More than an hour had passed when the beast began to flag and then slowed. "Two people's just too much, I know. Sorry about that." Oh, so Lark was telling the horse to stop.
Able straightened, again exposing his face to the zipping shards of ice. Lark slipped off and continued to apologize to it as he rearranged the tack to switch to the other one. Able got down to stay out of his way.
He'd thought he had mentally prepared himself for snow, but sinking down into the frozen fluff and watching it blow the world into crystals before his eyes was beyond his imaginings. A bright moon was somewhere above, adding a hushed glow to the whirl of clouds. The platelet coat was as heavy as his heart, but it shielded him from a fierce wind that somehow refused to howl. His heart shielded him from nothing. A hand tugged at his, a hand he wanted to hold, but the feeling was gone from it.
"We need to keep moving." Lark wouldn't meet Able's eyes as he helped him up again.
The second horse might have been tired from the first stretch of jogging, but it was perhaps eager to get out of the storm as extended its stride farther than the first had. Lark and Able rocked back and forth in time to its breaths, a mocking simulation of the night that could have been. Their bodies were pressed together, but all Able felt was an empty chasm between them. He closed his eyes and sought something else to think about without success.
The second horse began blowing like the first had after a shorter period of time, and the first was blowing even louder now behind them. Lark asked for more, again and again, with his heels, all his gentleness left behind in that cabin. But the horses started giving more. The dull clumps of the hoof beats became hollowed rings as they passed off the forest floor and onto the road. Able braved the flying ice to look around. Lamplight glowed rings through the storm ahead.
Lark slowed them down to an amble as they turned off at the lane and up into the yard of a way station. The ground was starkly white under the lamps, effectively dimming the sky. Despite everything, Able found himself charmed by the frost-coated stable and wagon house and finally inn that Lark pulled to a stop in front of.
"Swords!" Lark's call was strong though fatigued. "Swords have come to Crows' Rest!" He slid from the horse's back, so Able followed suit. Snow bit into the skin above his ankles as his pant hems rested on the surface of it. His teeth chittered against each other in protest. The door opened while Lark was gathering the reins.
"You know you're supposed to knock and say that quietly?" chided a tall, bearded man from the doorway. "Who goes?"
"Blackbird. And guest."
"Prudence!" the man barked behind him into the house, then descended the steps to them. "I wasn't expecting you."
"I know." Lark nodded so vigorously he swayed on his feet—or maybe he was dizzy? Tired? His mouth ran quickly enough: "I'm not supposed to be over here, but something happened and I...damn, I shouldn't stay, but these horses are spent and—"
"Lark, you're freezing," the man interrupted, his black, bushy eyebrows folded down.
Lark blinked then reached up and touched his reddened nose and wiped away mucus with his thumb. "No?" But he was shaking.
Able touched his back, hoping to assure him if not steady him. "We can talk by the fire at least."
A tall woman came down the steps as well, looking disgruntled as she shrugged a large coat on. Her gaze softened as looked them over. She gathered the horses and led them away to the stable. Able kept his hand at the small of Lark's back to encourage him to follow the innkeeper into the still warm front hall.
The innkeeper closed the door behind them then turned back to them in the restored quiet. "You want to try that again?" His face was full of such deep concern that Able already found himself relaxing.
Lark took a breath. "I cut ties with Constance—er, or more precisely I killed her, or will have soon enough..." He looked along the hall as though he could not see it.
The innkeeper nodded slowly. "I see."
"No, you don't!" Lark's daze snapped to a frenzy. "Red's out there, and I think she has my stallion. We can't stay here; we'd be putting you all in danger!"
"We might have lost her," Able said as he slid his arms around Lark's ribs and held him, willing him to settle. "She was still trying to revive her sister when we last had sight of her."
"I think...I think she knows when something is a lost cause." Lark shuddered. "Knows how to...make a pragmatic choice."
"You're safe here," the innkeeper decided. "Go sit by the fire. Warm up. Fin's got soup she can put back on the stove."
"But—"
"My house, my call. I'll get some of my guards up. Go on."
Lark trembled a moment more but gave up arguing with a long sigh. He turned out of Able's arms, shuffled past the stairs and into the common room. It was a fairly small space but looked larger by the clever way the tables were packed into the corners of it. Lark passed these and sank to a bench by the hearth.
Able turned back to offer his hand to their host. "Able Houser."
"Ah, think I've heard about you." The innkeeper heartily shook his hand. "Solitude Cockler, but you can call me Sol."
"Sol, then. Thank you for your hospitality. It's been...quite a night." A retching ripped his attention back to the common room. Lark was bent over with his hands on his knees.
"That kind of night?" Sol suggested.
Able did not reply, rushing instead to Lark's aid. Upon observing the situation, the only aid he could offer was sweeping Lark's hair back from his face while he heaved again.
"Go on, lad." Sol had followed and watched with folded arms. "Might as well get it all out in one spot. Easier to clean up." Meanwhile, a pair of women rounded the corner from the next room and began asking if Lark was all right or if he needed anything.
Lark didn't respond to any of them as he was trying to catch his breath while sobbing. One of the women helpfully handed Able a towel, so he steeled himself and tried to wipe Lark's face. But Lark took over this task and whimpered several apologies into the towel.
Able rubbed Lark's back in case that might console him before turning Sol again. "You have someplace quiet I can take him?"
Sol nodded though added, "If he's done." When Lark nodded too, Sol waved for them to follow him up the stairs. "Is there anything you need?"
Able was awkwardly guiding Lark along as he still had his face hidden behind the towel, but glanced up from the stairs to look at him as he considered. The hot soup would have been nice, but Lark had cured Able of that desire for the time being. "Could we get a pitcher of water and some rags and maybe a glass?"
"Eh, see if I have a wooden cup, maybe. He's liable to throw a glass. Then again, we have a few my mother-in-law gifted us—might consider it a favor."
Able drew a blank at that one, and probably his eyes accordingly went blank.
Sol grinned wryly at his stare. "You learn to keep your sense of humor." He opened the door to a small room scarcely lit by the gray haze beyond the window. Only one bed was inside, tucked against the wall.
Able opened his mouth to protest but then closed it again. Did he care? Lark didn't; he stumbled into the room, towel still pressed to his face and sank to the floor with his back against the bed. So Able nodded his thanks to Sol and closed the door behind them.
No sooner had the latch clicked down than a sob wrenched through the air. Able let out a slow breath and closed his eyes, listening to Lark's despondent wails. The barbs of anguish that had bored down Able's neck and into his spine melted out, and he slumped as much as the platelets would allow. Lark was not a killer. Or rather...this was how well becoming one sat with him.
Able straightened to hang up his hat and coat on the back of the door. "I'll be right back," he said though Lark was louder than his words. He waited out in the hall until Sol returned with the requested supplies as well as, thoughtfully, a lamp. Then, reasonably sure they would not be disturbed, Able approached his friend—lover? He set the pitcher and flickering flame down on the floor before crouching in front of Lark.
It took maybe half a minute for Lark's crying had quieted enough that Able thought he could say, "If you're wanting any hugs, you're going to have to help me out of this thing. It's a definite hug-impediment."
"'cause it's too tight." Lark lifted his reddened eyes above the towel. "You've got nearly three more inches of chest than I do."
Able chuckled. "That doesn't sound like a lot, but I am feeling the difference."
Unfortunately, the mundane comment was no signal that Lark had mentally stabilized. He rotely undid the laces, his eyes puffy and mouth slack. His hands went just as slack when the task was finished.
Able shrugged out of the armor and set it aside so he could offer Lark water. And while Lark accepted and drank it, Able snagged the towel and took the opportunity to wipe Lark's face and hair, as not all of it had avoided that first spew. And when Lark disintegrated into another wave of bereavement, Able held him tightly.
Thus began a cycle. Lark would quiet enough that Able would offer him water, but it only seemed to refuel the tears. They were shed with helpless sobbing. They were shed with violent outbursts. And Able just held on, held Lark back when rage coursed through his arms and held him up when shame dragged through his spine. All the while in awe of how much could slough out of one person. Maybe he should have left Lark to himself to lament away from witness. Then again, maybe he would not be safe by himself.
At long last, the throes had left Lark an exhausted lump. Able did not offer water and instead waited, seated on the bed with him still in his arms. Lark's breathing was quiet and even. If he was not asleep, he was near enough to it. Able cautiously turned and gently laid him back on the pillow.
Lark groaned and shuffled his hands up to his face then turned slightly away before stilling. Able carefully tucked the quilt around him then smoothed his curls back from his face. He glanced up at the window and was startled to see it was still night with snowflakes fleeting past—how had he not been at this for days? He sighed softly, and his tension began to leave him. Lark's hair was helping, as once again he'd been stroking it without meaning to. The feeling of it was beginning to be familiar in addition to pleasing.
Lark began snoring, a placid whistling. With effort, Able pulled his hand away. He shouldn't take comfort from a sleeping person, at least...not with his thoughts as scattered as the snowflakes outside. He heaved his body from the bed and was left trembling. He stumbled over to the corner opposite the bed and the door. He pressed his shoulders into the walls to feel their protective shelter then slid down to the floor as what strength he'd gathered into his legs was spent. It was as if he'd just climbed a mountain only to fall into a pit.
His beleaguered eyes found the dimming lamp he'd forgotten to trim. But he didn't need light. He didn't need...well, what did he need? His mind was too ragged and his heart too tattered to recognize need. He closed his eyes and tried to listen to his body, as Lark had suggested he do before. All he heard was the stillness of the house and Lark's breaths.
Lark...had he not possessed some greatness of heart or strength of character that led him to turn away violence instead of returning it? Was it really just a squeamishness like Able's as Driver had so accused? Driver...would her death be considered a form of justice? Would the Resistance urge Lark to bring this newfound justice to Tanner? To Reeve? To Adeptson himself?
Where were Able's tears? Didn't he also have a loss to grieve? The sky helped him find some, frigid fragments of it stinging his eyes and cheeks, then melting to run down his face. He followed them back to the ocean and carried on South to where the great gray Whale rose from the sea and blew forth the vapor again, clouds and clouds worth. As if inside a wave, Able rode it North again and watched the vapor become tiny ice marvels, each one unique. They sank to the forest floor below and rose as men—no, many of them only boys—gripping swords in fear and stumbling through the blinding ice and blackened trees. The snow fell faster, the wind blew harder, and the soldiers only accumulated more rapidly, even as the trees in turn began to fall on them. Able looked South again, knowing what he needed to do, willing himself back to the Whale, but he what he found was a cow lying in the surf, her great sides heaving as she lowed in pain. The bloody blowhole was in her stomach, oozing fetid liquids in time to her strained heartbeat. Able plugged the hole with his finger and woke up.