Over the next couple weeks, the world around them grew colder and colder. The wind picked up, and clouds hid the sky nearly every day. They kept along the treeline, unsure between the forest and the river which held the greater danger. Food grew scarce. Restag tried to hunt, making a makeshift sling from some of their makeshift bandages, but the birds were hidden away, as were most other small game, leaving the snare traps he began setting up every night empty come morning. They had no arrows to hunt the occasional deer they heard bound between the trees. Restag did make a javelin from a fallen branch, which, after making sure the river had frosted at the edges and sent its fae inhabitants into hiding, did catch them a couple fish. However, they were small things, and catching them took too long for him to do every day.
After the first week, Witheric realized that Restag was not eating as much, giving him the greater portion of food or the larger fish. The thane protested, but Restag brushed away the concern, saying he was the stronger of the two and did not need as much. Of course Witheric pushed back, trying to say it should be kept even, but Restag refused to let him handle or even see the food stocks, declaring it “beneath a high thane’s notice” and unintentionally increasing that same thane’s concern.
For Restag’s part, he saw how Witheric was falling ill again. His friend’s eyes told of his lack of sleep, and the thane could do nothing to hide his fevered shivering. The herbs Restag had gathered were soon gone, and any replacements were dead on the frozen ground. Despite the thane’s best efforts, their pace slowed. Every time Witheric apologized, Restag denied any wrong, secretly grateful himself as his own symptoms began to worsen without the medication.
At last, the day came when Witheric collapsed. He managed to push himself back up, but the fall had triggered something in his body, something which his mind had been fighting for the past few days and that demanded he go no further. But he knew he had to. It was getting dark, and the air smelled of coming snow. They needed shelter, or something they could turn into one. His dazed eyes scanned the world, trying in the growing shadows to make out something suitable for their survival.
Then, he saw it. At first, he thought it a trick of his eyes. In the distance, somewhere down the nearly flat riverbank, was a light. It was far, no larger than the hole from a needle to his eyes, but it was a sign of someone else, perhaps someone with shelter. Perhaps it was another Asgradi tribe. Perhaps it was another deceit of Faerie, but as he shivered from another snow-scented gust of wind, Witheric was willing to risk another wudwyrm for a place to weather out the coming snow. He turned to Restag, preparing his counter arguments as he pointed to the light. But when he looked, his friend was not beside him. Panic heated the young thane’s blood, and he called out to his Thanesman as his wide eyes whipped around, finally seeing the form of his friend several yards behind him, leaning against a tree.
With a cry, he ran back, reaching his friend to find him barely conscious, sweat heavy on his brow and his breathing labored. Wiser now from the witch’s work, Witheric said, “How long?”
Restag shook his head, though the action was barely visible, it was so slight. Angry now, Witheric demanded, “How long have you been sick, Restag Thanesman!”
The Thanesman’s eyes cracked open, their gaze unfocused. After a few moments of silence, Restag breathed out, “About three weeks.”
His own illness nearly forgotten, Witheric yelled, “Three weeks? Three weeks ill, and you never told me. Hid it from me! You fought a wudwyrm, dragged me at Roth’s-pace through the forest, supported me, deprived yourself of food, all while you were sick, and you hid it from me!”
Witheric’s anger subsided, and hurt slid in its place. Much softer now, he said, “What else, are you hiding from me, Restag? What else have you been hiding from me, all these weeks or months or years?”
If Restag was willing to answer, Witheric could not know it. The man leaned against the tree, looking and sounding as if drawing breath was a struggle on its own, let alone speaking. At this rate, he might die. The thought jolted Witheric from his own hurt, and he hurried to take Restag’s arm and drape it over his shoulders, pulling at him to shift his weight from the tree. Restag tried to shake his head, to object, but Witheric hissed, “Stop it! I don’t have the strength for you to dig in your hooves, you ass!”
Apparently, neither did Restag, for his struggle ceased, and he let himself be slowly led forward as Witheric turned from the forest and made as straight a line as he could for the distant light just as the first few snowflakes began to fall. He cursed under his breath but continued moving away from any semblance of shelter onto the barren plain.
