Abigail sat, pondering, wondering. For it had been a couple of days since she and the silent man had been “guided” to their new dwelling. A dwelling she hated to her very core, a dwelling that held no warmth, no fond memories and no life. The room feeling like a gust of strong wind suddenly hitting you, suffocating you as you tried to breathe.

A dwelling that had transformed from awfull, to wonderfull. A place filled with memories, memories of the quiet man. Once dark, now tinted with the colour of orange, the colour from the lantern, bright and wonderfull, her new favorite colour. Once boring, now filled with activities done with the quiet man. Once a chamber for punishment, now but a place of fondness.

She sat and stared while the quiet man, the strange man, carved a new statue efficiently and quite elegantly. A thing she knew he was good at, a thing she’d seen him do before, a dragon gifted she’d even accepted. She stared as he carved, little else to do in their little room, still one of her favorite things to do. Lost in her mind as her eyes followed each diligent stroke, each push of a knife, each wood chip flying away.

He’d been at it for days, ever since he goofed and managed to make the entire pile of planks fall on top of himself. A silly mistake, a funny mistake. A mistake that led to her laughing, laughing something terribly loud. Highly unusual and strange considering their situation. Laughing that led to him tickling her and being just a terrible person. If he wasn’t so big and strong she’d tickle him back, she’d really do it. Yeah she would.

The strange man suddenly took a deep breath, sucking in like the loudest hurricane, blowing out like the gentlest breeze, empty of all sound. Something very peculiar, very strange, something to add to the ever-growing list of peculiarities about the quiet man. Another peculiarity being his carvings.

She remembered when the quiet man had first started carving. She thought him bored, unentertained and, or restless. But with each statue he had made, his fervor just kept growing and growing and she quickly understood that there were something more to these statues. Something more she couldn’t place or understand.

Then her mind fell a bit, the earlier humour drying off as she remembered his stomach, noted his tendency to lean easily backwards, a tendency to lessen the pain on his wound. A wound she knew to be her fault, a wound that gnawed at her mind, gnawed like a parasite sucking away at her heart. Her mind darkening, her failure apparent, her mood ruined.

She hadn’t managed to not think about it, even if the strange man seemed to not be the slightest bit bothered by it. Even seemed spurred-on by it, more insistent to carve his weird yet beautiful statues. He’d tried to calm her, managed somewhat to make her not think about it, managed to somewhat make her feel like it might not be her fault.

Exampels being that time when he insisted she eat her soup, almost forcefully, looking worried about her, worried for her. Being like how she thought a father might be. Or that time he made her laugh with that dragon, quite shamefully she might add, again. Or that time he used his body to protect her, even when he collapsed as soon as Noah retreated away. Retreating away with a smile he wore after he’d spoken about the church, probably the only thing Noah actually loved.

But yeah, the quiet man really was a strange man. A wonderfull man. A man she’d done not but fail and betray.

She continued watching the strange man carve. Pondering, wondering what might go on inside his head. What things he might think about, what sights he might see. How his life was, how he struggled with his muteness, if he had a family of his own or what he thought about her.

Then she wondered, wondered how he’d gotten so good at carving. A thing she first assumed came naturally to him, but with each successive failure, with each statue that to her, was amazing, but to him was something to be thrown away. She truly wondered what it took to get as good as him.

Then she remembered how he’d taught her, how he’d so gently guided her, how he’d shown her that her failures were not something to feel frightened about, but take as something to be learned. She remembered how worried he had looked after he had helped her, thinking he’d ruined her bad statue. Thinking nothing of her failures. Probably not even realizing it to be one.

Her good feeling came back, leaning backwards into the stomach of the quiet man, doing so ever so gently. Feeling his warmth even through his big clothes, feeling him looming over her, not feeling the slightest bit scared or uncomfortable, the opposite really. Human touch is not one of her favorite things, changing with each passing day spent with the strange man.

She watched as he carved yet another beautiful statue, this one of a robed man with so much muscles that she’d think him too muscled. More muscles than she’d ever seen on a man before, but something that seemed like a theme to the strange man. Maybe it was something he desired? Or wanted. Maybe that to be the reason for him not touching her. Something that made her giggle, for it felt like it suited the strange man.

But her giggle softened to a still when she felt the quiet man’s body tighten. Tighten in the way men would when one got angry. Something that would usually make her feel scared, now only confused. She turned to look up at the quiet man, stopped as she saw, in the corner of her eye, that he had slipped. She saw how he’d accidentally cut a little too hard and managed to cut the entire arm of the robed man.

And she blinked in surprise, she stared with big eyes. For she had never seen him fail before. She’d seen him do statue upon statue, carving after carving, each one not worthy of his outlandish expectations. Seen how much time he’d spent on each statue just to throw them away. But she’d never seen him fail.

And then she looked a little harder and felt something lighten from her mind. Felt like a puzzle piece had fitted, like a problem finally solved. For this failure, it felt so human, so normal, that she could do nothing but gawk at the statue in his hands. The statue was broken, it was a failure; it was hidden, and it felt silent. This statue was just like her. She felt it like she felt the sun to be hot.

And then she felt a longing, a longing she had only felt when she'd seen the dragon that the quiet man had made for her. But this longing felt very different from the longing for the dragon. She stared at the statue, at the robed man, and realized why. For she saw herself in it, she saw the quiet man in it, and she knew she would always do so. She knew that this statue, this robed man, would always bring back memories of a time that wasn’t broken. Of a time that wasn’t so bad. That this time wasn’t just a fantasy.

She quickly wanted to express those feelings, quickly wanted to show those feelings, wanted the quiet man to understand what she’d understood. An emotion she did not know she had, an instinct she thought she did not posses.

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But her way of expressing those emotions was hard, coming out with two simple words that contained nothing of her great desire, of her admiration, of her happiness. “It’s broken” she had simply stated, not realizing how mean that sounded. Reaching for the statue with her slightly quivering hands, quivering as if reaching for a drink of water after a long days of work.

And as she grabbed it, she studied it even closer, drinking in every detail, watching every crevice, seeing all the tiny little mistakes, loving the statue even further. She touched it, felt it, smiling as the statue spoke to her very soul.

She turned around swiftly, staring up at the quiet man with his bald head and shaven chin, a scar going from the top of his head down to the back of his ear, quite ugly but also quite beautiful. He looked down on her. She looked up at him and quickly asked, “Can I keep it?”.

Feeling awkward about asking, not remembering if she had ever asked something like that before. The question making the quiet man go quiet, quiet in his way. Staring between her and the statue. His expression going from surprise to one she’d never seen before.

At first, she stared expectantly. But as time passed, a lot of time passed, more time than she could comfortably sit in one position, he still hadn’t given her an answer. And she felt that she’d asked for too much, asked more from the man that been nothing but good to her.

Then he suddenly roused, eyes bulging open as he stared dumbfounded at the statue, at the robed man. He stared with such intensity that Abigail had to look to see what had happened, if anything. Seeing nothing. But noticing the quiet man move, then start turning the statue around in his hands. Turning and turning while staring intently, moving the knife closer. Then he carved a rune, a rune she couldn’t quite see, he’d done it too quickly, too expertly for her to see which rune. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was what happened next.

The robed man started gaining colour, a bright red, red like the deepest amber, like the heart of a dragon. She gazed at the light, expanding in strength, in brightness, eclipsing all other colour of her world. Her new world being bright red. She stared, feeling drawn in as if a moth to a flame. Then something flickered in the red, flickered like a passing thought. She looked for the flicker, feeling herself drawing closer, drawing within the red, drawn within the robed man. Drawn within to something she couldn’t place. She couldn’t describe, couldn’t understand. But from that place, she felt. Life. Pure and raging, fueled even larger by the deepness of the red.

All of a sudden, it turned towards her, the red. She couldn’t say how she knew, but she knew. And it stared back at her, searching her. It searched as if it looked through her entire life. Then it stopped, stopped as if finding something, something it seemed to take inspiration by, forming itself anew. It’s new form almost exactly the same, but a little different, feeling. Hotter.

Then she was back, back into her own body, not realizing she had been gone. The redness was gone too, gone to be replaced by the robed man being still within the quiet man’s hands. But he did not stay still for long, suddenly raising his head. Abigail blinked at the sight, even more surprised by this than the earlier red, something she could explain away with the power of a rune. But him moving should, by all accounts, be impossible.

Then he waved! He waved! How is that even possible? There is nothing but a simple rune on him, this should not be possible.

A light lit within Abigail, a childlike glee like that of a playing kitten. Glee stemming from awe and wonder, bright like the stars in the sky, like the full moon at night. Being like her stories of dragons, but real and better.

Abigail then remembered an old, unimportant detail, a tale told by the passing merchants. Merchants that spoke loudly when they thought her asleep. Telling stories of a toymaker walking the country, creating life in toys. A preposterous thing. A thing told by peasants for children. But a tale with the spark of truth, as the queen was hunting this very toymaker herself, a hefty reward for anyone who could bring him back. And escapades told about him slaying monsters, monsters even royal knights would have a hard time fighting.

A toymaker that was sitting just behind her.

But then, as her mind felt overloaded, overloaded by fantasies brought to life. Reality came crashing in, ruining what little spark she had. The reality being Noah, stating simply what she already knew.

“You’re the toymaker.”

Making her quickly turn towards him, seeing his eyes swollen in sheer panic. An expression she’s only seen twice before, one of those times because of the toymaker, the other because of her running away from her task. In those words that Noah spoke, she understood them to be like poison, like finding a snake on the ground. He spoke as if nothing worse could have happened, and quickly disappeared up the stairs. The sound of a door closing quickly following.

Abigail’s heart skipped a beat, wanting escape, wanting to run, to breathe heavily as it threatened to push her over the brink. She turned around, seeking her only source of comfort, seeing the toymaker’s face contorted in slight panic. Eyes darting too and fro, around their tiny little room then down on the statue. He blinked, blinked, and blinked. Then turned to look at her, forcing a very awkward smile, then pushed her aside. She cooperated, but stuck to his side, casting glances at the stairs, wondering when Noah would come back, and what he’d do.

The toymaker then dropped the statue gently on the ground and started gesturing. Gesturing by grabbing his chains and miming ripping them apart. The robed man watching, and as the toymaker finished, he walked up to the chains.

The toymaker and Abigail glancing at one another as the robed man grabbed the chain with one hand, then paused as he glanced down on his empty arm. The toymaker grabbing the sides of his head, shaking slightly as he closed his eyes. Thinking hard by the looks of it. The robed man imitating with one arm.

Then he quickly opened his eyes and gestured once more. This time with one arm, tugging at the chains. The robed man watching, imitating. Pulling in a vain attempt to move the chains, barely able to make them lift from the ground. The toymakers expression turning to pure horror, looking up from the robed man towards the dark stairs. No sound coming from it.

He then started yanking harder, the robed man imitating, but it didn’t look like the toymaker did it for the benefit of the robed man. Instead, it looked as if he was yanking with panic in his eyes. Something that made Abigail’s throat tighten up, a weight growing, pulling her down.

The toymaker pulled and pulled, dragged and yanked while the robed man imitated. The two in a flailing of limbs, pulling as if their life depended on it, maybe it did. Pulling until the toymaker slipped, slipped as his hands pulled backwards, something wet flying across the room as his body crashed back, forcefully held aloof by the chain on the wall.

He groaned soundlessly, one hand shaking slightly, dripping red droplets onto the dark ground. The next second he threw himself upwards, upwards and taking a firmer grip around the chain, using the hand that wasn’t bloodied. He grabbed hard, then braced his legs against the wall, barely reaching, then pushed, pushed hard. Pushed so hard that veins started popping. Pushed so hard that his eyes closed. Pushed so hard that his skin started turning red. Abigail looking on, feeling herself taking a hold of her own chains, pulling with the little strength she herself had. The two doing their utmost to free themselves.

But Abigail stopped as the clattering of chains echoed out beside her, and as she turned to look, saw the toymaker laid out on the ground with his head faced upwards, staring up at the ceiling. Abigail stared at him. The two staring. The two feeling lost. Hope leaving like water down a drain. Hope she didn’t realise she had.

Abigail blinked, then laid down herself. Laid down next to the toymaker. Arm against arm, staring up at the murky ceiling, seeing a spiderweb, absentmindedly wondering where the spider was. The two staying still, one breathing heavily, the other doing so too, but soundlessly.

Time like sand, filtering slowly down a steep hill.

Then suddenly, red light emerged into their darkened world. Two heads shifting to see why, seeing the robed man glowing red, hand firmly placed on the chain. A chain that glowed with a deep intensity, dark red too light red, light red too bright orange. Then with a small pop and a spark, it fell apart. Now two chains instead of one.

And the two just blinked, staring as the robed man turned to look at the toymaker, waiting to imitate more.