“Who goes there?!”
A gruff, local voice barked out into the soothing darkness that had fallen upon the grounds of the shoddy lumber camp. The origin of the voice, a man of middling-height and middling-age, peered out from behind the confines of a plain, oak door. Furrowed auburn eyebrows casting dark shadows across a pair of quietly frightened eyes. He could’ve sworn upon his life that he had heard the unmistakable sound of a horse’s hooves trotting their way onto the site, a sound that had clearly startled him enough to cry out in defence. The yellow light from the lantern in his hand, and the gentle glare of the moon cascading onto the ground, gave the camp enough illumination that he could make out a few blackened shapes before him. All of which were innocuous, wooden planks and logs sat waiting to be processed along with the downed tools left beside them, save for one. The figure of a man appeared to detach from the darkened surroundings, appearing before him like an apparition in a dream, stepping forwards into the intrusive glow of the man’s lantern. Raising an innocently splayed hand upwards, a set of ivory-stained teeth flashing from beneath chapped lips, Dagramir approached the cabin.
“A solution to your problems,” came the polite response from the Gondorian, who’s hand lowered as he stepped fully into the light, lifting his other digits to reveal the faded poster he held in his grasp, “I see you’ve been suffering from a particular bandit issue?”
A snort echoed from the man’s nose before the door creaked fully open, the woodsman stepping out to reveal the dagger clutched in his opposing hand; the lantern raised to bathe the foreigner in enough light so that his features could be properly identified. Eyes narrowing to observe the poster that he held. “Ye know, ah’don’t think this is how this normally works. How do ah’know if you’re no’ one of them?”
Dagramir laughed outwardly at that, stuffing the poster back into the satchel strapped to his back, before raising both of his hands once more in what he deemed a friendly-enough gesture. “Please… If I was, I certainly wouldn’t have come here alone. Besides, if these bandits had seen me approaching, we might not have been able to even have this conversation. Never mind the fact my looks would be wasted living rough in the hills…”
“…Is this a joke to you? Ah’ve no been able to feed ma kids, these men ‘ave been bleedin’ me of any n’ all profits each week an’ ye think this is funny?”
It was clear that this had become a delicate situation. Dagramir had spied the occasional shadow dimming the light which came from the closest window of the cabin, assuming it to be the man’s family. A quiver at the corner of his lips denoted the arrival of some form of sarcastic response, however his words were stayed by the brief appearance of the face of a little boy. A rosy face peered out from the side of his father’s arm, curiosity catching the better of the young one, only for his mother to scamper into view to quickly whisk him backwards, away from the potential threat. He blinked. The presence of children suddenly changing the complexion of his investment in the situation, a pang of pain throbbing in his chest as a reminder that one of his own was out there – growing up without a father or, even worse, growing up with someone his inferior as a father-figure. This appearance only seemed to heighten the lumberman’s tension. His fingers flexing upon the simple leather-wrapped hilt of the dagger he possessed.
Letting out a quiet sigh, he would concede a nod. Time had weathered his ability to find pleasure in others’ misfortune; a few years spent alone had certainly found him some measure of peace with the world. Coming to realisations that perhaps those he had once held close were living better lives for his absence. Thoughts that had kept him adrift from spending his days drinking away in some tavern, and out running contracts such as these to keep him from dropping everything to run back to the only arms he had ever felt at home within.
“You’re right,” Dagramir agreed, “time is finite, and we have little of it by the looks of things around here. I assume these brigands will be back for their latest ‘collection’ at some point soon, aye?”
The calm composure the Gondorian exuded within his voice seemed to ease the Bree-lander, his arms loosening for a moment before he finally withdrew the dagger back into his belt. Body positioned directly in front of the door, of course, just in case. “Aye. Ev’ry week withou’ fail. They should be back in a few days, was holdin’ out hope tha’ th’Watch would see those posters an’ the reward. If ah’ don’t have anythin’ to give ‘em this time…”
“I understand. How many do they number on these visits?”
“Uhh… Abou’ four or five, I think? Ah’dunno, they migh’ have more hidin’ in case I put up a fight.”
The viper would nod slowly to himself, taking a mental note of details he would need to make the correct preparations. Quietly, his mind raced. Five men against one? As much as he backed his own skills, even he held his reservations that he could take them all on at once and survive. “They’re not usually quite that smart, luckily for us... Five,” he would ponder for a moment, “that shouldn’t be a problem. Keep the door barred and the windows shut, I’ll be back before they arrive.” His body would twist, his feet swivelling to make his way back to the shadows as doubts played through his mind, much to the local’s chagrin.
“Ye’ll be back? Jus’ you? Ah’m supposed to jus’ take yer word on it?”
A callous smile threatening to break upon the pale man’s lips, he would turn back to retort, being stopped only by the presence of the young boy peering from the window. The absence of light washing downwards towards him, stopping just short of his feet. His stare would soften for a moment, a few silent curses rhyming themselves off in his head. Were he in the other man’s shoes, he knew how he would have felt, he knew just how much he would have sacrificed if it meant the prolonged prosperity of his blood – of those he held dear. That carnal rush of energy and adrenalin, summoning the power to move mountains just to protect his own; even just to be able to see their faces one last time. His own father had never afforded him the benefits of love as a child, at least not conventionally. In front of him existed a family, scratching and clawing to survive in an unforgiving world where unimaginable powers tussled above their heads, casting them out rudderless into an unrelenting storm. But at least they had each other. Dagramir did not have that, at least, not anymore – but he could not sit idly by and watch another man suffer the isolation he endured.
Whatever doubts he had briefly considered dissipated back to whence they came and, with a more assured look in his cerulean eyes; “I’ll be back. With, or without, help, I’ll see your family safe,” noticing the slightest of emotional quivers laced through his words, he quickly rallied a smirk, “so you keep that coin you promised upon your posters handy, I’ll be needing some ale when this is done.”
With a laugh, his black attire dissolved back into the shadows of the yard and, as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone. The woodsman, however, was left utterly baffled upon his doorstep. Looking back into the cabin to confirm whether what they had just witnessed was real, and not just a ghostly creature praying upon their misfortune with silver promises of hope. Sure enough, as doubts over reality crept through their minds, the braying of a nearby horse seemed to ease their troubles just enough for the family to retreat into the safety of their home, barring the door behind them as instructed.
Dagramir, having reached the horse he had brought to the trees near the edge of the camp, would pat a gentle hand onto the mare’s neck, a small smile playing on his lips. Grabbing a hold of the reigns, he would lead the horse away from the site and back towards the main road from which they came. “At least I’ve got you, Will…” he would joke to the animal, knowing full well it cared not whether he lived or died. A wandering hand would reach back into his satchel as they plodded onwards through the night, producing the letter a rather disgruntled courier had delivered to his mailbox that morning. While he had been absent from the affairs of the town, his eyes had still been peering in from afar. Familiar faces had begun to appear from every nook and cranny the town held, leading him to question his own motives for staying away. The finely written letter he clutched within his grasp held yet another face he had long since forgotten, now violently thrust into his thoughts. His sleep was still plagued by those who had once been close before. Visions of times where things were once so much simpler, followed by worries that those times would never come to pass again. He had spent years pondering on the actions he would take, the proverbial calls that existed only in his mind that he would come to answer, and yet still here he was on the outskirts of society. He considered the face of the child he had seen just before, dredging up pangs of regret in the form of butterflies floating across his abdomen.
Was it really too late?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
That decision, action - or inaction - would eventually come to pass. He, of course, still believed that his fate was tied to that of his other; something which he could never hope to undo, even if he wanted to. Until then, he had preparations to make, weapons to sharpen and provisions to acquire, leading his path back once more beneath the confines of those damned hedge-walls. To the faces he had once forgotten and the emotions he had once buried. At the very least, the familiar wash of fervour would be worth it for one simple reminder that he was, indeed, still alive.
