point, fur bloodied and matted. “Of all things, you chose a bunny?”

“It’s our dinner.”

“It’s too sweet, you’re cruel.”

“I don’t care. I’m hungry.”

The corpse was carelessly cast to the dirt. Branwen flinched, inching back as he braced his hands against his upper thighs. He pushed out a breath. “Tilus?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. For earlier.”

“When you called me ‘ethereal,’ you mean?”

“Yes, I was not thinking, therefore I—”

“There’s no need for apologies. It happens. It’s unbefitting of a prince to speak so.”

“So you mean…you are all right with it?”

“Yes. Though I do not know why you would say that to me, of all people.” The arrow was set aside, a droplet of blood coursing down a blade of grass, soaking the dirt. “I don’t believe I am, in any way, ‘ethereal.’ I am just me.”

Branwen drank in Tilus’s words. He wasn’t bothered by it. It was a relief. His heart calmed from the rush of anxiety. “That’s just what you think.” His words were a dull whisper, lost to even his own ears as he shuffled close. “Mind if I help?”

“Truly?” Tilus was in the midst of removing a dagger from his belt. “Why?”

“I’ve never prepared an animal to be cooked before. I want to learn.”

“The sudden interest is suspicious.”

“Why do you believe that?”

“What prince wishes to dirty his hands? Stain them, in this case.”

“Curiosity.” The prince’s fingers brushed Tilus’ as the dagger was freed. Branwen twirled it, gripping it tightly. He gestured to Tilus then to the rabbit. “I want to experience all that I can. I’ve been locked away for far too long. You may not understand—or maybe you do. I haven’t any idea. But I want to make up for lost time, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Is that all?”

“Hmm?”

“I said: is that all? The only reason.”

“No. But I’m not going to humor you. Now, tell me where to begin.”

* * *

It was hours into the early morning. The twilight sky was hidden by the clouds, not a shred of moonlight poking through. The fire had gone out a long while ago, dull embers softly glowing, still clinging to life. It was dark but it was not a silent night. The howling wind rustled the trees, their branches swaying. It was as if the wind was an eerie, loud whistling. It made his skin crawl every single time the sound invaded his ears—and Branwen would turn his head in the mercenary’s direction to see if Tilus had managed to fall asleep. Tilus hadn’t; wide awake, he was, back aligned with the thick, rough trunk of an oak tree. Their eyes met through the expanse of darkness—or so Branwen hoped they did. He was unnerved. Unsettled, arms curled around his knees that were drawn to his chest. “How do you do this? Sleeping outside, I mean. It’s my first time.”

“I usually don’t. Inns serve me well, but I’m not particularly bothered.”

“You’re not, like, anxious? Or nervous?”

“No, why would I be?”

“We’re just so…exposed. Out in the open. Anything—anyone—could try to harm us.”

“Even within the confines of your pretty palace, that could happen. And it has.”

Branwen fell quiet. Tilus was terrible at helping him feel better. He didn’t exactly blame Tilus, though, since it was the truth. There was once a time where his step-father was nearly assassinated. Their defenses were breached; royal guards were injured, some even lost their lives. It was just two years after the death of Branwen’s brother, Sylus, who was found bruised, bloody, and motionless. A ruthless murder—a day that Branwen would never forget. And just hours after, he was hidden away. For his protection, he always assumed. Yet, with extensive protection, came the lack of freedom. Unable to live his life, experience the wonders and the horrors.

“What are you thinking about?” Tilus’ voice cut through the still air, causing the young prince to jump out of his skin.

“Nothing. I–I’m fine.”

“You surely don’t appear so., but it is as you say, princeling.”