It was morning.
Fian woke up in his bed, and somehow, it was the first time he had truly slept.
He had only a hazy recollection of the previous afternoon’s events—sitting beside her as the world around him slowly darkened in the rain. Now, as his mind began to stir, he started to wonder. Why was he in his own bed? He lifted the covers slightly and saw that his wounds had been carefully tended and bandaged. He recognized the handiwork; he knew it had to be one of the Fox-medics. And that made even less sense, for he knew them only as rude alchemists who wanted nothing to do with him—who would have happily let him die in the forest with all his troubles, simply because of his heritage.
Little bard, I prefer a German version…
Well, traveller next to this blinking box in front you… follow this path 🙂
All the more astonishing, then, was the care with which the work had been done.
He pricked up his ears. There were voices in his kitchen! He could clearly hear a male and a female voice, speaking softly and joking with one another. Accompanying them was the rhythmic clinking of a cup against the kitchen table. Were two strangers actually sitting at his table, drinking… tea? He got up cautiously and made his way slowly toward the kitchen door to open it.
The conversation fell silent instantly.
And just as he had expected, there sat the white she-wolf on the left, and opposite her, a medic from the Fox-folk of the moors. They had been chatting. Indeed, the she-wolf even smiled as Fian appeared in the doorway: “Splendid—he’s back on his feet. And his leg is still intact. Thanks for the help, Germonde.” The Fox, in a fleeting glance toward Fian, revealed his personal disdain and remarked with dry matter-of-factness, “He’ll survive. I take it that settles the favor I owed?” She gave a brief nod and extended her paw to him quite directly, saying, “Indeed. I thank you for your services, Germonde; the favor is hereby repaid. Let us drink our tea in peace.”
The fox nodded and replied, “I gladly accept the offer. Though I shall be on my way once we are done.” He followed this with a few disparaging remarks about how, in his view, calling in such a significant favor for “that sort of thing” had been completely excessive.
Fian was just drawing breath to say something about “his house and the courtesy due at his table,” but a withering look from the she-wolf stopped him and silenced him. Instead, she ignored the comments and asked Fian to brew another pot of fresh tea; her tone made it clear exactly what she would think if he spoke up now. So, he chose to prepare the new tea in silence. The fox watched this and added, amused, “Well-mannered, though still in need of some schooling…” “Do not overstep the bounds of hospitality, Germonde. You know the rules.”
Germonde bowed his head before her: “I sincerely beg your pardon; I merely wished to voice some valid thoughts. But the decision made here was not mine.” He then gave Fian a brief nod: “Take good care of your legs over the next two weeks, little do-gooder; I have no desire to see you again.” They then changed the subject, discussing the seasons, the harvest, the tavern, rumors of a special circle of fire deep in the woods, and other gossip from the misty forests. Finally, Germonde took his leave, and the she-wolf sat alone at the table. Her polite smile vanished as she rested her head on her paws and fixed her gaze directly on him. She waited.
Fian stood frozen in his kitchen. The soft, wooden click as the outer door’s bolt slid home—sealing Gramonde’s departure—seemed to instantly thicken the air in the room. Left behind was only the heavy, almost palpable silence of the kitchen, mingled with the sharp, acrid scent of dried marsh herbs and alchemical tincture rising from Fian’s freshly bandaged leg—and the aroma of the herbal tea Fian had set brewing on the stove.
She did not move. Her head remained resting heavily on her white forepaws, which were crossed upon the tabletop. Her eyes held his, unblinking. It was not a threatening gaze, yet it carried an unspoken accusation. Fian limped cautiously toward the table. Every step tugged at the fresh stitches, though the pain was dull, muted by Gramonde’s pragmatic alchemy. Without a word, Fian set a cup of steaming herbal tea down in front of her.
She lowered her gaze briefly to the steaming cup, inhaled the hot vapors, and then looked directly at him again.
“A high price,” she murmured at last. Her voice was as quiet as the first frost settling over autumn leaves, yet it cut deep into Fian’s chest. “A favor owed by the fox clans. And I have
redeemed on your behalf.” She fell silent. And waited. After what seemed like an eternity spent inhaling the aroma of the tea with her eyes closed, she pulled the cup toward herself and said softly, “Get yourself some tea and sit down. The last thing I want is for your leg to need even more attention.” Fian went to take his cup, but it slipped from his paws. Only then did he notice that the claw on her paw hadn’t been properly treated—it had merely received a makeshift dressing. “Yes, you can take care of that yourself,” she said casually as she took a sip of tea. Then she stood up, said, “Sit down,” and placed a fresh cup of tea in front of him.
So they sat facing each other. And Fian remained silent—not because he had nothing to ask, but simply because he didn’t know where to begin. Across from him sat the white she-wolf, the Queen of the North, calmly enjoying a cup of tea. Finally, she set hers down and, after a moment, asked thoughtfully, “Do you hear that?” He listened. “There are birds outside, the fire in the stove, then…” She stood up and walked around behind him. Then she deliberately placed her paw on his shoulder, and he wisely fell silent. She listened and whispered softly into his ear, “I mean *this*… silence. And really, you have so many questions… but your questions are meaningless; when I speak, you will learn.” Then she laid a carefully folded piece of parchment before him and removed her paw from his shoulder.
He unfolded the parchment and read what was written there: “This is… pan-bread, the kind served in the tavern.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Exactly. And today, at the eighteenth hour of the day. In the clearing in front of the tavern. You know where.”
Then she simply left, and he sat alone at the table. Just him, a thousand questions, and that lonely silence in his small kitchen.
