Shadows In The Flame

A Long Dirt Track

From his eyebrow to his cheekbone. Drip, drip, drip. She wondered how the young man could ignore it. Or whether he was simply so out of it that they weren't even registering. Possibly. The journey hadn't exactly been smooth, the wagon had writhed and jolted. The wheels seemingly seeking out every nook and cranny of the dirt track. Drip. She followed this one further, watched as it trickled down his cheek and disappeared into the forest of black hair that made up his beard. The way it glistened over the traces of scars long woven into the man's olive tanned skin.

"Hold there!" A voice bellowed out. The wagon stumbled to a sharp stop, throwing it's insides around violently. For the first time since they'd left the capital the young man stirred, grunting at the light as it hit his eyes.

"Welcome back, stranger." She jested, hoping to pick up where they left off earlier. Their meeting earlier that day had been genial enough, as they were bundled with their belongings on to the cart. She was travelling light, only a small pack with her. His was a blade wrapped in old cloth, so that only the finely crafted handle was visible. But since the cart had set off on it's journey the man had drifted off and not come back, leaving her to gaze off at the world. Every chance she got to make new friends in this unfamiliar place she was going to take, and none of the other passengers had responded half as kindly when she tried to strike up conversation. He smiled softly, wiping his brow. The waves of his hair rolled gently over his forehead and curled around his eyes. His eyes. Disarming and gentle. His eyes, that were now staring back at hers. Staring back at hers with a new found steeliness, though she sensed the same softness remained underneath. She felt herself smiling, and forced her eyes to find the floor. A moment later they had resumed their duties studying him. He swept his hand through his hair, pushing it back away from his face and sending it on it's way towards his shoulder. A slender and athletic frame, which sprawled across the wagon, he must have been a man of considerable stature when he wasn't horizontal. Now it was his turn to study her, she felt his eyes falling delicately over her features and resting on her eyes. Hers rose to meet them.

"Papers." A voice commanded from the foot of the wagon. Mischief flickered through his eyes. She wondered where he had come from, colouring in all his lines with whatever shades she liked. As her mind wandered, his hand disappeared into his jacket. It was clearly of fine quality, though it was battered, bruised and covered in a healthy layer of dirt. He wasn't used to being in the dirt, though he wore it well. As he twisted round his torso, she noted the intertwined gold sheets that ran round the back of his neck and disappeared down the front of his jersey. No doubt carrying a pendant of some kind. Whatever it was it sat loosely and, much like the clothes that covered it, it seemed a fine piece of craftsmanship.

His hand re-emerged with his papers, awkwardly attempting to shield them from the rain. By the time the voice from the foot of the wagon had made it's way through the handful of travelers and landed in between her gaze and his eyes, the papers were almost soaked through. They were handed over without a word. Fear? No, he didn't strike her as the type to be intimidated by burgundy uniforms and gold brasses. Either way, everything seemed to be in order and the papers were returned to him without a fuss. The guard's gnarly gaze turned on her, expectantly. The rustle of paper. Head down. Hand out. She paused, why hadn't he taken them off her? What could he be waiting for? As she peered upwards, the guard examined her curiously. He seemingly hadn't even registered the crumble of damp paper she had thrust towards him. It shook gently as her hand shivered, so poorly was she protected from the cold. She was wearing the best of what she could afford, but it was far from thermal, and it would struggle to withstand the winter snows when they rolled in.

Slowly the guards hand reached out for the papers, his eyes still scanning the wayfarer in front of him. They rustled harshly as he took them from her and he mused over them for what seemed like an eternity, before turning abruptly and hurrying to his friends at the foot of the cart. He spoke in hushed tones, and they in turn interrogated the woman with their eyes. She cursed under her breath, she had been assured that her back-channel papers were indistinguishable from the real thing. Despite her many reservations, she had trusted those that were known not to be trusted, not that she had felt she had much of a choice in the matter at the time. Now she was starting to wish that she hadn't.