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“Lacklon.”
Say what you like about Miriam—and Maker knows Lacklon has said his share—but she’s sneaky as fuck. There’s no sound of crunching leaves or snapping branches, no movement at the edge of his vision, not even that sour-sweet smell of unwashed elf to give her away. She’s just there , across their campsite from him, sitting with her feet tucked under her like she’s been there for hours.
Lacklon doesn’t jump, of course. He’s a professional .
“Miriam.” He tips his head backwards in acknowledgement, working the whetstone against his axe with steady precision. “Everything all right?”
“They’re back,” she says, producing a knife from somewhere and flipping it idly from hand to hand. “Left the message, got the supplies, no problem.”
“Good.” Between Miriam’s skill with makeup and Qwydion’s own spellwork, she and Roland had been damn near unrecognizable when they left; still, it’s nice to have the confirmation. “They down by the river?”
Miriam makes a quiet noise of agreement. “Roland wanted to wash up,” she says, “And Qwydion bought some kind of a charm that’s supposed to draw fish to you, so…” She shrugs. “We’ll see what that does.”
“Good to know.” Fresh fish would be nice, actually, particularly if Lacklon doesn’t have to catch it himself. “Anything else?”
“No.” There’s an odd note in Miriam’s voice, but she meets his eyes calmly enough, face carefully blank.
Lacklon shrugs. “Okay.” He checks the edge of his blade against his thumbnail, grunts in satisfaction, and flips it over to start work on the other side.
No sense in pushing, after all. If Miriam wants to say something, she’ll say it; if not, fuck it. Lacklon knows better than to chase that nug.
The quiet of the forest curls around them, the kind of silence built of a hundred tiny noises: the rush of wind in the leaves, the creak of branches overhead, the distant ripple of water against stone. Lacklon turns his attention back to his axe, working over the blade from tip to tip with slow, even strokes, losing himself in the rasp of metal on stone.
“You don’t trust me.”
Lacklon keeps his eyes on his work, forces his hands steady, but can’t quite manage to do the same for his face. “Well—”
“No, it’s good,” Miram says, cutting him off. “That’s—you shouldn’t, probably.”
Lacklon does look up at that, eyebrows raised. “You planning to screw us all over?”
“No,” Miriam says, “but I think we both know that it doesn’t always matter what people plan to do.”
Lacklon tips his head to the side: fair enough .
“And Hira—we were—I thought—” Miriam tips her head backwards with an exasperated huff of breath. “I think we both know I’m pretty fucked up from—” she twirls her hand vaguely “—you know, everything.”
“I mean.” Lacklon wrinkles his nose. “I wasn’t going to say it, but if the belt fits…”
“Yeah.” It comes out somewhere between a laugh and a sob; when Lacklon looks up, Miriam’s eyes are closed, her lips pressed together in a thin, bitter line. “Yeah, pretty much.” She takes a slow, deep breath and lets it out through her nose, then shakes her head and sits back up, meeting his eyes. “You trust Roland, though.”
Lacklon sets his jaw, narrowing his eyes at her. “You said you were fine with it.” Not that he cares what some half-crazed elf thinks, but it’s a question of principle. Lovers are one thing, but partners are something else entirely, and Lacklon’s not in the mood to be a chisel between two halves of a whole.
“No, no,” Miriam says, waving her hand between them like she’s trying to clear away smoke. “It’s good, it’s fine, that’s—it’s good,” she says. “That you two—it’s good. You can trust him.” She shakes her head, smiling small and rueful. “You should trust him.”
“...I do,” Lacklon says, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. “He’s—yeah.”
“Yeah,” Miriam agrees, nodding. “He really is.”
Another pause, just as heavy with meaning as the last one. Lacklon fusses with his axe for a few moments, waiting, letting the silence build, until—
“If I—” Miriam looks down at her hands, biting her lip. “If things get bad,” she says slowly, “I mean, like— really bad.” She lifts her head, meeting his gaze. “You should get him out.”
“Because that would go over so well.” Lacklon rolls his eyes. “I thought you said you were okay with it.”
“I am!”
“Right,” Lacklon says, nodding. “And you think that trying to make him—what, leave you behind?” Miriam colors, mouth opening, but he cuts her off. “You think that would fly with him?”
Miriam’s face shutters. “It should."
“Hey, I’m not arguing with you, I’m just saying.” Lacklon shakes his head. “If I try to make him choose between you and me, we both know what he’s going to choose.”
“But that’s—” Miriam brings her hands up to her face, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “He shouldn’t do that.”
“Family doesn’t know about ‘shouldn’t’,” Lacklon says, shrugging. “Least, mine never did.”
“Yeah.” Miriam laughs, wet and broken. “Mine didn’t either.” She scrubs her hands across her face, then drops them into her lap, staring at Lacklon with red-rimmed, accusing eyes. “So, what—you’re just going to let him throw himself after me?”
Lacklon shrugs. “That, or I keep you from getting yourself killed in the first place.”
“Oh, well.” Miriam rolls her eyes, mouth quirking with laughter. “Is that all.”
“I mean.” Lacklon sets his axe aside and looks at Miriam, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been doing it for, what, twenty years?” He tips his head to the side. “I figure it can’t be that much of a challenge.”
“You—I—” Miriam sputters, eyes narrowing. “Oh, I’ll show you a fucking challenge, you little—”
By the time Roland and Qwydion make it back from the river, she’s got him face-down in a pile of dead leaves, one hand twisted up behind his back while he yanks at her hair with the other.
“Maker’s sweaty armpits,” Qwydion says, dropping her armful of fish into the dirt. “What are you—why—what the fuck!” She whirls around to face Roland, arms flung wide. “Excuse me, are you seeing this?”
“Mmm, yes.” Roland’s mouth curves in an aggravatingly attractive smile. “I’m glad you two are getting along so well.”