Quentin wonders if it was such a good choice to agree to a trade here up north.
He tells himself that this is a good thing. Winter is coming and there won't be much gold to be had and food will be scarce. Even a small gain would benefit him with what little they gathered this year, the weather has been often unkind to his produce.
Thick mud clung to his boots, proof of recent thunder storms.
He hears joyous laughter behind him and he finds three children toppling over the puddle, kicking, and rolling all over it.
At least, in all these unfavorable circumstances, some are still enthusiastic. He tells himself.
Speaking of enthusiastic, he doesn't feel all that well.
There was a gentle tug at his sleeve, sure enough he finds a child staring at him with wide wondering eyes.
"Hello there, young lady," Quentin bends on one knee, but not enough for his trousers to kiss the soil, "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
"My friends are asking me if you're a fairy or an angel," The child twirls herself and points at her friends looking at them from where they played at the puddle, "I don't know so I came to ask you."
Quentin laughs lightly, "I am human just like you. No difference."
"But, you're pretty. Prettier than my mum and all the mums I've seen."
If he was in the confines of his home, he'd be laughing himself off his chair. Children are quite kind and always speak their mind, he ponders where their honesty goes once they grow- up.
"Not as pretty as you, little lady."
The child giggles, hiding her laughter behind her hands.
"Trissia!"
He looks up and sees, a middle aged woman who simply plucks the girl from the ground with her arms. The girl laughs and in her mother's embrace, he surmises.
"I'm sorry for the disturbance, my lord,"
He ruffles the child's unruly locks familiarly, "No harm done, madame."
The woman looks dazed for a moment from his smile. It always fascinated the folks how the paleness of his hair matches his skin. It always gave them the impression that a face of an angel, has a personality of one.
She bows nervously to him, and it makes him more uneasy. The woman walks briskly never once looking back while his child waves shyly back at him over her shoulders, he waves back. Rank, he thinks, makes you look like a villain or a saint, and neither pleases him.
At the thought, he remembers the impending meeting with this House's Lord.
There are gruesome tales surrounding the Lord of this house. 'Terribly bloody but absolutely heroic', is what the bards would sing. 'Strong' and 'unyielding' are the slurred words from drunk soldiers and mercenaries. And 'valiant' would be in the words of a mother to her children.
Lionhearted that person maybe in the face of foes, war has never had no casualties of innocents. Bold deeds can never bring back the lives lost.
He looks at the tall wall right in front of him, bowmen are stationed just above, swordsmen and spearmen are on guard by the gate.
He can already feel the biting chill of the cool air add to his unsettling nerves.
Goodness, he hates winter.
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Quentin could never get a word out. Soldiers were talking back and forth and even if he did the boisterous laughter and rebuttals would be swarming all over his hears.
To say he's intimidated is an understatement, he's utterly terrified with this brutes. Sure, they serve the King and country but up close with swords in hand and shield just at the ready, he prefers to shut these thoughts of brutal killings.
"Enough!"
Any action he was about to make immediately comes to a halt. The voice is full of authority, he might've mistaken the one who spoke to be a tyrannical monarch that he almost misses a step which would embarrass him further in this unfamiliar territory.
He can see that the soldiers crowding him shuffle clumsily on their feet, like dogs with their tails between their hind legs.
"Baron Quentin Fitzgerald."
Quentin could feel his knees give in.
"Move aside or I will castrate each and every one of you if you don't let me see the man!"
When the soldiers make way, it did not ease any of his worries.
"Move forward, Baron."
He's afraid to face a warlord. Especially one with such noble but notorious deeds.
But this is no time to be a spineless coward. This is for the good of his House. No matter how insignificant their existence maybe to other noble houses he should not yield, they will trample you if you do so easily.
Quentin walks sure- footed, confident like when he presents himself when called to in court and in one of his Majesty's soiree.
His footsteps are deafening even in his ears. He felt lost in the House of the Lions, surrounded by its pride, and its leader simply waiting for him to come forth to be devoured.
He did not hear the quick steps that came his way. Quentin simply notices two scarred hands taking his own.
It was but a moment but he felt the softness of one's lips and a prickle of a stubble on his hands. It left an odd tingle, not unwelcome though.
A rather large man kneels before him, head bowed like he's swearing loyalty to his monarch. To have a man with power to do this is not what he expects or would ever, really.
Quentin felt the air knocked out of him in shock.
"What great deed have I done to receive a visit from you?"
The hard edge on the lord's voice is gone, what was left is an unfamiliar softness that makes his ears go red just by hearing it.
"I come to make a bargain with your House," he tries not to sound so hoarse, too afraid that he might croak, "But to be accepted with such amiability is beyond me."
His voice must've roused something in the lord to look up, because he could see a set of brown eyes staring at him in awe and fondness, surprisingly.
Quentin no longer feels afraid.
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"Honey has its healing properties," Quentin explains, and tries not to feel so self- conscious under the intense gaze of the lord, "It can be used for certain ailments and cleaning wounds, cuts and burns to be more specific..."
Lord Reinhart doesn't comment while he talks, only chooses to keep silent and listen or so what Quentin wants to believe.
"It's nearing winter," he gestures at the window's foggy view, "People would want to make confectionaries, cakes, sweet breads and such. Honey would make them sweeter and definitely healthier."
Quentin spares a glance at the reserved lord, and wonders why there isn't any rebuttals or unnecessary insults thrown at his wares.
"In the capital, they use the honey we make to create beautifully decorated cakes in His Highness' parties, too beautiful to eat," he smiles at the memory, "And they would make those as the same size as a man. It feels like a big achievement when something of your hardwork becomes a part of something wonderful. A sight to behold."
Quentin catches himself and feels sheepish, "I apologize for my words, and I did not wish to be so arrogant." He intertwines his fingers, a nervous habit of his. He hopes that his foolishness would simply go unnoticed or waved off.
Lord Reinhart inclines his head to the side, and looks like he did not understood what Quentin meant.
A while ago, Quentin saw a warlord before him, now all he can see is a curious man.
"I do not think you are arrogant with your words," He looks directly at him, "I was thinking that everything would pale in comparison to you."
Quentin hears a lot of compliments like this, it sounded so lecherous when other 'interested' parties say it but it's so sincere that it rendered him speechless. And they way Lord Reinhart said it was like he just came into a simple conclusion.
He tries to hide his reaction. He could feel the blush on his face on how warm he's feeling right now.
"I-I..." He lightly bites his tongue and shuffles closer to see his expression. Quentin couldn't get a read on this man.
Is he one of those pompous nobles that act all nice in the beginning to bed you the next moment or thoroughly flirty and obvious, luring you with their sweet words and empty promises?
As flattering as this man is, you can never be too cautious in these times. An exchange often goes in bargaining something more than what it's worth just to please the other party. The unfairness of it all is what keeps others, thankfully, alive.
Quentin tries to play it off and laughs a bit, "Quite a jest, Lord Reinhart. If anyone were here other than us, they'd think you are courting me."
"What if I am?"
"That's... that's absurd." He wanted to sound firm and go back to their transaction.
Quentin could see the man studying him, his eyes roaming on the sight of him.
"You're right," he says easily. His expression going lax and falling onto a small smile, "I don't know you that well and so do you."
"Yes.." Quentin replies rather out of breath, he forces a smile of his own but he's unsure if it's a smile or a frown. A bad joke does that be it gratifying or brash.
Lord Reinhart fixes his surcoat and stands, "Anyway, I need five dozen barrels of your honey."
"I'm sorry..?" FIVE DOZEN? THAT'S ALMOST ALL HIS WARES...
"You mentioned a while ago that honey has its healing properties," He offers his hand to Quentin, he does not know if it is for their bargain or for an apology for his earlier quip. Quentin takes it nonetheless, afraid that he would offend him. He feels its roughness and the scars of his palm, "This would be good for winter, especially to remedy the flu that would go around once the air grows colder."
So he was listening. Quentin almost thought that this man developed the ability to sleep while his eyes were open.
"Three hundred gold coins, tell me if it doesn't suffice. I'll add more."
"That... amount is more than enough. Too much.."
"I highly doubt that," Lord Reinhart gives him a firm shake, his hand lingering a second longer than necessary on Quentin's own, "It would be in demand."
"Well, I- Thank you. You're too generous." What is there more to say when you are presented with a great sum?
"When can I expect the goods?"
"After a week, the carts would take a while in getting here. I'll get a courier to send a message to my men in Rosenburg."
"Then, I'll get one of the scribes to make a contract."
He felt an odd finish in their conversation, for his sake it seems. He shouldn't have made a quick remark when it was but a joke.
"It's getting late," He looks at the orange glow from outside and offers his hand to Quentin, "You said you're staying over at Maine Inn."
"Yes,"
"Let me walk you there."
"It's fine, I'm a man. I can walk back to the inn with no help."
"Let me, Quentin. It'd make me feel at ease at the very least."
He kept silent. There was no room for argument in his words. It looked like he wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer.
"Please lead the way." He almost grits his teeth in submission to the request, command rather.
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He seethes quietly beside Lord Reinhart. Was he being insulted for this? He is no delicate flower that needs attending to. Quentin keeps his lips shut and eyes forward, intentionally not looking at the man.
"Forgive me."
Before he could question why, a warm coat drapes over his shoulders, its warmth shielding him from the cold frigid air. A comforting musk surrounds his sense. He doesn't hand it back.
"You must feel irked from my meddlesome attitude." Quentin looks at him but his eyes follow the lamp lights and torches on the street, "I'm not belittling you."
"It seems that way with your joke and your insistence to come." His tone is biting. All respect and fear discarded as his pride resurfaces.
Lord Reinhart on his part looks absolute sheepish, "I simply wanted to spend more time with you. Since we only had a limited time a while ago with the transaction."
Quentin pulls the coat closer to him, unconsciously, "I don't think that there's more to talk about other than that. My House is only of poor standing despite my status. Nothing compared to yours."
He laughs. "Poor standing you say. Your House provides sustenance, and exchange it with others be it produce or gold. We are all on equal grounds. It's simply up to you on how you'll present yourself because it reflects on the House you belong to."
The soft and sudden crunch of the soil beneath his foot tells him that he has unconsciously stopped. He shouldn't be caught up with this man's emphatic words. All of them are the same. He knows he shouldn't.
"I just might cancel our deal,"
Quentin sharply turns his head in his direction, his face conveyed shock and almost betrayal but the lord's face simply showed a blank expression.
"I won't though," he shows him a brief smile, "you come here to promote your produce to me but now you're degrading your House that makes it. I feel rather offended on your behalf."
"I simply didn't expect for you to have any interest in my meager-"
He feels a finger on his lips immediately silencing him. He at least has the indignation to want to slap it away but didn't. To be toyed with is humiliating but for the sake of his lordship he keeps it to himself.
"There you go again."
Quentin winces when the finger moves from his lips to his nose, poking it softly like appeasing a pet.
"I think there's more to you than meets the eye. You degrade yourself but awhile ago, you happily told me of how proud you are of your produce but now you tell me the poor status of your House."
Quentin narrows his eyes at him, simultaneously suspicious and flattered, "I can't follow you, my lord."
"I'm saying that since you'll be here for a week because the honey won't be here until that time." To his surprise, the lord turns bashful again, "In that short period, I'd like to spend my time with you in hopes of getting to know you," Intimately.
Quentin no longer feels angry for some reason.
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I wish I could update regularly like I used to. *le sigh*