It seemed a long way back into town. Able failed more often than not to resist reaching for Lark's arm to steady him when he faltered, which fed Lark's irritated mood, which was largely caused by Lark's remarkable stamina betraying him. Still, when they reached the stairs to his home, Lark stopped all proffered help with a marvelous glare of his own.
As Able watched him ascend the stairs, he couldn't help smiling in admiration. Yes, Lark had been foolishly stubborn, but he had not misjudged his capability, so far beyond Able's own. He followed Lark up the stairs and into the house where he closed the door and took off his boots while Lark ignored both these tasks in favor of easing himself onto the couch.
"Ah...you boys are back." Splendor Hatling came out of the dining area with her hands nervously folded across her belly.
Able immediately started in with, "Do you have any nettle or anything similar you use to ease pain? We overdid it on our walk, I'm afraid, and Lark's very sore from all his coughing." Lark hadn't coughed once, so this risked giving away what Able knew. Worth it to get suitable medicine.
"Oh, of course!" She looked at Lark with concern and said, "I'll go brew some up, all right, dear?"
"Thanks." Lark forced a smile and watched her head back into the kitchen until Able sat down beside him, so he gave him a side-eye. "I'm not getting up again until bedtime, okay? You don't have to watch me."
"I like sitting with you," Able answered honestly then added wryly, "especially when it lowers the chance of my being stabbed to death in a dark alley."
"I... I'm sorry I alarmed you like that." Lark heaved a shallow sigh. "I can't promise there's no danger of that, but I really should be able to assuage any of their fears regarding you." They. So the Black Sword traitor was involved with some group, Sons or not.
"I figured as much...or hoped, maybe. I think I've gotten used to being in a conflict area, at least, as I'm not overly disturbed."
Lark just smiled to himself.
...damn it, that ride back from Kettlebrook. Lark had known exactly how Able's encounter with the Shadow had gone. "So..." Able started, his throat forgivingly clear even if his face wasn't, "should I not leave the house while you're laid up?"
"Oh, I think you can. Just stick to ah, populated areas. And maybe stay away from the docks."
"I'm fine laying low. Nightwatch has more books I can borrow."
"That's handy." Lark let his eyes close again. "Glad you finally found a verifiable source."
"Yeah..." Might as well ask before Hatling returned, "Hey, you're not going to be in trouble, are you?"
"If I'm lucky, I'll just get an earful," he murmured.
"...and if you're unlucky?"
Lark started to shrug but stopped himself. "I'll get two or three." That didn't seem worth tears. But then again, that fracture alone must really be hurting him, then adding all the guilt and trauma from the fallout of his being kidnapped. He really was a tough person.
Hatling returned with a steaming pot on a tea tray which she set before Lark. She encouraged him to finish the whole thing, then settled into an armchair and began idly chattering about the neighbors. Lark showed interest at first, but as he made it to the bottom of the pot of medicine his fatigue was such that he was no longer listening.
"—maybe you should go to bed, dear," she interjected into the middle of her own tale about someone's distant grandchildren's ventures into woodworking.
"Yeah." Lark roused unreadily. ...was there more than nettle and lemongrass in that concoction?
"Come on, I'll help you up the stairs." Able stood and added "I insist," when Lark tried but failed to level a glare at him.
"Go on, dear." Hatling smiled. "I'll save some dinner for you when you wake, never fear."
Suitably ganged up on, Lark surrendered his arm to Able, who rejected it in favor of his left one while hoping it wasn't too obvious—
"I can hold onto the banister, at least," Lark muttered, taking it back. Right. So Able settled for walking behind Lark to be sure he didn't fall, but he didn't even falter despite swaying twice. He followed Lark into his room and helped him remove his jacket. Surprisingly, Lark made no objection.
"Would you like me to hang it up?" Able looked about the room. The closet was open and completely lined with clothes, and more clothes lay spread or folded over every available surface. But none were on the floor.
"Over the screen is fine." Lark vaguely gestured and eased onto his bed.
Able turned to the floral painted paper dressing screen near the door and stretched the jacked over the top of it. He turned back to see Lark sitting on his bed contemplating his boots. He'd never come into the house before without taking off his shoes first.
"Look," Able tried another tack, "I don't mean any disrespect, only practical kindness when I say please let me take your boots off and return them to the tray at the door for you."
"Okay." Lark's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile and he chuckled low in his belly. He looked out the window while Able freed his feet. "I don't know what I was thinking, putting them on." That was awfully close to admitting he couldn't bend over.
Able glanced up from the laces to see Lark's eyes looked glazed over. Hatling had definitely drugged him. Did she know it was a broken rib and not a cold? Intent on still pretending it was the latter, Able silently took the shoes to the door then glanced back to watch Lark's progress. He was easing himself into the bed already and having a time of getting himself comfortable. Able set the boots down and went to the basin where he found a stack of cloths and wet one. He brought it back to the bedside where Lark was still trying to settle but had stopped to give him a dubious look.
"You said it smudges and gets in your eyes, so..." Able held out the washcloth.
Lark went through a number of thoughts at that, none of them clear, but he ended looking at the vanity and heaving a shallow sigh.
So Able tried, "Is there a hand mirror? Or, I could just do it."
Lark blushed but only briefly. Blood just couldn't seem to stay in his face for long today. "If that's not too weird, thanks," he replied weakly and dropped his head back onto the pillow.
Not without trepidation, Able sat on the bed beside Lark and cautiously wiped off the smears and smudges around his eyes. Fortunately, only this caring urge was stirring and nothing baser as he traced the contours of this lovely face. He got the smears off, but there was still a fair amount of black up at the eye line. "So...do I just...maybe just the corners?"
"I can..." Lark trailed, for Able just went for it, very gently, before Lark had any thoughts of getting back up. "It's gonna need a little more effort than that." Lark smiled—his amused, enjoying smile, peeking through the shroud of pain and medicine.
Able was so glad to see it he smiled himself. "Okay." He wound the cloth around his forefinger for a finer point and repeatedly traced these gorgeous eyes. The black came away. When all four corners were done, he admired at his handiwork and brushed Lark's hair back from his face. "There you are."
"Thanks." Lark smiled and exhaled contentedly.
But now that Able had that hair under his fingertips, his arm had taken up an urge of its own. He'd already stroked it again, greedily drinking in the soft, sliding texture, while he was telling himself he shouldn't.
Lark opened one eye, then the other, and raised his eyebrow. "You really like my hair, huh?"
"Yes, I do." Would make it worse to deny it now. "Is it all right? Do you want me to stop?"
Lark was searching Able's eyes, but his expression was impossible to read since he was also fighting to keep his eyes open. He gave up and closed them. "It feels nice."
So Able stroked his hair, the sleek rings seeming to fit his fingers perfectly. God's eyes, but his self-control was not reassuring right now. He went on indulging himself for several minutes even once Lark had fallen asleep, stroking in time to the shallow breaths. And once he was certain Lark was as deeply asleep as he was likely to get, he cautiously slid his blouse up. He had to see it—to know for sure.
Lark had left his arm clear of his side, back on the bed, so Able had a clear view of the bandages. They held discolored gauze in place over what may have been puncture wounds. Purple clumps of discolored skin peeked out from both sides of the bandage. Able felt both sympathy pains and fresh annoyance that Lark had been walking around like this. There was little chance of changing the bandage without waking Lark, though, so Able had to settle for hoping it wasn't getting infected. He gently replaced the blouse, then tucked Lark's blankets about his shoulders and, shoes in hand, retreated from the room.
Able left the boots in the tray, then traced Hatling into the kitchen, where she had busied herself with food preparation.
"Ah, Able." She looked up. "I went ahead and started since you don't seem to have much of a preference."
"I don't. Hatling, what was in that tea?"
She blinked at him in surprise. "Are we only acquaintances? After all this time?"
"I don't like to presume..." Able sighed. "Splendor, then, are you going to answer my question?"
She casually returned to chopping vegetables. "...I might have added a mild sedative."
"Mild." Able shook his head and leaned against the counter.
She pressed her lips together and seemed intent on ignoring him. But then she set the knife down and whirled to face him again. "You must understand. Lark was a robust child and rarely got sick, but when he did...let's say more than once he'd vanish from his sickbed and turn up shivering blind on the street somewhere. It's not that he has no sense, it's just hard for him when he can't move around."
Able cocked his head. "If he can't move, he can't think, so we can't expect him to be sensible?"
"Oh, no. I don't think that." Splendor turned back to the vegetables. "When he feels awful, he lays low alright, but when he feels better it's hard to convince him that he must continue to lay low to continue feeling better. After all, being active is something that feels good to him, so he doesn't easily accept that it won't make him feel better still. And then he gets so sullen when he can't do something he thought he could..." At this, she chuckled. "It's how I know he's really a boy."
"...was that strange for you? His, uhm..."
"Girliness? If he was child of my body and I had not just lost my true son, it might have upset me. But I'd raised three sons and not a one of them took such an interest in the family business, while Lark was more fascinated with dressmaking than even my daughters. So maybe he tried everything on. So maybe he started making dresses for himself to wear. One by one, my children were not coming home, but I had this boundless bundle of energy and joy enthusing over everything my hands created. He's a blessing, plain and simple."
"I understand wanting to protect him," Able replied slowly but resolutely, "but I think drugging him without his knowledge is...beyond the pale."
"It's just a little nudge in the right direction," she protested. "He feels tired, so he decides he wants to sleep. No harm done."
"You're sure?" Able crossed his arms. "He's not a child anymore, bundle of joy or no. You shouldn't take choices away from the people you love."
Splendor turned back to face him, affronted with her lip trembling. Ready to give him a piece of her mind. Fair, when he'd spoken his.
"Are they going to take him away?" she pleaded softly, completely demolishing Able's expectations.
"What?" He had completely forgotten about the tax collector earlier! "No, no. No, Lark's paid the count, and—and he's got a plan to shore up the difference and, in the meantime, I'm buying you food anyway, right? That's why we were out and about even though he's so sick. Trying to sort that."
The lie slipped through his mouth so easily that for a moment he felt a thing possessed. ...that's what he was. Possessed by a fierce protectiveness of Lark, his proud adherence to the truth be damned. If Splendor already knew Lark was the Shadow, who, after all, handed funds from the stolen convoys out to people in need, surely she wouldn't be worrying about this. So Able would keep the secret.
"I know I'm selfish," she moaned as she wiped her eyes. "I'm too old to run the business myself. I should close it, sell the house if I can, go to live with my daughter in Neckthorpe. Give that boy his freedom. He could go back to Larbantry and be safe from all of this."
"You're still thinking in terms of taking his choices away," Able replied, probably too sharply, as he had never learned a gentle touch. "This is his home too. If you want to sell it or he wants to sell it, that is something you had best discuss between yourselves. Now if you'll excuse me." And he walked out before she could reply, worried what else he was liable to say if he remained. He climbed the stairs to the dead woman's room and closed himself up inside.
Or tried to.
Human relationships were a complicated and terrible thing. He couldn't stand it, the way people destroyed themselves for the sake of others out of guilt that the expression of love must be selfless. Or out of the requirement of sacrifice as an obligation. His gaze found Elm's portrait. A young woman who had given up the life ahead of her to protect her brothers and her home. Had she been so obligated? Doubtful when cultural differences could not transcend the fact that women were required to regrow the humanity lost in the wars.
No, not women: female bodies. Left to their own devices women might choose to use their bodies in other services, clever women finding ways to bypass restrictions meant to curb them from doing so, like Elm Hatling and Heedless Fairweather did and now Daytime Green and the mysterious Black Sword do.
Clever men like Able himself found ways to bypass the requirements of their male bodies, a resource society is only too willing to spend like coin in exchange for any object it desires. Male bodies broken to bring ore and jewels up from the ground or drowned to ship any form of desirables across a treacherous sea; a worthy sacrifice. For eight years, Larbantry had exchanged its male bodies for tree bodies, shipped back in wooden boxes in token honor of their sacrifice, both reduced to blood and sawdust, uncountable substances still easier to quantify than the sacred systems within the living forms.
Humanity and any other livingkind that was lost stayed lost, female bodies only creating new bodies to be used so that more humanity was lost in the service of material gain; that was the fact.
Unquestioning, parents passed the attitude onto their children, fresh tiny bodies themselves created as a resource. Another hand on the farm or the boat or in the workshop. Another mouth to feed, justifying the requirements laid on the new and alleviating the guilt from the old. Kinship, Friendship, Love: all contracts for services, ways to control others. The only protection of freedom to hide in the wild like the ex-Resistance fighter had done only to be claimed as found goods by the enforcers. No escape from humans when you are one.
Able was no different. Able was also too different. Doomed by and to humanity. Most creatures cannot help their natures.
He turned to the mirror. This was his own face, not his father's, the similarity between them magnified by his poor memory. Magnified by Practical, ironically, looking so much like their mother. Practical...how would he take the news? Would he consider it news at all, ancient history that it was? His fate, as he saw it, had been sealed when Pa had not come back. That he was dead wouldn't change that.
Because Practical was so much like Pa. Dealing with the here and now, protecting the family. Not wandering off into thoughts of the uselessness of existence. Maybe he was right to hate his younger brother and his intellectual tail-chasing. How much money had Able just wasted to change not a damn thing in their lives?
...it would, though. Ma would want to know. She knew, of course, but she hadn't known, and it would do her good to close this open wound, like it probably had for Able. So he sat down with paper for a letter and began to write. It was the only useful thing he could do anyway.