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The night is dark and stormy.
Clouds darken the night sky, concealing what light the moon shines from up above. Rain falls on the ground and leaves of the trees, adding a static noise to go along with the burning of the sconces.
Everyone sleeps. They rest to regain their strength for the fights to come. But not the Wylder.
The Wydler stands by the dining table, looking out upon the forest behind the Roundtable Hold.
The Executor’s easel sits alone in the grass, being ruined by the rain. The Wylder would call it a shame if he thought the Executor would ever finish it to begin with.
The Wylder extends a hand. The rain falls on his gauntlet; the only object making him different from any other man with a suit of armor and a sword.
He cannot feel the rain. So he takes off his gauntlet. Discards it on the table beside him, right beside the Raider’s favorite bottle of rum, and extends his hand once again.
It is cold. Icy. Like the biting frost of a dragon who rules over a snowy mountain. But it is soothing. Warm in its own way.
A soft, gentle touch of a being far beyond his own comprehension. A god who grants him a blessing instead of a curse. A rarity. A welcome one.
But the freezing pattering can only be so bearable before it becomes more troubling than anything else, so he pulls his hand back to shelter.
When he reaches for his gauntlet again, he pauses. His hand grips the metal and stops.
It is a sight unfamiliar to him. His own hand, something attached to his own body, yet he gazes upon it as though it is someone else’s.
A strange feeling indeed. To feel so far away from something so near.
…
His mind was wandering again. This happens often, especially on nights such as this, when he finds sleeping to be a harder task than slaying a night lord. Granted, when he does sleep, he is plagued with dreams of times and people long passed, so perhaps this isn’t as bad as he thinks.
He sighs and walks away, leaving the gauntlet resting on the table. He needs to distract himself with something. Anything.
Training isn’t an option. The dummies are just outside in the courtyard, but training in the rain is never a good idea. It dampens the senses and there lies a chance of getting a cold. Both are unacceptable.
Every other night farer is asleep. No one to talk to. Well, the Iron Menial never sleeps, but he isn’t much for conversation.
The library rests just on the opposite side of the Roundtable. it dawns on the Wylder that he had never taken the liberty of browsing the Roundtable’s selection of novels. a time consuming yet equally rewarding task. just what he requires.
so he leaves the room and makes his way to the place in question with hurried steps. Who knows when the others will wake?
he rounds the corner into the library’s hall and sees…someone else. a particular mage with a massive hat.
the Recluse, being a part of their merry band of night farers, ought to be asleep with the rest. what could she be so invested in at this hour?
he walks closer with painfully audible steps on the wooden floor.
The Recluse looks up as he gets nearer. her expression is masked by her hat, but her lips curve into that of an ‘oh.’
“my, a surprise to see the Wylder stepping into mine domain. and at such an odd hour, as well.”
her voice is like a dagger. small, unassuming, yet possibly just as dangerous as a sword. “I nearly mistook you for the menial. Do you seek my counsel?”
Wylder shakes his head.
“…no, not particularly, my lady. I found myself unoccupied and decided to find something to read." He is honest. maybe not entirely, but still honest.
The Recluse hides her face still, yet Wylder imagines a surprised expression on it.
“Is that so? I wasn't aware you took such an interest in books.” she says, and Wylder is unsure whether or not it is an insult. “Pull up a chair, why don’t you? let us both benefit from this occurrence.”
He finds that, as usual, he can’t refuse an offer she makes. She is good company, after all. what kind of sane man would he be if he did refuse?
so he grabs the chair the Guardian typically sits on and sets it next to hers, armrests side by side, and takes a seat. It is oddly comfortable.
The Recluse turns her head to him.
“Is there anything in particular you had in mind, then? If not, could I interest you in what is in my hand at the moment?” again, cannot tell her otherwise.
“…what is it you have there, my lady?”
“Why, it is a tome most enlightening. it holds quite a few incantations and spells even i haven’t—“
she cuts off, looking at her time like she had noticed something new about it. Wylder takes this moment of pause to familiarize himself with her face. mostly her eyes; something he’s seen only in fleeting moments during battle. “—hm. it is just dawning on me that you have no interest in the contents.”
he cannot deny the truth.
“Yes, I'm afraid I'm more familiar with a blade than a staff or seal, my lady.” he says with a chuckle, looking at the page she remains on. He can’t decipher anything. maybe a few words here and there, but there’s no doubt that he would gain nothing from the spell book.
he looks up from the book and at the Recluse’s face which, without his knowledge, had moved closer. As a matter of fact, he accidentally leaned forward to peer at the pages.
She looks at him with a strange expression. it is foreign to him, but perhaps it’s because he isn’t used to seeing any expression on her face at all.
he leans back into his own space.
“apologies. I was trying to see if I could even read the contents. it turns out i cannot.” he says, half-joking.
as he adjusts himself, his arm brushes against hers. The feel of bare skin against bare skin is so surprising it makes him jump. He forgot the gauntlet was off.
The Recluse looks down at their arms. adjacent to each other, and on their respective arm rests. She raises a brow.
“your hand is…bare? without your gauntlet?”
she asks, and Wylder takes it as a rhetoric. she looks up at Wylder next. “is there a reason for this?”
She has a very serious look on her face.
“ah, well, I removed it to feel the rain. i must have forgotten it at the table.” he explains, feeling uncomfortably conscious of his exposed hand in front of the woman. “if it is so odd, i can—“
“Would you allow me to read your palm?”
her sentence passes in one ear and leaves through the other.
“…pardon?”
“Would you allow me to read your palm?”
she echoes her question. “it is a sort of fortune telling. I am able to read the lines of your palm and see into your future. if only for a brief moment. if you’ll allow me, that is.”
for the third time this night, he cannot say no. not that he wants to.
“…be my guest, my lady.”
He offers his hand to her, and she takes it gracefully.
her hand is cold. like the rain from before, but softer. like silk. He takes a breath as she puts both hands on his.
her fingers glide over his skin, tracing each and every vein in his palm with an agonizing slowness to each movement.
she hums softly, and he looks up at her face to gauge her reaction to…whatever it is she’s doing. She wears a smile. it must be good, he thinks.
she notices his own stare and returns it. “Have you had any trouble sleeping, Wylder?” she asks, her smile weakening.
he wasn’t expecting her to hit the mark first thing.
“i…do. that’s why i'm awake now, you see.” he answers without questioning her.
“Is there a reason behind your troubles? thoughts on your mind..?”
of course there are. with such a heavy responsibility on their shoulders, it’s hard to think about anything else, much less sleep.
“i suppose—“
“shh. rhetorical, that one was.”
she hushes him before he can answer. Obviously she doesn’t need an answer; she’s reading his palm or whatever. Was it his future or his present she’s reading? He forgot already.
her smile suddenly turns into that of a frown. “your…clan, hm?”
Her words make him stop breathing for a moment.
“And your sister. You love her, correct?”
She asks, this time looking at him when she asks. It must not be rhetorical.
“Of course.”
He says without a second thought. No matter the people they may be now, she is still his sister and he is still her brother.
She nods.
“Good. Not all things are built to last, but the bonds we make will stick with us forever, even if the people do not.” She hums. “Those you love are present in your future.”
This poses a question. Something that has eaten at the Wylder ever since he first arrived here.
“Are the other nightfarers there too?”
He asks. “Are…are you there too?”
Perhaps asking about her directly is the wrong move and a bit too forward, but the words have left his mouth already.
She doesn’t speak for a moment. He wonders if she actually heard his question and almost repeats it, but she looks in his eyes through his helmet and speaks.
“That is entirely up to you.” She informs him. “All of this is up to you. It is your future, after all. Anything I tell you could change depending on your own actions. Nothing is ever set in stone.”
He nods, although his question hasn’t been answered.
“Do you believe in fate?” He questions.
“I believe that everyone is capable of writing their own fate.”
She answers ambiguously. “My life is my own. My fate is my own. The same goes for you and all of the other night farers. ‘Fate’ did not bring us together. Our own actions did. Nothing more.” Her fingers are still on his hand. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve lost enough in my life already. I have seen too many people come and go.”
He explains. “I don’t want what we have here to fade the same as all else has.” He pauses, taking a breath. “I don’t want to have to say goodbye.”
The Recluse is quiet. He studies her face, her expression, but he can read nothing. Her feelings are a mystery to him.
All he has is what she says. “I do not wish to say goodbye either.” She says quietly. “Not to the night farers. Not to you.”
Her words sink deep into his heart. The mention of himself specifically leaves him with more questions than anything else.
She attempts to move her hand, to continue her reading even further, but he stops her by lacing their fingers together. She does not resist. Instead she elects to sit in avid silence. Her hand is warmer than before.
“Do you think…we will succeed? Will we survive felling the nightlord? Or will this have all been for nothing in the end?”
His thoughts are spilling out. “Will we have wasted our lives after everything?”
She places her free hand on top of their intertwined ones.
“I see no point in worrying about the future so vehemently.” She says. “We have slain several lords of the night already and survived. If either of our fates involved falling to the night, you and I would not be here.” She must be able to feel his heartbeat, which is extremely fast. “Calm yourself, dear Wylder. We are alive now, are we not? For me, that is enough.”
The Wylder looks at his friend. He understands now why he is able to speak so freely with her.
His heart calms itself. He feels safe. With his hand in hers, he is safe. Something he has not felt in a long while.
She looks back at him. An unreadable expression again, but that’s alright.
“I suppose you’re right.”
He caves. Had he been alone, having this very same conversation in his own head, he may have come to a different, darker conclusion. Or no conclusion at all. He determines that conversing with the Recluse is far better.
With a tired sigh, he relaxes into the chair, allowing his usually tense muscles to rest. He is calm.
The Recluse watches him for a moment before going back to her tome, taking one hand only to flip the pages.
She hums a quiet tune. Completely foreign to the Wylder, yet calming all the same.
The rain continues pattering its steady rhythm overhead. Hours pass, during which the Wylder cannot stop his eyes open, and he manages to fall asleep.
Their intertwined hands never separated for even a moment.