Wilbur and Ryne, sleeves rolled up and faces flushed from the heat of the fire, stood beside the giant brass cooking pot, stirring a fragrant stew that filled the monastery with warmth. They chuckled softly as children crowded around them, their wide eyes and eager faces lit by the flickering firelight.
The sound of footsteps broke through the evening’s calm. Both monks looked up to see two figures emerging from the mist, flanked by several small shadows trailing behind them. At first, Wilbur thought they were weary travelers seeking refuge. But as the figures drew closer, recognition sparked in his sharp eyes.
“It’s Claude and Gabriella,” Ryne said, his tone shifting from curiosity to concern.
Without hesitation, the monks rushed forward. Gabriella, her scarf askew and apron smudged with dirt, looked exhausted. Claude’s steady arm was around her.
The children hesitated at the threshold of the monastery, their thin bodies shivering from the cold and their faces marked with fear. They were not accustomed to kindness, especially from the clergy, whose presence in the town was often stern and distant.
When the children’s wary eyes fell on Ryne, some of them instinctively shrank back, their gazes fixed on the strange, swirling marks on his face that seemed to shift under the firelight. But one child, Oscar, stepped forward.
The small boy squinted at Ryne, his expression thoughtful. Then recognition lit his face, and he broke into a hesitant smile. “You’re the one who scared away the big wolf,” Oscar said, his voice a quiet squeak.
Ryne knelt, his warm smile softening the angular planes of his face. “That’s right,” he said gently. “And I’m here to keep you safe now too.”
Slowly, the boy crept closer, his tiny hand reaching out to grasp Ryne’s. The other children watched, curious, and one by one, they inched closer to the communal fire.
Wilbur placed a steady hand on Claude’s shoulder, his sharp gaze softening as he took in the man’s tired expression. “You’ve been through quite a night,” he said quietly.
Claude said, “There are more out there who need help.”
Wilbur’s lips pressed into a thin line as he glanced at the children gathering around the fire. “Then we’ll prepare for them,” he said firmly. He glanced at Ryne, who gave him a nod.
Gabriella stepped forward, holding out the herbs she’d gathered. “These might help with the soup,” she said, her voice shaky but resolute.
Wilbur took the herbs with a grateful nod.
Ryne smiled warmly at Oscar, then opened his arms to the other children, coaxing the little ones to take hesitant steps forward.
Ealhstan lingered at the edge of the woods, his imposing figure partially obscured by the trees. These new ones would undoubtedly be afraid of him. Best he hide in the shadows. He watched Agate, Harlan, Woodrow, and Wilbur worked steadily to guide the children inside the church.
Gabriella and Wilbur took to preparing a bath in the infirmary. Once the children were inside, Ealhstan discreetly heated the water using tools from his forge.
Meanwhile, Claude joined Ryne in the monastery’s kitchens. Together, they rummaged through the stored barrels for turnips, gathered eggs from the hens, and milked the goats. Their combined efforts produced a hearty stew that filled the church with the smell of warmth and comfort.
The children, after being scrubbed clean by Gabriella and Wilbur using lye and warm water, were dressed in freshly laundered clothes provided by the women and children of Kent. Their old, ragged garments were left to soak in soapy basins. Exhaustion overtook the children quickly, and they curled up in the infirmary cots, the warmth of the blankets lulling them into a dreamless sleep.
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Wilbur stayed behind as the others left to rest, taking a bead of blood from each child’s fingertip when no one was looking. He pressed the samples to his tongue, his unnaturally sharp senses deciphering their health.
He shook his head solemnly. “Cold, hungry, and severely deficient in calcium and iron,” he muttered to himself. He glanced at Ryne as he entered the room. “We’ll need to keep the goats ready for milking tomorrow and find more eggs.”
Ryne nodded. Wilbur turned his gaze toward the corner of the infirmary, where Gabriella and Claude returned to sit in hushed conversation. Gabriella looked pale, her hands trembling slightly from exhaustion. Wilbur stepped away to prepare a calming draught.
He handed the cup to Gabriella, his voice soft. “Here, drink this. It’ll help.”
She took the cup gratefully, her fingers brushing his for a moment before she sipped. The warmth spread through her, easing the tightness in her chest.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice steadying.
Wilbur nodded and turned his attention back to the children, his mind already racing with plans for their continued care.
Woodrow entered and caught them just at the moment when they were talking about her husband.
“You can’t go back there alone,” Claud einsisted, holding her arm. “Call the bailiff. Call your friends. Take your children and come live with us. Saints know Annette needs friends her age.”
Woodrow noticed the woman had a look of defeat on her face. She patted Claude’s face gently. “Sweet boy, you know they will never take a woman’s side. It is fine. He won’t hurt me badly.”
Ryne looked alarmed and was about to speak when Woodrow grabbed his shoulder. He looked at Gabriella. “He won’t hurt you at all. You have my word.”
Gabriella blinked in surprise, as though hearing those words for the first time. But the fatigue from the long night, the stress of her journey, was taking its toll, and she blinked her tired eyes. She didn’t have the strength to argue or resist. Her thoughts drifted as she took another sip of the calming draught, the warm liquid easing the tension in her body.
Woodrow stood, his figure towering over the room like a silent protector. He glanced over at Ryne, asking for permission to act.
Ryne, still deep in thought, nodded without hesitation. “Have you fed?” He asked quietly, his eyes never leaving Woodrow’s face.
Woodrow shook his head, the hunger in his eyes almost imperceptible beneath the surface of his calm demeanor. “No, but I can charm his memories enough. Convince him he stumbled, that it was the mist that made him fall. I can make him think nothing happened.” But Ryne noticed Woodrow was unsure.
Ryne closed his eyes for a brief moment, feeling the weight of the decision. The risk was worth it to protect Gabriella and the children. Woodrow felt a shift in the air, like a string loosening around his chest, and he knew Ryne had agreed.
----------------------------------------
Woodrow felt the strain on his arms as if he was manacled, for he was bound to Ryne in Rothfield monastery. But he had enough strength to push through the invisible chains around him to enter Rothfield town. Shame he couldn’t see more of the place now that he was here, a new place outside of the monastery. He saw the brute laying face down on the dirt. He turned him around and was glad that Claude landed a neat blow to the side of the head, not enough to cause long-term damage, He whistled appreciatively.
Woodrow slapped the grumbling man awake.
“..Wah–?” The man groaned.
Woodrow crouched down. As soon as his eyes opened, Woodrow charmed him and convinced him he had stumbled. His green eyes glowed and he felt his power drift away from him and into his words. He picked the brute up unceremoniously, and added, channeling the last bit of his power, “You will hesitate before you hit your wife again. If it were up to me, you would lose your arm, you swine.”
The man, now groaning as he tried to rise, shook his head and staggered to his feet. Woodrow’s words hung in the air like a curse. The threat of losing an arm was not an empty one, and the man’s shuddering breath seemed to prove that he would think twice before raising his fists again.
Still, Woodrow didn’t stay to witness the aftermath. His hunger gnawed at him, a persistent ache that twisted in his chest. As the bloodlust stirred within, his teeth elongated, sharp and craving. It was a temptation he had to resist, though, as his purpose now was to protect those in Rothfield, not to sate his own hunger.
Woodrow darted back toward Rothfield, moving through the streets like a shadow, eager to get away from the man he had just charmed. The cold night air rushed past him.