They both slept late into the next day, Witheric waking with a high fever. Restag hurt everywhere, and some of his wounds had reopened from his efforts the night before. With whatever movements his stiff and pain-filled body allowed, he rebuilt the fire and tended to his master, trying to keep him warm. He removed both their cloaks and their wet clothes, changing himself and Witheric into some of his own spares, as the thane’s had all been soaked by the river. For that day and the next, they stayed in place, Witheric’s fever breaking the afternoon of the second day. He was still too weak to walk, though, and Restag was still too sore to have much will for hard travel.

As they ate dinner that night, both still dressed in Restag’s clothes but now bundled in their dried cloaks, the thanesman said to his friend, “You saved my life twice that night. First with the sprite, and then by having enough of a mind still to light the fire. Three times if you count the fight with the Oathless. Thank you, Witheric.”

Smiling sheepishly, Witheric held up his hand, letting sparks jump between his fingers. “I cannot call down Dar’s thunder like Father could, but at least I don’t need a tinderbox.”

Restag released a short laugh. Looking out over the grasslands, he said, “I suggest we stay away from the river for now, at least until the first ice-cover sends the sprites into hiding.”

“Agreed.” Witheric shivered. Looking at his friend’s profile in the dimming light, he said, “Hey, Restag….”

“Yes?”

“You have terrible taste in women.”

“Shut up!” said Restag, tossing a dried shirt at his laughing friend while holding back his own smile. After a moment of thought, he then said, “I do wonder, though, why weren’t you affected? I have never heard of a man being unmoved by a sprite’s song.”

Witheric frowned and began fiddling absently with his brooch. “I don’t know. To say I was ‘unmoved’ does not quite hit the mark. It was beautiful. I recall half-dreams and thinking it beautiful, but I do not know why the snare didn’t catch. Why you but not me? It seems backwards, so why….” His eyes widened and darted down to the metal clasp between his fingers. He gasped, “Of course! The brooch! Father’s brooch is iron. It must have acted as a talisman against the fae’s song!”

Restag turned the idea over in his mind but ended up shaking his head. “No. It still isn’t clear to me. I’m wearing chain mail, and my sword, also, is iron. If it was the iron brooch that warded off the magic, then why was I still ensnared?”

“But your mail is steel, not pure iron, and your sword was sheathed,” countered Witheric. “Iron must be bared to show its teeth, and when mixed with lesser metals, it loses influence. The thinner its purity, the weaker its power.”

“‘Clear-speech from Dar’s mouth,’ if I ever heard it,” said Restag, nodding and grinning ever so slightly as Witheric caught his friend’s reference to the nickname and grimaced. Soon, though, Restag’s eyes grew troubled. “Does this mean I will need to walk with my sword unsheathed? That is ill-fated, calling for trouble.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Witheric, reaching into his pack and pulling out his drawstring bag. “After all, I still have a second brooch.”

Restag stared at the metal, the conflict not leaving his eyes. Eventually, he shook his head again, saying, “No. I can’t. For a mere Thanesman to wear the token of the High Thanes, it is crooked.”

“Oh for the love of– Restag, I am High Thane. I am Bread-Giver, Ring-Giver. It is my right to give what gifts I see fit to those I see fitting of them,” said Witheric, to which Restag could give no objection. What the thane said was simply true. To continue to deny him would be to deny his thane-ship. Even so, Restag looked troubled as he nodded his acceptance. Sighing in exasperation, Witheric rose, pulling out the brooch. Standing over his friend, he said, “Very well, Thanesman Restag Far-Sighted. If you stand iron-willed against my gift, then hand me your sword.”

Utterly confused, Restag obeyed only to jump to his feet in shock as Witheric used the blade to slice open his right hand. “What are you–!”

The thane silenced his thanesman by holding out the blade to him, saying, “And now you, with the other edge.”

Restag stared at his master in near disbelief. “Witheric… you can’t… I’m not….” He stared into his friend’s eyes, seeing the decisive fire within them. He wanted to obey, to listen to his friend, to listen to his master. However…. With a painful sigh, he reached up and placed a hand over his friend’s that held the sword, lowering the blade. Looking Witheric in the eye, he said, “I shall receive your gift, High Thane, and with many thanks. But I… I cannot become your blood brother, Witheric. I cannot join your house.”

The fire in Witheric’s eyes died, replaced by immense hurt that stabbed Restag’s heart. In a confused voice, Witheric said, “Why? Restag, we have fought and lost and won battle after battle together. Now, we have shed blood for each other, and shed the blood of our enemies for the other. I owe you my life, and you yours to me. You, and only you, searched me out and found me and came with me into this place, where we are without home or hearth or family. You, and only you, have always been by my side. Of anyone I know, you are worthy of it. You are worthy to be of the House of High Thanes.”

“Because I don’t want it!” said Restag, trying to sort out his own feelings at that moment. He paused, piecing together his thoughts, before saying, “Witheric, I am honored that you should wish to give me this. I can’t… I do not have the speech to name it truly or give form to it. But I… I am Thanesman, Witheric. Thanesman, not thane. Please. I shall accept your gift. I shall accept whatever you give me, do whatever else you ask of me, go wherever you send or take me. But please, if you have spoken true-speech just now, if those are your true heart-thoughts, then grant me this boon. Only this. Do not make me take this bond, Witheric.”

Restag’s throat tightened as Witheric’s face fell, and the sword with it, the heavy blade landing on the forest floor with a dull thud. Gripping his bleeding hand at his side, the green blood shadowed black against the firelight, Witheric said, “I grant you your boon, Thanesman.”

Breathing out his relief, Restag said, “Thank you, High Thane. Your gift is accepted with many thanks. Now, let me see your hand.”

In the silence that followed, the two knelt together by the fire, Restag cleaning the gash and then carefully wrapping it in a small strip cut from the corner of one of his shirts. Once the binding was finished, Witheric stared at it, cradling it in his hand before whispering, “Restag, I’m… I am sorry.”

Pausing as he rolled up his shirts, Restag said, “You are tired, and you have just gotten over a fever. By the way, are you sure you don’t want me to use more of this for your feet?”

Witheric shook his head. “I can walk.”

Seeing his friend and master bent like a withered plant made Restag uneasy. Though they had known each other all their lives, both from growing up in the same town and the close relationship between their families, they had rarely disagreed like this before. Small arguments here and there, or Restag pushing back on Witheric’s ideas, or something of the like, but something like this… it was almost like seeing his closest friend and sword-brother reveal himself to be in fact a stranger. Restag knew how to act with Witheric. He did not know how to act with this new, strange man he had just seen.

Unable to think of what else to do, Restag held out his hand. “Were you not bestowing on me a token of your favor, my thane?”

Smiling, but with the pain still in his eyes, Witheric handed over the brooch. According to the rightful ways, he was supposed to put it on his friend, as the thane bestowing the gift, but he was glad that Restag did not insist on the tradition just then. He did not much feel himself worthy of his thanesman at that moment.

After clipping the brooch to his cloak, Restag bowed, saying, “I, your unworthy servant, accept this thane’s-gift with many thanks and only hope to someday prove myself worthy of it.”

Smiling sadly, Witheric shook his head resignedly at his mulish friend. How could he, Witheric High Thane, ever deserve to have such a Thanesman? Oh, how the gods shrouded themselves in their secret ways and wove the threads of fate beyond man’s sight. He kept these musing to himself, knowing what kinds of answers the proud thanesman would give and how untrue they would be. Out loud, he said, “Get some sleep, Thanesman. You have toiled when you should have rested for your thane’s sake. Now, your thane orders you to bed, to be ready for the toils of Dar’s-hours.”

Restag bowed again. “Yes, my thane.”