Vaelanys hadn't even tried to sleep. After the evening he'd had he knew better than to think he'd manage it, or that he'd like the dreams that came even if he did. The smooth surface of his blankets mocked the dull ache starting in his temples as for the hundredth time that night he set the quill aside and picked up the small rough figurine he'd set at the front of the desk instead. It was real every time he'd lifted it, the hewn wood rough in his hand as he traced the shape of the fox. The weight of it made him frown and after a moment he set it aside again, reached for a cup of tea that had lost its heat hours ago.
What was the truth? Was it the grim words spoken by a man with no name who had lured him with perhaps necessary lies to give him a dire warning? Or was it what Thorn had told him, both simply and in almost riddles in the time they'd spent together? Was it words spoken over chamomille tea and food he'd rapidly lost his appetite for? Or the blood he'd had on his hands the night he'd met the warlock and used his own energy to preserve his life? Was he a mere pawn in someone's game?
That last question at least he could answer with certainty. He was undoubtedly intended to be. The question was, whose game? If he was a piece to be moved what was his choice? Perhaps a strange one for a chess piece, to decide which hand moved him. The familiar one he'd come to trust, or the stranger one who in some few things at least had seemed both urgent and earnest. He couldn't be certain of the truth of either player's intent, or what fate their plans held for a simple pawn. The only thing he was entirely sure of was that it was far too late to quit the board.
"What do I do?" He asked softly, but there was no one to answer. There was no one he could ask. No one else at whose feet he would set this problem he'd unwittingly stumbled into. His eyes turned to the pile of papers before him, important things he'd tried over and over to begin, and the sketches that had taken their place when his mind wouldn't quiet to focus on the question of supplies or reports. He had drawn the man he didn't know, and the woman whose face was a mask. Perhaps not as surely or accurately as he had drawn the picture of Thorn that occupied the sheet of paper beside them, but recognizably, at least to him.
They were only sketches of ink on paper, they answered nothing. His eyes lingered on Thorn and he frowned, all the more so when his eyes flickered over the rest of the papers on his desk, sketches he had done before this night. He knew he would find the warlock's face among them more than once. Perhaps in the end that was the best answer he would find. His emotions were caught up in it, in Thorn himself, at least a little. And if rationally he felt that he knew too little to confidently decide, then perhaps he would listen to his heart, even if it was hardly more certain.
It was a choice, but it brought with it little lightness. There were too many questions he needed to ask, things his thoughts still churned around, but they would have to wait. For now, he wondered how many hours were left until dawn, and if there was a single thing amid all his tea and herbs that would give him those precious few hours of sleep.
midnight-ashes thespringsteps for mention
