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Bloodhound was picking berries off of a bush. They had explained how to tell which were safe to eat and which weren't, since Walter’s joke of “don't knock ‘em all til you’ve tried ‘em all” wasn't funny in the other’s eyes. But he listened to the difference between spots and dots when it came to things you could pick off of bushes, and he listened to rhymes that helped remember what was safe and what wasn’t. It sounded boring, but somehow it wasn’t. It was as simple as that. Bloodhound had a lot to teach.
Every time they were done, they would give a small bow and a soft “thank you” before walking away towards another bush. They always seemed careful to not take too much from one place. Walter watched from his spot by the campfire. He had a fishing pole in the small river where they were staying for the night. Or week. Walter never has any idea how long these excursions will last. He never wants to have any idea. Playing it by ear is how he plays everything— except for guitar, maybe. When Bloodhound returned, they crouched by the fire.
“Roasting these is the best way to obtain the full flavor,” they explained, and Walter watched them set up a small structure over the fire for the berries to roast, “though, they make a small popping noise, so I apologize for this. They are not slow to cook, however.”
“Never seen anythin’ like ‘em.'' Walter turns his attention back to fishing, his eyes glance to his companion off-and-on. “They only found here?”
“Yes,” Bloodhound answers, “they are almost heilagt to my people. They please the Allfather, and many other Gods through our altars.” After that, they pause, and Walter arches an eyebrow. “... and celebrations. They can be made into eftirrétti , and they are occasionally used in ale.”
“Ohohoho!” He turns to look at his friend, smirking. Bloodhound looks at him too. “Ya’ sure know how’ta capture a man’s attention, mate.”
An exhale, a hum of an almost chuckle. “Perhaps. Or maybe it is just you.”
“Well I do—“
The fishing line went taut. Walter was quick to start reeling, to fight back, and it wasn't long until a fish was out of the water. “ Hah !” he laughed, victoriously, before looking towards the river and saying, “Cheers very much.”
There was silence as he took care of the fish, holding the line carefully as the fish thrashed about. He walked toward the fire. Even through thick goggles, he felt Bloodhound’s eyes on him.
Bloodhound is a watcher. Walter lets this happen. Sometimes it goes on for too long and he asks what has their attention, other times they end up saying what’s on their mind, though often they just move on to something else. But they were still silent until Walter was crouched by the fire with the fish that had finally settled.
“You do not have to thank the Gods as I do,” Bloodhound looks up at him from where they're sitting, “your actions speak of your gratitude enough."
“This is your turf.” Walter says matter of factly. He looks at Bloodhound. “This is where your people are, where ya’ said ya’ Gods’ have their eyes on most.” The berries had begun to pop, and Walter was beginning to prepare the fish to be the next to roast. He didn't look up as he spoke. “And ‘sides, it’s nice t’ have someone t’ thank. There’s nothin’ holy on Salvo.”
Bloodhound gave an introspective hum at that, arms crossed as usual. It took a while for them to speak— and they spoke in a light tone, actually, almost a hint of a smile in their voice, though of course it’s still foggy— they tilted their head and said. “You may be surprised.”
Somehow, that was enough for Walter to sit and mull over. Their tone, the way their head was slightly cocked at him as if Bloodhound was staring at the missing puzzle piece that Walter can’t find. Bloodhound could do that; just say a simple sentence, not even five words, and Walter has to have a whole discussion in his head. He gave a small “huh” as he focused on making sure the fish was skinned enough. Maybe they had a point. Maybe he would be surprised. Maybe he just hadn't been looking in the right places. Maybe he was now.
“Hell,” he laughs, broad and loud, “maybe you’re right.”
The berries cooked in pops for a short time. While they did so, Walter had been telling a story from his youth— something with Maggie and getting in trouble at school. He's told all his stories so many times he hardly notices which ones he’s talking about— and Bloodhound was listening intently, nodding their head to prove so. They were both sitting back in their chairs with one having their arms crossed and the other gesturing with his bottle in a dramatic sense. Walter doesn’t know what he said exactly, but he knows it got Bloodhound laughing a bit, turning their head before making a small quip. That was right before they stood up.
“I will finish preparing our dinner.”
Walking to the fire Bloodhound took down their small pot above the flame. Almost like popcorn, they still seemed to pop even once the heat source was taken. This must be normal because not only did Bloodhound not flinch, but they didn’t mention trouble. Walter just took a sip from his bottle.
“What about the mask?” The question tumbled out without Walter even realizing. It was completely random, a thought that was rolling in his head that had decided to exist not only in his head. Unfortunately, Walter Fitzroy has to live by the rule of Walter Fitzroy; “no takesies backsies”. Not that he wants to take it back— he’s always prepared for someone to say that something he said goes too far, or is too personal, because he knows he himself is too personal. So he sits back and raises his eyebrow even though his companion had their back turned to him. He swishes his drink around. “That for you, or for the Gods?”
To no surprise, Bloodhound went silent. At the end of his second question they even gave a small “hm”. However, no matter how personal the question was, it didn’t distract them for a second. Walter assumed a large part of that is from being asked about it so many times from… probably everyone.
The fish— skinned, cooked, and perfect. They took out a blade and started cutting proportions for the both of them. Walter leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, to watch them.
“May I ask why you think it’s for the Gods?” they paused their action for a moment, just a moment, before they asked. Bloodhound didn’t seem upset, no, but the specific question had given Walter the idea that he could’ve possibly said something insensitive. he really tries not to do that, which doesn’t sound real but is true, and that’s when Walter started to worry. He cleared his throat.
“Well,” he began, on the fence of being sure and unsure of the words that were already pin-pulled and ready to come out the mouth, “most things you dedicate yourself to is for ‘em. So, just made sense, t’ put it that way.”
Bloodhound tilted their head. They were putting the berries over the fish they had cut. It was almost like it had created some kind of sauce along with making the berries soft; they looked good. Pink, almost red. It reminded him of raspberries, but not as dark. He still didn’t have an answer to his question.
The plates the two of them had brought seemed to fit the meal almost perfectly. Chopped trout with a new spin to them. He was handed a plate, and he looked up at Bloodhound with a smile, as if he didn’t just ask the most invasive question ever. “Cheers, Hound.”
A nod in response. Not unusual. Bloodhound sat down in their chair once more, and stared down at their plate.
“Neither,” they answered, finally, and Walter was surprised they hadn’t just changed the topic. Quickly after that, though, Bloodhound shook their head and put a hand over their respirator part of their headdress. “This is for me, however, you knew that much already.”
“I was talkin’ ‘bout—“
“The rest of it.” Bloodhound finished Walter's sentence, now looking straight at him. “But mostly my ‘mask’, correct?” Walter simply just nodded. Bloodhound made a noise that was hard to distinguish. A chuckle, a sigh, a grunt, it was all up in the air. Walter just took another sip. He doesn’t read into every action, every sentence like everyone else tries too. Only the ones he knows he should. And right now, it feels like Walter’s cracking open a book and moving to a chapter he hadn’t read before. So he turned his whole body to face Bloodhound, and also face whatever was to come next from this topic.
Bloodhound moved their food around on their plate. Not in a way a child does when they don’t want to talk about something, but almost in an… indecisive manner. Walter went ahead and just took a bite from his own plate. It was pretty good.
“I have scars that I do not wish for people to see,” they said simply, “and people do not wish to see them.”
Now that wasn’t exactly what Walter was expecting. He sat back in his chair with a small “huh”, and tapped his foot. “Well, y’ know my motto on scars.”
“Everyone does.” Bloodhound said, dryly.
They paused. Then, Walter turned his head to snicker and Bloodhound turned their head to try and muffle their small versions of a laugh.
“Though, unfortunately, I believe this story is one left to be untold.” They crossed their legs and moved their plate to the middle for better balance. “And unseen, as well.”
“Oh, c’mon Houndie,'' Walter had more food in his mouth. He knew that, outworldly, he seemed as if he wasn’t taking much interest or attention to the conversation. However, Bloodhound knew him better than that, somehow. And somehow, Walter just knew that. “It’s us. It's Fusey! Scars are my thing.”
“Why do you wear that piece over your eye?”
Walter blinked. “Well, ‘cause people have told me it’s—“
Unnerving. That it scares people when he doesn’t want to scare people. Walter cut himself off, felt his facial features do a full 180. He sat back in his chair in thought. Slowly, he nodded. “All right mate, point made.”
A small chuckle of triumph escaped Bloodhound that was, once again, attempted to be covered up. Even Walter laughed a bit, shaking his head. Bloodhound was truly a wonder to him when it came to making each other laugh.
Walter let them both have a quiet moment as he tried one of the berries by itself. it was a bit tangy— bitter, but had a kick of sweet once it was down the gullet. Not bad. the bloodhound hadn’t touched their food. Walter went out on a limb— pun intended— and made another assumption that it was because of the topic. And from experience, Walter knows that sometimes, sometimes diving deeper into a topic like this is better than to leave it alone. He also knows that can make things worse. Walter looked, and he leapt anyway.
Oh-so-casually, he leeeeaned over to Bloodhound and nudged their shoulder with his. “I’ll show ya’ mine if ya’ show me yours.”
A sigh came from Bloodhound. It didn't sound upset or angry, but there was no difinitivity. Bloodhound looked back at Walter, who was smiling up at them, charming as always. They sighed once again, this time a hand covering their goggles. “You are a very stubborn person, Walter fitzroy.”
“It's a point of pride.”
“I am sure."
Walter didn’t budge, and neither did Bloodhound. All that moved was Walter's arm, nudging them once again. Bloodhound turned their head towards him.
“Are you a man of your word?”
That took him back a bit. Walter tilted his head. “I ‘dunno,” he said, leaning back, tilting his head at Bloodhound. It was genuine, expression questioning as he asked, “You tell me.”
Silence. Walter didn’t know whether or not to be offended or not, though, even if he should be offended he wouldn’t be. That’s just not something he feels anymore. But he wanted to know Bloodhound’s answer; was he a man of his word? Did Bloodhound think he was? There wasn’t a moment where Walter took his eye off of Bloodhound.
Bloodhound’s hands reached for their respirator. “You trust me with answering that question. I carry the same trust for you.”
A small wheeze was accompanied by the sound of Bloodhound taking off their mask. It only took one hand to take it off, to Walter's surprise, and only one hand to hold it. Their mouth. Walter has seen it before when they go for drinks, but after a shot the respirator is back on. Now, all the layering for the test of their face is slowly coming undone. They reach around to the back of their head— behind their ears, probably— and fiddle with something before letting the seemingly thin material fall in their lap. For some reason he always thought it would be… bigger. Heavier, and not just so simple. Bloodhound turned to Walter and for the first time Walter saw bloodhound’s skin from the nose to their cheeks to their chin. Their skin was pale, and their lips matched the kind of wisdom in which they spoke. The scars filled their face, reaching into where their goggles still sat. The only way Walter found himself able to describe it is that it seemed their face was a lake that was frozen over, and someone dropped a rock that was only heavy enough to add jagged cracks all atop. They made Bloodhound’s skin seem the same kind of texture of chapped lips. But he doubted that was true. Walter studied them for a moment, eyes watching the way they stretched across their jaw— sharp and broad towards the chin, but softer closer to their ears. Small sets of stubble came down from their jaw and overlapped when it all met at their chin. Their nose was a bit broad, and he noticed their nose twitch when they moved their hands with their fork, anxiously.
“Well,” Walter said, not even phased, as he flicked up the sliver of gold covering his empty eye socket, “still a sight for a sore eye.”
Bloodhound’s lips parted a bit, surprised, and it clicked so odd in Walter’s brain that this was the first time he could see their facial reactions. Half of them, anyway. Walter tilted his head, inspecting, at the same time bloodhound’s head turned to do the same. They looked at each other. And, to Walter's surprise, they both started laughing.
“Almost looks like it could still hurt,” Walter said. sounding impressed, and for some reason Bloodhound seemed taken aback. “How old?”
“They do not,” Bloodhound answered hesitantly, “and... very.”
It was Bloodhound’s turn to inspect the other. They leaned forward a bit, and Walter didn’t move to give them a better view. It felt weird being this close to Bloodhound now, with their face clear. It felt weird because it felt so natural. That he didn’t mind. That his pulse was the same as how it always is when they come close, which isn’t often. Walter's eye socket was empty. It almost seemed so clean, almost as if it was natural, except for when he blinked, and almost every vain was visible. For the scar that ran from the top of his torn and re-built eyelid. Scar tissue that blinked. It still was chipped up a bit.
“… May I ask a question?” Bloodhound said, sincerely polite, yet… unsure. Walter wasn’t sure if he'd ever seen them act like this. He’s never seen them like this at all. Their stubble was red. Was their hair red?
“I didn’t ask you before I shot my question,” Walter said with a smile. “shoot.”
“Can…” another tilt of their head. Their lips mulled together as, Walter assumes, they thought of how to word whatever they were about to ask. Now Walter knows what their face looks like when they’re thinking. Now he can imagine it when they have their respirator on, maybe always from here on out. “Can you still cry?”
“Oh yeah, mate,” he said simply, “can’t let the ol’ socket get too dry either. Dr. Che explained it a bit ago, but I won't put you through all of that.”
“I understand.” Bloodhound leaned back, back into their chair, and they sank in a relaxed way. To no surprise they were still just as stoic without their face covered. They stared ahead. “Thank you, Walter fitzroy. For sharing.”
“Well then same to you Houndie, now would you eat already?” Walter took another bite out of his food. He didn’t put his eyepatch back on, and Bloodhound didn’t put their mask and respirator back on. Their shoulders rose and sank in an unnatural manner, but Walter trusted them to know when to put it back on.
“Fitzroy.” Bloodhound turned back to him. “May I make a confession?”
Walter freezed mid-bite. “Yeah, mate?”
“I was going to take my mask off anyway.” From there on, for the first time, Walter got to see what Bloodhound looked like when they spoke with a smile “Afterall, I have to eat somehow.”
Walter gawked at them. Slowly, that look turned to a grin with soft chuckles coming out, and Bloodhound began to laugh with him. They were both laughing, and Walter got to see it. Their mouth, grinning, with small snickers and giggles and small snorts and mild wheezes pouring out. It felt like a gust of the earth from a distant explosion. Watching Bloodhound laugh felt like completing a hike and feeling the wind blow past his ears at the finish. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He had an idea, but Walter tends to save his ideas for when they’re useful.
When their laughter died down, Bloodhound finally began to eat alongside Walter.
“So, you said the story was best untold,” Walter quipped at some point, “s’at still stand?”
Bloodhound was quiet. They ate in silence for a bit, eyes presumably on the fire. Walter was pushing his luck, that was no secret. Bloodhound was staring at their plate introspectively, almost as if they were asking themselves. Then, from up above, Walter heard a bird caw. He looked up to the tree they were under, remembering Artur had made his camp up there. Bloodhound also looked up. After a moment of watching their raven, they nodded, and cleared their throat.
“I’m sure you are familiar with a certain sniper rifle from the Games…”