something better than to be slain in seconds by the venom of a newborn Sentinel that had somehow slipped past the barrier and crept into the village in search of warmth and food. Was that really the fate Lord Teufel had intended for such a good man? For the only person who actually cared enough not to let David die?
He was alone again. Well, except for Killian, but it wasn't the same. Killian had a family: father, mother, aunts, uncles, cousins. All David had was Reimund and their little set of worn, but cared for rooms. Trips to the market every three months. It was a simple life, a hard one, but it was his and he'd enjoyed it well enough. Had looked forward to someday taking over the bulk of the duties and taking care of the man who had cared for him.
Eventually he grew too exhausted to continue crying, and the chill of the room forced him to act. He grabbed logs from the pile stacked neatly against one wall and carried them over to the stove in the middle of the room. Once the fire was going strong again, he fed the logs in one by one until all was set. Warmth slowly began to permeate the room and drive back the cold. David filled a battered kettle with water and set it on the stove, and while it heated, he began to clear off the table.
The tears resumed halfway through the chore as he realized he would never again make dinner for two, never have it ready and waiting when Reimund walked through the door looking cold and tired, but breaking into a smile and greeting him in that gruff way.
Reimund might not have been his father, but every now and then it had been easy for David to forget that.
David went to the old, chipped wash basin in one corner of the room. He broke the thin layer of ice over the top, and carried the bowl to the table. He poured in some warmed water, then set the kettle back on the stove. With a cloth and some soap, he cleaned up his face and hands and felt the slightest bit better for it by the time he was done.
When the kettle began to whistle, he added some tea leaves to a cup—almost crying again when he started to grab two cups—and then poured hot water over them. Sitting at the table, he bowed his head and drank tea while trying to ignore the quiet of the room, the fact that there would never be anyone else in it with him. The tea was dark, but faintly sweet. It had been a present from Reimund on his birthday. It reminded David of his gift for Reimund's birthday, still hidden beneath his mattress.
He had no idea what to do with it. Reimund would probably have told him to use it and not waste it. But thinking about it just provoked fresh tears.
A sudden knocking at the door made him jump and spill his tea. David huffed at himself, then went to answer the door. An old woman, almost completely hidden by a heavy fur cloak, stood holding a bundle of paper-wrapped parcels. Just behind her was Killian, holding a heavy iron pot—very heavy, to judge by the expression on his face.
"Maja?"
She clucked at him, smiled gently. "Let us inside, boy."
David stepped back to let them inside, closing the door behind them. He hastened to add more wood to the fire and fetched a cloth to clean up the spilled tea. Refilling the kettle, he set it on the stove and put the iron pot Maja handed him in the remaining space.
Maja pulled off her heavy cloak and left it on the bed in the corner—Reimund's bed. David had always slept on a pallet by the fire. That the bed was suddenly his was too much for him, and he shoved the thought to the back of his mind with all the others he did not want to face.
"There, there," Maja said, and she cupped his face, crooning softly. "Reimund would not want you to be so sad, my dear. It was his time, and all things happen for a reason. He would hate to see you grieve hard and long for him. Such things were not his way."
"I-I know," David said, but hearing it just made everything worse somehow. He wanted Reimund back, wanted the only man he had to call family to walk through
He was alone again. Well, except for Killian, but it wasn't the same. Killian had a family: father, mother, aunts, uncles, cousins. All David had was Reimund and their little set of worn, but cared for rooms. Trips to the market every three months. It was a simple life, a hard one, but it was his and he'd enjoyed it well enough. Had looked forward to someday taking over the bulk of the duties and taking care of the man who had cared for him.
Eventually he grew too exhausted to continue crying, and the chill of the room forced him to act. He grabbed logs from the pile stacked neatly against one wall and carried them over to the stove in the middle of the room. Once the fire was going strong again, he fed the logs in one by one until all was set. Warmth slowly began to permeate the room and drive back the cold. David filled a battered kettle with water and set it on the stove, and while it heated, he began to clear off the table.
The tears resumed halfway through the chore as he realized he would never again make dinner for two, never have it ready and waiting when Reimund walked through the door looking cold and tired, but breaking into a smile and greeting him in that gruff way.
Reimund might not have been his father, but every now and then it had been easy for David to forget that.
David went to the old, chipped wash basin in one corner of the room. He broke the thin layer of ice over the top, and carried the bowl to the table. He poured in some warmed water, then set the kettle back on the stove. With a cloth and some soap, he cleaned up his face and hands and felt the slightest bit better for it by the time he was done.
When the kettle began to whistle, he added some tea leaves to a cup—almost crying again when he started to grab two cups—and then poured hot water over them. Sitting at the table, he bowed his head and drank tea while trying to ignore the quiet of the room, the fact that there would never be anyone else in it with him. The tea was dark, but faintly sweet. It had been a present from Reimund on his birthday. It reminded David of his gift for Reimund's birthday, still hidden beneath his mattress.
He had no idea what to do with it. Reimund would probably have told him to use it and not waste it. But thinking about it just provoked fresh tears.
A sudden knocking at the door made him jump and spill his tea. David huffed at himself, then went to answer the door. An old woman, almost completely hidden by a heavy fur cloak, stood holding a bundle of paper-wrapped parcels. Just behind her was Killian, holding a heavy iron pot—very heavy, to judge by the expression on his face.
"Maja?"
She clucked at him, smiled gently. "Let us inside, boy."
David stepped back to let them inside, closing the door behind them. He hastened to add more wood to the fire and fetched a cloth to clean up the spilled tea. Refilling the kettle, he set it on the stove and put the iron pot Maja handed him in the remaining space.
Maja pulled off her heavy cloak and left it on the bed in the corner—Reimund's bed. David had always slept on a pallet by the fire. That the bed was suddenly his was too much for him, and he shoved the thought to the back of his mind with all the others he did not want to face.
"There, there," Maja said, and she cupped his face, crooning softly. "Reimund would not want you to be so sad, my dear. It was his time, and all things happen for a reason. He would hate to see you grieve hard and long for him. Such things were not his way."
"I-I know," David said, but hearing it just made everything worse somehow. He wanted Reimund back, wanted the only man he had to call family to walk through
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