I suppose I have to admit it now . . . I really don’t know if this letter will ever reach you, nor how. It’s been a week since I last touched it, but I’m still kicking. Where even was I? Oh. Oh yeah. I . . . well, truth be told, I got over your betrayal, or so I thought. That’s what I took to calling it, a betrayal. But long last, survivalism took over my life and my focus became hunting, eating, and staying on the move. I didn’t want to get too far away, or so said some part of me, lest you come back some night in need of help. No, that was silly. Rumors. I’d listen for rumors and ask around.

Frankly, I’d given up on you. I didn’t bother asking around anymore. The part of me that loved you like family, I wrapped it in bitterness and anger and shoved it down. As I said, that only worked because I was on my toes at all times. The real reason I roamed around was to avoid capture. Everywhere I went, I stirred up instant animosity. They always, always wanted to kill me. They didn’t always say it immediately. There’d be looks and glances shared, all as though pretending I wouldn’t notice. Skittish behavior, wary eyes. Inevitably, soldiers. Or just a group of tall men with pitchforks and spears. It was hard enough to stand up against one hume, much less an armed group. I had me bow and trusty knacker cutlass, but that was it.

That and a warm coat you made for me. I kept that on me at all times, even when it was too hot to wear it.

Before I knew it, I’d lost track of the time that passed. Years. Summers scorched, winters blew in. It was so strange to live in the land of humes, an outcast surviving largely in the wooded frontier, sometimes the southern plains. I’d done it with you, but that was . . . that was different. A different life. I saw this as the beginning of my new life. I kept track, though, as I heard tell of events and happenings in the surrounding lands. As little as I knew or understood these lands, I had a sharp memory and tended to take note when a warlord was stirring up trouble or someone’s least favorite landowner took sick and died. I never wrote any of it down, despite you teaching me well. That would . . . dredge up bad memories.

Eight years from the days when you first took me in, that was when I heard the shocking news. No, it wasn’t the news that shocked me; the shock came after. A town had been set on fire by the Tola raiders, the no-good human tribe from the east. I recognized the name of the town, Hemwell, but that was about it. I was all set to avoid the goings-on when I met up with some fleeing refugees. In their haste and plight, they didn’t bother to speak angrily with me, and actually said that they were on their way to find help for a woman and child. They asked if I could see what I could do. It seemed such an odd request that I actually stopped to consider it. Before I could help myself, I was saying yes.

Yes? What a fool you are, Finch! I thought to myself as I ran off toward the village. The warriors are gone now, yeah right. Didn’t make it any better. They said the flames might be out of control by now. They could have at least accompanied me. Every instinct seemed to scream at me to run the other way as I progressed toward the attacked village. Every instinct except . . . that one that I could neither place nor explain. The one you instilled in me. Or awoke?

No raiders in sight—that at least was good.

It was a dark evening, and at first I mistook the black smoke for more of the heavy clouds, but as I got closer, I made out the billowing trails and followed them to Hemwell. It was a small village, surrounded by a rather pathetic wooden fence. Strong enough to keep large beasts out, but not tall enough to stop humes and too large-gapped between planks to keep grems out.

Most of the houses were in the latter stages of a blaze, where the fire’s consumed just about everything and finally seems to realize it. I should know, from my torching days. Some were smoldering from successful efforts of bold remaining villagers to stamp them out. The raiders, thankfully, had already passed through, but they had left a right mess in their wake: screaming lovers, dying children, exhausted men who’d stayed behind when the Tola passed through. They’d left many bodies in their wake, and I knew just enough about them to know they’d taken some who hadn’t escaped. Not all of them, as evidenced by the remaining people . . . though most of them were wounded or dying.

But one voice, one wailing cry, broke through, the cry of a little humeling. Normally I didn’t pay attention to children, and I’d certainly heard them cry before, but . . . no, it was its mother. I heard her too. It must be her, but where were they? I cautiously crept into the village, noticed by no one except a dying man who leaned against one of the few untouched houses. He reached out a hand toward me, but I cringed away. I think he tried to speak. Behind the house . . . there. The woman crouched on the ground, shielding her baby from the smoky fumes. No, she was nursing it.

She looked up sharply as soon as she heard me, and I froze, trying to retract a gulp in my throat. Why did she look . . . then I recognized you. I gasped and ran to you. One hand on the baby, you made a shushing motion and I took the hint. You remember the day. Of course you do. I could swear my heart stopped when I got over my momentary self-denial and accepted the fact that you were actually there. I forgot how to breathe, how to walk, how to look away. I didn’t know how to react. I just stood there, watching you.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Finch,” you called to me, just loud enough for me to hear over the shouting and coughing and weeping. “How did you find me, buddy?”

Slowly, I recovered, at least enough to feel awkward at finding you in such an exposed state. Stupid of me to even think that, though, at this time. “M-Marianne, what are you still doing here?” I demanded, trying to be quiet.

The baby started stirring and crying again, and you turned and withdrew it, buttoning your smoke-stained blouse. I watched as you brought the child into my line of sight, and felt a hiccup in my chest. It was too strange for me to comprehend: your . . . child. Or someone else’s, I wondered? No, that didn’t seem likely, from what I knew of humes. Which wasn’t much, of course. But who was the father, I asked myself? Were you married now?

When you spoke again, it was to draw my attention to your leg, which had been an arrow sticking out of it. Can’t rightly imagine how much that must have hurt, and how you put your little one before that pain. I gasped and rushed up, but you just shied away. “It’s not that bad, I just can’t exactly walk.” All that nonsense.

I gave no thought to all my anger and resentment I’d built up toward you over those years. In fact, it seemed to have dissipated already, just seeing your faint smile. I readily scooped you up—well, not exactly scooped, but you know what I mean—and helped you to walk, trying to take as much weight as I could off your wounded leg. Didn’t bother with the arrow yet, since that’s the way I’d been taught. Still don’t know how far we walked. I tried not to quiz you too much, but I wanted to know what had happened to the village, why the Tola attacked and how far gone they were, all that stuff. Of course, you weren’t in much of a state to talk. If I’d had a better grip on myself, I’d have kept my trap shut. The baby sure didn’t. Between the two of us, I know you had a miserable trip. Oh, and all the blood you were leaking from your leg.

Finally, when you seemed too exhausted to go on, we stopped and you cradled the baby while I yanked the arrow from your thigh. I swear it pained me just as much as it did you, and that was abundantly clear from your face and silent gasp. I was crying, I know that. I bandaged it as best I could with what supplies I had on me. You slept there in the woods, and I spent most of the night awake, watching over you and making sure the little guy didn’t crawl away. He was . . . what, a year old by then? I had no idea how to judge a humeling’s age at that point, but I think that lines up.

The next day, even after you’d gotten plenty of rest, you looked just as exhausted, and not just because of your leg. All that blood lost. . . . No, something else that I suspected had to do with the kid’s daddy somehow. You didn’t say much to me, aside from expressing your gratitude. When I asked, you told me those travelers I’d met were probably your only real friends in the village, and that you’d been living there for only a short time. I didn’t push for any more. There really wasn’t a rush, and you were recovering from the raider attack in more ways than one. Living the rustic life with you felt like a breath of fresh, familiar air, though the humeling really put a damper on things sometimes . . .

You eventually told me about the dad. How he was a traveler like you, and you met along the road and just . . . stuck together. I thought that was sorta strange, but hey, who was I to judge? What you didn’t tell me was what had happened before that. Back when . . . you know. And . . . I’ll admit, it was starting to bring back that black coal of resentment, like you were hiding something from me on purpose. I started to notice how you did so carefully yet . . . with uncertainty, not ill will. Didn’t matter; it still hurt.

Finally, I just asked you about it. I . . . well, you remember, I’m sure. You looked absolutely panicked as soon as you realized what I wanted to know, and about to cry. I’m sure I came off a lot more bitter than I meant, too. Then . . . you surprised me by sweeping me up in a hug. Lifted me right off my feet. And you were crying. Apologizing. It was like a dam burst, and whatever was holding you back fell away.

You told me about it. How you went out expecting another day of foraging, only to meet the slavers. They captured and beat you, and treated you like an animal—worse, from the sound of it—the whole way back to Tal’Quvain. Once you started telling me the story, it was like you couldn’t stop. I listened in shock as you told of the horrible humes and their whips, and of the slave camp outside Tal’Quvain where you worked while they waited to take you to auction. Of the first master you got, that one with the nasty temper and all the wives. Of the sudden riot in the streets that gave you the opportunity to escape—I couldn’t help but cheer at that part—and your desperate flight across the desert.

I still don’t understand how you did that. All I could think was you’re amazing and that’s how. Perhaps the gods were watching out for you. It was hard to imagine that you’d been living such a crazy life without me. And after all that . . . an astonishingly normal life with him. The man you never named. I didn’t press, because it didn’t really matter. I knew wee Patrick’s name, of course, since you said it many times per day. I really wish I could have been around to watch the kid grow up—though of course I got to do that later—but . . . I’ve found life has a way of taking away things I never should have had anyway. Like you. But why did it have to tease me all the time? Being back on the road with you, child or no, was a joy that I will never forget. But it made sense that you had to leave once more.

Just . . . still wasn’t easy saying goodbye.