Ablaf King’s home was a hovel. Stones were stacked precariously under a bowl-cut roof of thatch. Gaps in the stonework must surely have leaked cold autumn air into the house. There were weeds growing along the verge of the wall and around the front steps, and the ringfenced field next to it housed two surly, ancient goats and a tumbledown scarecrow on which was drawn a crude smiley face. The goats preferred to feed on the straw stuffing which leaked from the scarecrow, than on the grass which was overgrown and wild.
Nonetheless, when Fiorn Oakmane pounded on the door with his fist before stepping inside, he knew he would be greeted with a flush of warm air and the scent of good cooking. Thus it was so, though neither of these were tended by Ablaf King himself.
The man himself was hunched over a small desk, quill scratching on paper as he attempted to make the most of the light. All around him on the floor were papers, some discarded in carelessness, others balled up in frustration. He wore a lilac robe with cuffs stained almost black by constant ink spills, and his hair was a flame of orange tied hurriedly back, with streaks of grey just now etching their way through.
For his part, Fiorn threw himself down into a comfortable armchair by the fire, which crackled merrily in the hearth. Up above it, the mantel was strung with letters, illustrations and the occasional herb, and various trinkets stood out on top: a crystal from a Kyren wand; a dagger of gold stuck into the woodwork; and taking pride of place in the centre, a picture frame showing an illustration of two boys.
Above even that, bracketed to the wall, was a sword. It seemed to ooze and fight against the stillness. Its blade was shiny and black like fresh ink, and its hilt was as white and jagged as broken bone. The edge was broken up intermittently by flecks of white, like carnivorous teeth poking through rotten gum.
‘You’re sitting in my chair.’
Fiorn was drawn from contemplating the decorations. Ablaf had not moved, he was still scribbling at his desk. Fiorn grunted and relaxed further into the soft furnishing.
‘You’re not using it,’ he retorted. ‘Anyway, I haven’t seen you in years. I’d say it’s my right to avail myself of the best of your hospitality.’
‘I know.’ Ablaf stood. Without regarding his guest, he picked up the kettle from the stove and headed for the back door. ‘The other chair is better.’ With that, he stepped outside.
Fiorn sat for a time, listening to Ablaf working the water pump. The place had changed, at least a little. The cooking pot in the fireplace was cleaner, and the herbs different. This was not the lamb stew Ablaf had been so fond of last time - little more than gruel, cooked past any semblance of taste. Even at home he had cooked like he was on the road. He looked over the rest of the place: a small living room with two chairs; his writing desk by the window, to make the most of the daylight; and the kitchen area, looking scrubbed and spotless. Effort had even been made to scour the stovetop, though that at least was still a fruitless effort - it appeared he had managed to move the grease into a new and interesting pattern before giving up.
Ablaf returned presently and waved a hand over the stove, which thrummed with warmth. He placed the kettle atop it and sat opposite from Fiorn, who smiled warmly at him.
‘To what do I owe this visit?’ Ablaf asked shortly. Fiorn laughed.
‘What? Can I not just wish to see an old friend? Ablaf, my dear, you still worry too much what others need!’
‘Hmph! I would worry less were I not called upon for my abilities so often! Oh wise one, my crops are dying! Oh great one, we are beset by a cult! Oh King of Kings, we-’
‘King of Kings?’ Fiorn made a face and Ablaf scowled.
‘It was said of me once,’ he explained. ‘Not my choice.’
‘So you are beset by people? Even out here?’ Ablaf nodded, idly tapping out a tune on the arm of the chair.
‘They travel for days to see me, hoping they can avail themselves of my power. So rarely they explain that the help they desire requires that I journey with them - I tell them these days that I am stationary, I don’t do that adventuring thing anymore.’
‘So how did you help with the cult?’ Fiorn asked. Ablaf started.
‘You heard about that?’ he asked, and Fiorn grinned.
‘Didn’t need to. I know you, Ablaf King - talk of cults and dying crops, you’d leap at the chance to save people!’ Ablaf rolled his eyes, but smiled at the compliment.
‘And what of you?’ he asked. ‘How has the domestic life been treating you?’
‘Fine enough, fine enough. Inez and Salamane had a kid, a daughter.’ Ablaf whistled and leaned back.
‘Finally! I was wondering when those two were going to admit their feelings for each other. After the last cult incursion I figured Salamane would have to die before he-’
They were interrupted by the whistling of the kettle. Ablaf got to his feet abruptly and bustled around the kitchen, taking the kettle off the heat and bringing out mugs. He mixed nettle, cinnamon and ginger in the mugs and poured in the water, and soon the pungent fragrance overpowered even the soup on the fire. Ablaf set the mugs down by the chairs and ladled some soup into bowls.
‘Will you eat?’ he asked, proffering a bowl. Fiorn took it and tried some.
‘Vegetable soup?’ He gave Ablaf a curious look.
‘I’m getting old, Fiorn! I can’t keep going on travellers’ stew. So I... well I read up on some recipes. Got to look after myself in my old age.’ Fiorn sighed and fixed Ablaf with a worn look.
‘Have you ever considered coming with me to Midlarch?’ he asked. ‘I have a nice place, spacious, and you could catch up with Inez and Sal and meet their girl...’ Fiorn tailed off under Ablaf’s sullen glare.
‘I’m... not good with people,’ he said, clutching at his sleeves. He and Fiorn continued to eat in silence for a time, before Ablaf continued, ‘Midlarch - is it a nice place?’ Fiorn shrugged.
‘Nice enough,’ he said. ‘The people are pleasant, and your friends are all there. There’s always a story to listen to at the tavern, thanks to the Silkstrings!’
‘I may visit sometime,’ Ablaf said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t commit to more.’
‘I understand,’ Fiorn said. ‘None of us were the same after the Kyren. It hit you the hardest.’ Ablaf nodded. The light was beginning to fade and the shadows were lengthening. Suddenly sensing the passage of time, Ablaf hurried to light the lantern overhead. It illuminated with a pulse of his hand. As he moved to sit back down, Fiorn took his hand.
‘Sit with me?’ he asked. Ablaf paused, looking down at the kind, open face of his old friend. With a sigh, he collapsed into Fiorn’s lap, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck.
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he murmured. ‘Do you have time to stay the night?’
‘At this point, I think it’s best,’ Fiorn replied. ‘I’m on my way to Versicale to investigate some odd events. They concern Inez and Sal.’
‘And me?’ The silence stretched out with the setting of the sun.
‘Only if you wish,’ Fiorn said eventually. ‘I make no requests of you, not at this time.’
‘So why did you visit?’ Ablaf asked, burying himself in Fiorn’s neck. Fiorn chuckled gently as his hand wound up to play with Ablaf’s hair.
‘Because I missed you, friend,’ he replied. ‘Because I saw my route would take me past your house and... well I thought, when did we last have time just to be together? To catch up?’
‘It’s been too long,’ Ablaf sighed.
Night turned slowly to day, and the rising sun found them still in Ablaf’s chair, entwined with each other. As they woke to the dawn light, they set about chores: Ablaf seeing to the remains of last night’s meal, and Fiorn getting his pack together to leave. After a quick breakfast they stood in the doorframe, letting the unsaid words flow between them.
‘Will you have time to stay on your return?’ Ablaf asked. ‘I extend that invitation to Sal and Inez, too.’
‘I hope so,’ Fiorn replied. ‘I need to be back in Midlarch by summer’s end - a favour to their daughter, I’ll explain another time.’
‘Too much for us heroes to do, even when we’ve retired,’ Ablaf laughed. ‘Maybe I’ll come up to Midlarch sometime to see you, then.’
‘Don’t leave it too long,’ Fiorn sighed. ‘This gap was long enough.’
‘Until next time, then. Goodbye Fiorn Oakmane, may the winds guide your step true.’
‘Farewell, Ablaf King, may the sun warm your home evermore.’
As the sun announced the morning to the world, Fiorn Oakmane made his way from the home of his friend into the unanswered questions of tomorrow.
