Runebound

II

The warm evening air was a welcomed feeling as they stepped out of the inn, the voices of the many patrons picking up in volume now that the prince was in no one’s line of sight. Branwen breathed in deeply, soon exhaling as he pressed his palms firmly against his still-heated cheeks. Being around so many people at once, having so many eyes on him at the same time—it was overwhelming, to say the least. Being on his lonesome for so very long—confined to the palace, not being permitted to step out into the gardens, his open window being his only gateway to view the outside world (literally)—took a toll.

His heart was hammering, a rhythmic beat that he could hear and feel with no issue. His anxiety was a high contrast to how unbothered Tilus, his new retainer, appeared as he walked just a series of steps ahead of Branwen. Tilus hadn’t even verbally responded to Branwen when the young prince spoke the amount that Tilus would be receiving when the escort mission was completed. The man only rose from his seat, downed his drink, and then promptly started out of the establishment with the prince scrambling to catch up. Now, Tilus walked ahead, satchel slung over his shoulder and his many daggers dangling off his belt, after collecting every one that was carelessly scattered along the floor of the inn. 

For a majority of their walk as they left Pendle, a simple, quaint little village that bordered Almaythia, all was quiet. There was not much to be exchanged—and Tilus did not seem interested in the slightest when Branwen tried to create smalltalk. It was the prince’s first time being around and spending time with someone who was not the same as him. Iyea was home to all creatures; humans, fae—dryads, elves, pixies (or fairies, as Branwen called them)—Orcs, dwarves. Far too many for Branwen to list, to remember, if he were ever tasked with it.

“I did not expect you to jump out of your seat like that. Literally.” Branwen’s voice cut through the still air, readjusting how his satchels hung off his shoulders; packed with clothes and provisions, they were, thankfully, not very heavy. “You seem quite motivated by money.”

“I’m a merc. Of course, I am. Your comment is…idiotic.”

“Well, I—okay, I yield. It was foolish of me to state the obvious.”

Branwen fought off the urge to roll his eyes as a quiet ‘hmph’ left the mercenary’s lips. Now that he was out and about, not confined to the palace, Branwen wanted to talk. Not to or in front of a group, no, but to Tilus. Although the man seemed everything but cheery and friendly, he was interesting, to say the least. From his mismatched eyes to the odd way he styled his hair—he’d never seen braids so tightly wound—to his choice of boots, Branwen was intrigued. But the aspect that caught his attention the most was the sheer fact that Tilus was far from human. They both bled red (it was what Branwen assumed) but they were different. Their culture, their heritage, and the way they lived their lives. Their ages, too, no doubt. Branwen had only just turned twenty-two come July. He could only imagine how old Tilus was—not that he looked ancient. He appeared youthful despite Branwen knowing full well that elves could live past one-hundred. It was fascinating, that he knew. Yet there was also something else.

“You’re ethereal. Has anyone ever told you that?”

There was a pause. Their steps halted at the same moment, their eyes interlocking. Branwen instantly went red, sputtering on his own damned breath. Tilus raised a brow. “Come again, Your Highness?”

“N–Nothing!” The prince frantically shook his head, rattling his own brain. He started forward, motioning for Tilus to follow. “It was nothing at all! Come along, let’s set up camp! It’s late—I’m sure you’re quite tired, no?”