Exhaustion claimed me quickly. But even as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. That Gareth Ironwood was standing just outside the shed, his bow in his hand, waiting for me to make a mistake.
And somewhere, deep inside, a small voice whispered that the monster he feared was already there.
The sounds of the forest were amplified in the darkness, each rustle of leaves, each snap of a twig, sending a jolt of fear through me. Sleep offered no escape, only fractured images of fire and death. My mother's face, contorted in a silent scream, replayed in my mind. The two Aeridorian soldiers consumed by violet fire. I saw Grak running, forever out of reach. Each memory was a fresh wound, reopened with agonizing precision.
I bolted awake just before dawn, the first sliver of light painting the interior of the shed a pale grey. The straw beneath me was damp and smelled of mildew. My body ached, and my throat was raw. Outside, the forest was slowly awakening, the silence gradually giving way to the chirping of birds and the distant murmur of the wind.
I crawled out of the shed, blinking in the faint light. The air was crisp and cold, biting at my exposed skin. Gareth was already up, a dark silhouette against the smoky glow of the cabin's open doorway. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the trees, his stance suggesting a coiled spring ready to unleash.
He didn't acknowledge me as I approached. The clearing was small, hemmed in by ancient trees that seemed to lean inwards, their gnarled branches like skeletal arms reaching out to claim the sky. The forest felt old here, impossibly so, a place where time moved differently, where the echoes of forgotten ages still lingered in the air.
Finally, without turning his head, Gareth spoke. His voice was low, gravelly, like stones grinding together. "There's water in the bucket by the cabin. Wash yourself. Then come and eat."
The water was ice cold, shocking my system awake. As I splashed it on my face, I noticed the small, clear pool it came from, tucked away behind the cabin. It was fed by a tiny spring, the water bubbling up from the earth with an almost unnatural purity. A silent stream ran from the spring, disappearing into the undergrowth.
Breakfast was waiting on a rough-hewn table outside the cabin: a hunk of stale bread and a handful of dried berries. Gareth sat on a stump nearby, sharpening his knife with a slow, deliberate motion. He didn't look at me, but I could feel his thoughts on me, assessing, observing.
I ate in silence, forcing the dry bread down my throat. My appetite was gone, replaced by a gnawing anxiety. Praag. Grak. My mother. The memories were relentless, a constant barrage of pain and guilt.
When I finished eating, I set the remaining berries down on the table. Gareth grunted. "You'll need more than that to rebuild yourself, boy." He paused, then added, "Are you a fool? Or are you going to let the dead starve you?"
He stood up, sheathing his knife. "The path to the spring needs clearing. Brambles are growing over it." He gestured toward a pile of tools leaning against the cabin wall. "There's a scythe and some gloves. Use them. And be careful. This forest has teeth."
I nodded, relieved to have something to do. Anything to keep my mind from dwelling on the horrors I had witnessed. I grabbed the scythe and gloves and headed toward the spring.
The work was hard, the brambles thick and thorny. Sweat stung my eyes, and my muscles screamed in protest. But I kept at it, hacking away at the undergrowth with a desperate energy.
As I worked, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. Every now and then, I would glance back at the cabin, but Gareth was always gone. Still, the feeling persisted, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck.
By midday, the path to the spring was clear. I stood back, surveying my work. It wasn't perfect, but it was passable. I dropped the scythe and wiped the sweat from my brow.
As I turned back toward the cabin, I saw him. Gareth was standing at the edge of the woods, his bow drawn, his eyes fixed on something beyond me. He was utterly still, a statue carved from shadow and wood.
I held my breath, waiting for him to move. But he remained motionless, his gaze unwavering. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he lowered his bow.
"Go get the axe," he said, his voice flat. "There's a fallen tree near the south edge of the clearing. We need firewood."
I did as I was told, grabbing the axe from the pile of tools. As I walked past Gareth, I glanced in the direction he had been looking. But I saw nothing, only the dense, impenetrable wall of the forest.
The fallen tree was massive, its trunk thick as a wagon. I swung the axe with all my might, the blade biting deep into the wood. The rhythmic thud of the axe was almost hypnotic, a steady beat against the silence of the forest.
As I chopped, I thought about Gareth. He was a hard man, unyielding and unforgiving. He offered no comfort, no sympathy. He treated me like a stray dog, giving me shelter and food in exchange for labor.
But I also sensed something else beneath his gruff exterior. A deep-seated weariness, a quiet strength. He had seen things, terrible things. And he carried the weight of those experiences with him.
I wondered what had happened to him, what had led him to this isolated life in the heart of the elven forest. I wondered if he had ever known love, if he had ever experienced the kind of loss that I was now grappling with.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the trees, I finished splitting the last of the firewood. I stacked the logs neatly near the cabin, my muscles aching with exhaustion.
Gareth watched me from the doorway, his expression unreadable. He didn't offer a word of praise, but I could see a flicker of something in his eyes. Approval, perhaps. Or maybe just resignation.
In the evening, after another meager meal, Gareth finally spoke about Praag.
"I rode back to the village today," he said, his voice low. "There was nothing left."
His words hit me like a physical blow. I closed my eyes, fighting back the tears. "Grak?" I managed to choke out.
Gareth shook his head. "I found no sign of him. Only ash and bones."
I buried my face in my hands, the grief threatening to overwhelm me. Grak was gone. My mother was gone. Everything I had ever known was gone.
Gareth placed a hand on my shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You're not alone, boy," he said. "You have me."
I looked up at him, my eyes blurred with tears. "Why?" I asked. "Why are you helping me?"
He hesitated, his gaze shifting away. "Because," he said finally, "someone has to."
He stood up and walked to the hearth, stoking the fire. "Get some sleep," he said, his voice rough. "We have a long journey ahead of us."
I lay down near the fire, my mind numb with grief and exhaustion. Gareth's words echoed in my ears, filling me with a mixture of hope and dread. Someone has to. Was that all it was? A sense of duty, a reluctant acceptance of responsibility? Or was there something more beneath his gruff exterior?
As I drifted off to sleep, I couldn't shake the feeling that Gareth Ironwood was still out there—standing guard, either to keep the forest's darkness from reaching me… or to keep me from spilling into it.
The sun had long faded away but I couldn't find comfort in the darkness.