Chapter Text
Grinpayne raises a hand to his eyes, squinting. He is 14 years old, partway through a growth spurt that will eventually leave him a few inches taller than Ursus and at least a foot taller than Dea, and he has turned from their cart to find himself unexpectedly dazzled by the light of the setting sun. It’s winter, but it’s mild for the season, and the evening is crisp and clear.
He turns away from the dying light and stands back to review his work. He’d spent the whole morning painting the side of the cart, covering the faded and peeling white letters that had previously read ‘Ursus: Druggist and Potion Maker’. Then, when the paint had dried, Ursus had helped him map out the new lettering, making sure the words all fit evenly with nothing too bunched up or too spread out. Finally, while Ursus and Dea made dinner together, Grinpayne had painstakingly painted the new words on in white, his nose inches from the edge of the cart and his brow furrowed in concentration, his brushstrokes slow but smooth and even.
“Excuse me, master painter!”, an overly pompous voice calls, breaking the silence. “I was looking for my son but the only person around seems to be you! You haven’t seen him have you?”
Grinpayne rolls his eyes. “Very funny, Father”, he drawls, as Ursus slings an arm over his shoulders and ruffles his hair affectionately. The two stand and look at the cart for a moment in silence, the weak sunlight warming the back of their necks.
“I mean it, lad. You’ve done a brilliant job.” Ursus says softly, reverting to his usual accent and giving Grinpayne a one-armed squeeze. Behind his bandages, Grinpayne allows himself a small, private smile. He’s pretty proud of himself, too.
“Is it finished?!” An excitable voice cuts through the air, and Ursus and Grinpayne turn from the cart to see Dea, one hand on Mojo’s shoulder, skipping towards them around the side of the cart. Earlier that afternoon Grinpayne had made her a daisy-chain crown, and it’s still nestled wonkily atop her head, the green stems and purple-edged petals bright against the white of her hair. Ursus grins.
“It’s finished, child. Grinpayne is quite the artist.” Grinpayne shuffles out from under Ursus’ arm, embarrassed, and wanders over to Dea, who is clutching two small wooden figures in her hand.
“How are the puppets, Dea?”
“All done! ” She grins toothily, thrusting them out in front of her. “Did I do it right?”
Grinpayne takes one of the puppets from her, turning it over in his hands, familiar as his own bandages. After all, he’d spent hours studying one puppet in order to make the other, crafting his own puppet by firelight every night for weeks so that Dea would have a handsome prince to marry the beautiful princess Ursus had given her as a child. They’re delicate, intricate things, but lately they’d been showing their age; the princess’s dress wearing through and the prince swaddled in the only material that Grinpayne had had available to him at the time, a ratty old cravat of Ursus’. Now, though, they are reborn, clothed in swathes of silk that shine and shimmer in the light, their hems and seams stitched in neat, straight lines.
“They’re perfect, Dea, truly” Grinpayne smiles, reaching for Dea’s hand and pressing the puppets back into her palm with a gentle squeeze. She grins.
“Can I see?” Ursus asks, sauntering up behind Grinpayne, but quick as a flash Dea hides the puppets behind her back, shaking her head emphatically.
“Nope! You have to wait for the performance!”
Ursus groans dramatically. A bit too dramatically. “But Grinpayne let me see what he’d done!”
“It’s the entire cart, Father, I couldn’t exactly hide it from you” Grinpayne points out, and Ursus splutters in mock indignation.
“Sorry!” Dea says sweetly, reaching for Grinpayne’s hand and dragging him behind the cart to get ready. “Those are the rules! Now announce us, you have to announce us!” It takes a few minutes, but soon they're ready to perform, and Ursus strides out in front of the cart.
“Ladies and Gentlemen and Wolves!” He bellows, sweeping his arms wide to welcome the ‘audience’; namely, Mojo, lying in the road with his nose resting on his paws. Behind the cart, waiting for their entrance, Grinpayne nudges Dea’s shoulder, and she grins.
“I give you, the one, the only, the new and improved, the amazing travelling wonder of Ursus’ Lotions….. Potions… aaand-“
Enough.
Grinpayne rises from his seat, his body spurred to movement almost before his mind catches up. He can’t do this. Can’t sit here anymore in the silence, with nothing to distract him from memories so bright they burn.
“Grinpayne?”
Dea is sat on the floor of the cart, back against his bed as she knits what appears to be a scarf but could turn into a sleeve, perhaps, or maybe a hood. She’s stopped mid-stitch at his sudden movement. He'd almost forgotten she was there.
“Bandages” he replies, the excuse out of his mouth before he's even consciously thought of it. “There's a river nearby. I won’t be long.”
She hums an acknowledgement and he moves to the door, squeezing her shoulder as he goes. Her fingers trail his for the briefest moment but he doesn’t linger, restlessness pushing him forward, the walls of the cart suddenly too close, too tight. As he steps outside he’s surprised to see that it’s dusk already; the daylight fading gently like a wave rolling lazily to shore. It's a beautiful evening, the sky stretching itself in a sleepy purple haze across the horizon, but Grinpayne barely sees it. He's almost insulted that the world would dare to be so lovely after a day like today.
At the edge of the road, by the tree line, Ursus is knelt in the grass, trying to convince a reluctant pile of kindling to spark a flame. He looks up at the sound of footsteps, but Grinpayne quickly averts his eyes, setting his jaw and looking straight ahead as he slips into the woods. Ursus says nothing, but Grinpayne feels his eyes on the back of his neck all the same, watching him go.
That's fine. Grinpayne has nothing left to say either.
Resisting the urge to turn and look back, he hunches his shoulders and sticks his hands into his pockets, wending his way deeper into the shadows. The undergrowth slopes gently down away in front of him and he slows, placing his feet more carefully than he usually would, holding onto trees for support, cautious of hidden roots or loose rocks that might cause him to stumble. The last thing he needs is to fall and injure his already aching body. To have to be rescued. Again.
It’s the first time in several weeks that they’ve been outside the city walls, and the quiet is almost unnerving. Back in Oxford, noise had been a constant part of their lives, a swirling babble of voices that only stopped briefly in the early hours of the morning, when the revellers had drunk themselves into a stupor and the market stall holders were still asleep. It’s easy to lose yourself in a city like that, in the noise of the crowd, but here, in the woods, Grinpayne is alone with his thoughts. He moves through the trees like a shadow, listening to the sounds of small animals scurrying away from his footsteps, of the birds that sing warnings of his presence to their friends as he passes beneath their nests. Such background noise is silence compared to the city, though, the sort of silence that allows half-buried thoughts to rise to the surface like air bubbles from the bottom of a swamp.
Grinpayne rubs his eyes. He's been trying not to think about the events of that day, trying to distract himself, but he’s exhausted, and here in the woods there seems to be little point resisting. He takes a deep breath of crisp evening air - cleaner here even just a few miles outside the city - and gives in.
His thoughts turn almost immediately to Ursus, of course. It’s been a long time since he’s seen the man so angry. After he had dragged Grinpayne and Dea out of the main square - a snarling Mojo at their heels keeping the mob at bay - he had rounded on his adoptive son, eyes wild, demanding to know what had happened. What Grinpayne had said or done that had caused the crowd, usually no more than morbidly curious, to turn so unexpectedly violent.
Grinpayne didn’t have the answers. Halfway through a swig of Crimson Lethe to dull the pain blooming across his jaw where a stray fist had caught him, he had almost choked on the unfairness of Ursus’ unexpected vitriol. Even now, hours later, he still feels the sting of it. But when he’d tried to explain what had really happened, he’d found his memories blank, his mind yielding nothing but an addled haze of pain and fists and shouting voices. Everything had happened so fast, he realised, it had all blurred together.
Ursus had been less than impressed. He had exploded with anger, red in the face, shouting at Grinpayne for being so foolish as to let the crowd rile him, to lose his temper so easily. The irony of his words had apparently been lost on him, and Grinpayne, shaken and frightened and hurt, had shouted right back. The situation spiralled rapidly out of control, and the two men were practically nose to nose when Dea, almost in tears of frustration, had shouted at both of them to stop being so foolish about the whole thing and be grateful that it hadn’t turned out any worse. To avoid any awkward questions about the fight in the square they had had to move their cart outside the city walls, which they did in stony silence, and in the hours since Grinpayne and Ursus have been resolutely ignoring each other.
A whispering breeze strokes Grinpayne’s cheek gently, and he shivers, his train of thought derailing and turning down a different track. It’s cool in the shadow of the trees, away from the road and the sunlight, and it’s enough to make him nervous.
It’s only going to get colder. They left the city in a rush without stopping to buy food, so for their next few meals they’ll have to take from the modest supplies that Ursus keeps in the cart. Supplies that, at this time of year, they should be saving, stocking up on, not wasting on unnecessary nights outside the city. If not for Grinpayne and his temper, they'd be eating dinner right now; something hot and cheap bought from a market vendor in exchange for one or two of Ursus' potions in their bright glass bottles. They'd pack up the cart and drive away from the marketplace to a quieter street to spend the night, no need for a fire in the warmth of the city, with Ursus telling them stories by candlelight of glittering faraway lands.
Instead, they’re a few miles outside Oxford, camped on the dusty roadside. Grinpayne thinks of Dea. Does she blame him too? Are she and Ursus, even now, complaining about how much harder he makes life for both of them with his outbursts of temper, with his hideous grin that has seen them turned away from more towns than he’d like to count?
Would they be happier if, instead of returning to the cart, he just just... left?
Grinpayne gives himself a little shake. That’s not a productive line of thinking. He knows in truth that Dea would be beside herself if he didn’t return; after all, no one else understands life the way they do. No one else sees the world as clearly for what it is, understands the pain and darkness that lurk in every corner. He could never leave her.
Recently, she has been trying to encourage Grinpayne to think of something positive when he gets like this, to draw him out of the black moods he finds himself falling into more and more often. He mostly thinks it's pointless, but he's never been able to say no to her, not even when they were tiny children. He ducks under a tree branch, wandering downhill, and tries to bend his thoughts to things that Dea would approve of. Like, for instance, the way that the dappled sunlight playing on the long grasses of the forest floor is beautiful, in a quiet, unassuming sort of way. Summer may be dying but she’s sung a beautiful swansong this year; for the past week they’ve woken every day to bright, clear mornings and gone to bed in sighing lavender twilights, a gentle breeze softening the glare of the sun and not a cloud to be seen in the sky. It’s been so dry that the small water-butt on the back of their wagon is empty, which is why he’s here. His bandages need cleaning, and he knows from previous trips to Oxford that a shallow river runs somewhere through these woods, even if he doesn’t know exactly where.
The lack of rain has given him an excuse to leave the cart. To leave the way Ursus won’t meet his eyes, the way Dea is stoically pretending that nothing’s wrong. To get away from all of it just for a little while. He’s not exactly sure Dea would consider that a positive thought, but at least he’s trying.
Above him, a hazel tree sighs and shifts its branches, letting a sudden fresh beam of sunlight slip through the canopy. It lands so directly in Grinpayne’s eyes that he’s blinded for a moment, and as he raises a hand to shield his face a fresh wave of memory hits him as solidly and unexpectedly as if he had walked into a wall. The smell of fresh paint. The crisp sharpness of a winter evening. Dea’s laugh splitting the air like bells ringing, and the warm, comforting weight of an arm across his shoulders.
Grinpayne frowns. It's a memory that seems to insist on haunting him tonight.
A different, more recent memory surfaces. The anger in Ursus’ face earlier that day, the fury with which he’d grabbed Grinpayne’s shoulders, fingers gripping tight enough to bruise, as though he could shake some sense into him.
Maybe he should have tried.
Grinpayne sighs, rubbing his face above his bandages. He's been walking for a long time and he's exhausted, but just when he decides to give up and turn back, the sound of running water finally reaches his ears. He follows the sound, drifting towards an area of the woods where the light is brighter, and eventually reaches a shallow riverbank edged with rushes and long swaying grasses. He crouches down at the water’s edge, wincing as a dull ache shoots through his side. He’s going to have a nasty bruise there, but that can’t be helped now. At least, thanks to Mojo's timely arrival at the square, he didn't sustain anything worse. He runs a quick glance up and down the bank and then, satisfied that he’s alone, reaches up to untie his bandages. The soft material falls into his palms and he closes his eyes as his scars are exposed to the air, the breeze drifting over his skin like silk. It's a pleasant feeling, and he allows himself a moment to appreciate it before he nudges the scarf he's wearing up over his nose. It’s not as effective as his bandages and it limits his freedom of movement, but it’ll do for now. As nice as the evening air is, exposing his face for too long makes him jittery. He reaches down to the water’s edge and submerges his bandages beneath the surface, the water bitingly cold as it swirls over his fingers, his palms, his wrists. Holding the fabric in the current with one hand, he shakes the other dry and reaches into his pocket, retrieving the small chunk of plain soap that he uses to wash his bandages. His mind drifts as he sets to work, his hands moving automatically through familiar motions he’s done a thousand times before. His eyes have all but glazed over as he daydreams about nothing in particular, gaze following the soap bubbles which float away on the water, when a noise makes him look up.
He blinks.
There’s a man on the other side of the river.
Grinpayne freezes. He barely even breathes; he may as well be made of stone.
The man hasn't seen him. He's crouched on the opposite bank just a few yards downstream, dressed in a distinctive grey uniform that makes Grinpayne's blood run cold. A soldier. As Grinpayne watches, he leans down, reaching out and messily scooping a few handfuls of water into his mouth. He’s close enough that Grinpayne can see the water droplets glistening in his beard, can hear the creak of his leather breeches, the clink of the metal baton in his belt. Knelt in the rushes and staying as still as he is, Grinpayne knows he isn’t immediately visible, but it’s an incredibly poor hiding place. If the soldier looks up, if Grinpayne moves even slightly, he’ll be seen, and the scarf he’s wearing doesn’t fully cover his scars...
“Parsons!” A voice calls, and Grinpayne watches in horror as a second soldier descends the bank. His hands, still submerged in the icy water, start to go numb.
“No sign of them, then?” The first soldier, Parsons, responds, standing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The other soldier shakes his head.
“Not yet. We’ve got orders to comb the woods and then move up the road; Anderson thinks they’ll probably stop to camp before long.”
Grinpayne feels his heart hammering in his chest, so loud he’s amazed that they don’t hear it’s pounding beat from across the river. They’re talking about him, they must be. Him and Dea and Ursus. He has to get back to the cart, has to warn them, but because he was idiotic enough not to thoroughly check his surroundings when he stopped he’s trapped here by the river, like a rabbit under the eye of a fox.
Stupid, stupid fool.
Parsons is nodding, looking thoughtful. “Seems a bit much, don’t it, all this? I mean we’ve all chased a bit of skirt in our time.”
Wait.
Grinpayne hesitates, daring to hope. Maybe they're not looking for him...
“Yeah but not the Judge’s daughter” the second soldier laughs, crouching for a drink from the river himself. “Her daddy’s got nearly as much sway as the Duke; if he says jump, we say how high. And anyway” he adds darkly, “you didn’t see him, the boy that went after her. I’ve never seen a face like that, like something out of a nightmare, like... like every pain you've ever felt, every fear you've ever had, all wrapped up in one man. Apparently the poor girl's practically hysterical and I don't blame her." He shakes his head, and his eyes grow dark. "A monster like that? Who knows what he would’ve done with her if she hadn't got away.”
It’s a lie, Grinpayne realises distantly, as he watches the second soldier slosh water into his mouth and spill half of it down his front. This judge's daughter, whoever she is, has lied about what really happened in the square, has told the authorities that he attacked her, that he tried to... that he...
He's struck by the sudden feeling that he might be sick.
Parsons shudders. “Gives me the creeps. I don’t wanna think about it.”
“Then don’t think” His friend replies, spitting in the river before standing up and wiping his hands dry on his trousers. He grins wickedly.
“Shouldn’t be too hard for you!”
Parsons barks a bellowing laugh, shoving the other soldier, and the two wrestle for a moment before wandering up the bank, chattering as they go. On the other side of the river, trembling, Grinpayne tries to remember how to breathe.
He waits until their voices fade to nothingness. Then he forces himself to wait a while longer, to count his hammering heartbeats until he is absolutely sure that they're not coming back.
Only then does he turn, scrambling on the grass, and bolt into the woods.