The Thief and Prince

Chapter 22: Sleepless Night

As I watch the water churn into the opening of my waterskin, I can't help but frown at the angry red "S" that is now marred onto my arm. It doesn't hurt like it once did, though there is still a sharp ache when something brushes against it and I can't decide what's worse—the pain or the itching that how begun to set in.

When my waterskin can hold no more, I pop the cork in and move onto Crispin's which only makes me frown again.

Though he did attempt to apologize last night, I can't help but feel the lingering discontent I feel for him. "He'll have to put more effort into reconciliation than a simple sorry," I think, but another part of my subconscious chimes in herself. "Maybe you were too hard on him? Give him a break, he did lose his sister in a sense," she says.

Great, now I feel guilty.

Not enjoying the internal conflict, I empty my mind and think of nothing else but watching the crystal clear water swirl around my hands, the cool liquid soothing both old injuries and new that my knuckles have collected during our journey.

Moving onto the last waterskin—Laria's—my stomach grumbles even though we have already eaten breakfast this morning. We need supplies and I highly doubt that we can afford to show our faces in any city within a fifty mile radius given that all of Rorik will undoubtedly put a bounty on our heads. "I suppose we will have to make do with what we have left."

Once the last container is filled, I pop the cork in and stand up, stretching. Even though I was able to finally get some sleep last night, six hours wasn't going to cut it and my body craved for more rest. "It'll all be worth it soon," I think to myself, trying to imagine myself tending to the goats that I've drawn up in my mind, who wonder my farm that I intend to buy with the Paevian gold.

Turning back, I make the short walk to camp where the other three patiently await my return as they fasten the last buckles on the horses. Laria—who is clad once again in her armor—appears to be in a good spirits.

I hand out the waterskins and force myself to not look into the emerald eyes that I know to be studying me. When his tanned fingers brush against mine as he grips the smooth waterskin, I can't help but meet his inquisitive gaze.

Turning around quickly, I pretend not to care and instead act indifferent. Gripping the horn on my saddle, I place my boot inside the leather stirrup and hoist myself up, gripping the reins.

With a click of Crispin's teeth we fall in line and make our way back West towards home.

As we trot, I can't help but notice that Crispin has slowly allowed himself to fall behind until his horse is in front of mine. I watch his raven tousles bounce rhythmically and find myself smirking as to how long they have gotten. When I first met him, his hair barely touched below his ears and now it's at his jaw. It suits him.

It's not the only changes I notice though. His skin—once without blemish— is now tattered with fresh scars and healing wounds. It is also more tan than what it was before we left, causing him to look a few years older than he really is rather than appearing as the primed proper peacock that I first encountered—the one who required to bathe often, shaved when he could, and groomed his glorious locks every morning.

Rolling my eyes, I try to compare the two versions of the prince side by side and I find the image quite comical as it ends with the rugged version of Crispin knocking the prudish one unconscious after muttering something slick.

I can't help but to let out an audible chuckle which makes him turn around and raise a dark brow. "Something funny?" he asks in a light tone, curious as to what thoughts entertain me.