A flow of curses sounded from the closet, followed by several loud thumps and even more profanities and calling for damnation upon the witch. From her distance, she laughed her dry, crackled laugh and said, “Careful, child. Do not hit too hard or you’ll undo all the work I did on that arm of yours. Nasty, nasty work. Surprised you didn’t lose it to the hounds. There, that’s better. You see? I did as I promised. Can’t do anything about the scars, but you can use it. No use eating a useless thing, now is there?”

Restag glowered at the old woman. It was true. He hadn’t realized in the moment how much better his arm felt, nor the new bandages wrapped skilfully around it, but that did little to ingratiate to him the ugly form just out of reach.

Recovering her composure, the witch pretended to swat away the glare and said, “Bah! Such shifty blood. Cold when thinking and hot when acting, and nary the twain shall meet. You must be favored by Svanril, Halsk take her. A little hesitation wouldn’t hurt, you know. Like your thane.”

Looking now to Witheric, who watched the exchange with a troubled brow and wide, uncertain eyes, cooled Restag’s temper. The witch nodded and said, “Good. That’s better. Now then, little High Thane, give me the braid and then run along.”

“What? No!” cried Witheric, holding the precious item close. “I’m not leaving without Re- my thanesman.”

Clicking her tongue, the witch said, “Almost let me catch a name there, didn’t you? Quick learner, boy. In any case, I already told you, it would be a cheat for you to take two but only give one.”

Reaching back into his bag, Witheric pulled out the hairpin, saying, “You didn’t say this was useless earlier. Would it be enough?”

The witch looked over the ornament, but eventually said, “No. It is silver, yes, which is of great use for one of Dir, but it has not the ties and tangles of heart-felt loss from him for it to be a fair trade. Even when laying aside my treating his wound.”

A touch of despair crept into Witheric’s heart and settled there, gradually growing as he tried to think of something else, something to save his friend, but he could think of nothing. Then the witch spoke again, her voice almost lilting as she said, “However….”

Both men’s eyes focused on the witch, who feigned indecision before carrying on. “Yes, yes I think I can. How about, little thane, you give me the hairpin for yourself and the braid for your friend?”

Witheric blinked in confusion. Hadn’t she just said Restag’s cost was greater because of her treating him? Granted, her value did not seem based on anything like material or artistry or anything like that, but how could a small braid….

He looked to Restag, and the terrible answer revealed itself. His friend’s mask had fallen, unveiling a face drained of color, sickly in its dread and fear and shame. It was a face Witheric had never seen before on his friend. Had he–

Swallowing back the question now haunting his mind, Witheric said, “I’ll… Very well. I agree to your trade, Witch.”

The hag practically danced in her glee, her laughter sending shivers up and down his spine as she tittered dryly, the sound like a snake’s rattle. To take his mind off the happy, malicious creature, as well as the more dreadful thoughts wrapping around him, he looked to his mother’s hairpin, taking in the details one last time. It had been a gift from his father on their wedding night, a masterful work that would earn even an elf or dwarf’s admiration, shaped into a running horse of pure silver that seemed almost alive in its curves and wild eyes and mane. He remembered her wearing it everyday. If, in truth, she had not, the woman in his memories still did, incomplete without that regal, leaping beast taming her long, brown hair. The only time he recalled it missing was in those last few weeks, her hair draped over her face as she mourned and slowly withered away, pushing away all but her remaining son, not even bothering with the simplest tasks such as holding a brush as she stared blankly at the pin, dying as it slipped from her fingers to the floor. The deaths of his father and brother had been hard and aching, but his mother almost broke him. Such a senseless death, such a preventable death, and yet he’d been unable to stop it. The hollowness it had left had nearly collapsed him inward, like a rotted roof, and only the support beams of his duties, his wife, and his thanesman had kept him up.

Now, he handed that hairpin over, almost seeing the threads of love and pain and loss and hurt that tied it to him snap as the witch took it. Next was the braid. As Restag had done before, he insisted on his friend’s release before handing it over. This time, though, the hag shook her head.

“No. If I do, he’ll kill me. I am no false-trader, little thane. You shall have your friend back, and your possessions, too, worthless as they are to me, but I must have the token first.”

Witheric hesitated, curiosity coming to mind, and he said, “Why? I don’t mean why do I need to give it to you first. I mean… why didn’t you just ask for them both this way in the first place? Or even more, just take them while we slept?”

The witch turned a golden eye to the young man, its depths canny and versed in roads he could never know. She said, “The sacrifice must be made willingly, High Thane, and the pain felt in order to hold its greatest power.”

His breath hitched, and he paused before saying, “Yes, I think I understand.”

Without another word on either side, he handed over the braid.

They never quite knew how they came to be back in the forest, walking with their gear reclaimed, the moon shining over their silent march. When Restag tried to recall it later, he could not bring the images to mind. All he knew was that he had been locked up, watching his friend give away two of his most precious treasures, and the next moment the two of them were free, the witch’s house gone, as if it had never been.

The night wore on, the clouds gone and the moon sinking low in the sky, neither man feeling tired, until, suddenly, they stood on the edge of the forest, the grasslands lining the Reinor river stretching out before them. In the cold, quiet wind, Witheric whispered, “Restag, please, tell me honestly. About Eathir, do you… are you….”

Restag did not meet his friend and master’s eyes as he said, “She chose you.”

He then turned away, following the treeline south, Witheric following silently after him.