For You (manxman)

A Small Gift

These days, he feels lighter, happier. With the coins they've gathered, they were able to buy materials to help fix up the houses ravaged by the previous storms, make nets to set- up in lakes and rivers, and purchase more medicine. All the hard work they've been doing had bore fruit.

Humming contentedly, he continues his needlework on the handkerchief. Quentin got lucky that he got to buy some high quality fabric and twine from a travelling merchant a week ago. The textile is soft but sturdy. It has been a while since he touched or even used a needle, but he's enjoying himself nonetheless. He remembers how his mother would teach him how to knit while they happily chatted about anything, really. Quentin finds it as a respite from the usual ration planning and deliveries.

He embroidered their names on the handkerchief, a cursive, "Roman & Quentin".

Quentin slides his finger on his suitor's name, a pull of longing.

He sighs, finishing up his work, and cutting any excess threads. He folds it neatly and hides it inside the drawer in his room.

Servants and stablehands greet him on the way to their dining room, a quaint little part of their manor that anyone can come in as they please even if there's no food on the table. Quentin fills his plate with roast fish and a small piece of bread, and gets a bowl of vegetable soup.

"My lord," It's Ser Royce, he could tell that he's troubled with the way his left hand clenches on the grip of the sword on his hip. A tick that he has always noticed on his guard captain.

He taps the chair right next to him, "The soup is well- seasoned to our liking. Let's talk while we eat."

The older man shakes his head, content enough in standing by his side, "I've eaten with few of my men a while ago."

"Go ahead," Quentin says while dipping a piece of bread in the soup, "What have you got for me?"

"There are men that have taken shelter in our barracks."

"In our barracks? To think that they'd be more comfortable in a tavern in town with a warm meal and fine wine."

"We have insisted that they do just that but they wanted our 'services'."

His forehead creases in worry than in anger, "Did they fight with our men?"

"A scuffle broke. Our guards suffered some bruises but so did they. Nothing a few drinks can't fix." Ser Royce bristles but he could see a shine of pride in his eyes.

"Whose men are they?" His stomach drops at the thought of more fighting. There's no sense in battle. It only makes matters worse.

The captain shakes his head, "Your cousin's. Lord Edwin."

A flash of burnt locks of hair and tall oaks around him as he tries to find his way home. When his feet could no longer walk, he prays to the gods for guidance. His fingers were already numb and dark from the cold when he found his way home.

"Edson.." he parrots, "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Ser Royce replies, "I could never be wrong with the vulture sigil on their breastplates."

The half- eaten meal in front of him no longer looks enticing. Despite it, he drinks the soup, and finishes the fish and bread.

"Did they say when Edwin will arrive?"

797979797979797979797979797979

A small group wearing black and maroon enters their gates looking like a funeral procession. But the boisterous laughter from them says otherwise. He could easily spot his cousin with his dark brown hair that sticks to his face, pale complexion, crooked smile with crooked teeth, and fancy armor that looks too big for him.