“You might want to tell him that, then, because I dinnae think he understands you’re staying right here in Tirglas when it’s time for him to go.”
Maybe. What could he possibly do when that time came? And he didn’t doubt it would come sooner than either of them expected. Naturally, his mother would do her best to keep him home. On the other hand, short of locking him in his room until he was old, what else could she do to stop him from leaving?
He had considered running away before, a great many times. It always fell back to where and how. Money would be an issue. As would the ability to travel far before his mother’s lackeys caught up.
With Darshan at his side, he could leave. Maybe not be an ambassador, but perhaps the Udynean court would have a place for him nevertheless.
It would mean leaving everything behind, though. Not just his mother, but the rest of his family. His siblings, his nephews and niece. His father. They’d all been there for him in some manner. Could he really leave everything behind for one man?
He sorely wished the answer wasn’t so muddled.
Hamish stood. “We should get to searching the perimeter.”
Mercifully, his brother nodded and dusted off the seat of his trousers before they parted ways to loop the outer edge of the campsite.
Like so many times he had been on the night watch with his brother, the midnight hours proved uneventful. The night-time noises were muted and unthreatening. The horses dozed where they’d been hobbled, barely stirring as he paused nearby on his way past.
Finally, Hamish was able to return to his tent whilst Gordon went to wake Zurron to watch for the final hours before dawn.
Inside the tent, the smell of dangerously warm wool wadded his nose and set his eyes to watering. His gaze darted about the bedding, checking for any sign of ignition. No flames, no patches, not even a single ember glowing in the dark.
He knelt next to Darshan, gently pressing a hand to his lover’s temple, then his hands. The fingers were like ice. In comparison, the man’s head was hotter than a furnace.
Darshan mumbled something. Taandha? It sounded familiar. Was it one of the words the man had tried to teach Hamish back in the cliff edge?
Aye. Something about wind. Cold? When his head was burning up? “Here.” Kicking off his boots, Hamish wriggled beneath the blankets. He tucked himself up against the man’s back, sliding his arm under Darshan’s head once again. “Better?”
A grunt that sounded like it could be acquiescence rumbled through the man. He seemed no warmer.
Hamish fell back to administering the same friction he had used earlier. “You really should’ve listened to me yesterday,” he murmured. If Hamish had been given anywhere near the same amount of money as Darshan had doled out from that blasted tortoise, then buying warm clothing would’ve been his first stop. Not indulging in trinkets. Even if it had been something as simple as a thick undershirt or a pair of trousers. “Dinnae think on it though, we’ll see you’re warm enough for the rest of the journey.”
Goddess willing, there would be a boy Darshan’s size with extra clothes and a willingness to part with them for a few coins.
Darshan stood in one of the barn stalls that made the central building of the little farming community known only as Old Willie’s. He pulled on yet another pair of trousers. Too short. A pity as the rest was a decent fit, if only the leg length had halted a foot further down. An unbidden sigh whistled out his nose. Whilst the collective families living here had dug up whatever scrap of clothing they could part with, he was fast running out of options.
A suitably warm undershirt had been an easy find, if a bit long in the arms. Nevertheless, coarse linen now sat snugly around his torso, his undershirt the only barrier between the fabric and having his skin scrubbed raw. Although his sherwani might fit over the pair, he had also selected an overcoat from the bunch in the off chance that it didn’t. He would’ve also picked through the cloaks the locals had thoughtfully added to the pile had he not arrived in one.
If only finding a decent pair of trousers was as simple.
Already, various pieces of clothing lay piled in the corner. He had picked through several of the trousers and shirts, immediately tossing aside those that were just too small and reconciling himself with the idea that nothing amongst the dwindling plausible pile would fit as finely as his own attire.
He relinquished himself of the trousers, tossing them into the far corner, and picked up another pair. Dangling in his hands, this new pair looked far too long in the leg, but he could suffer that over freezing his ankles.
Although just how warm this particular pair would be was debatable. The fabric felt more akin to hessian than linen. Wearing such coarse fabrics was unheard of in Udynean nobility. And for them to be someone’s hand-me-downs… Like many of the higher nobility, every stitch and cut made in his clothing had been done specifically for him.
He struggled to tie the frayed rope that served in lieu of a front fastener for this particular pair of trousers, grunting and heaving the pieces together. No matter how much he forced them, the front refused to close. Well, I certainly can’t parade around with my undergarments showing. People would have conniptions all over the place.
Stripping and flinging the trousers into the pile with the rest, he reached for the penultimate pair. If neither of these last two fitted, then they would have to make a detour to the nearest village before travelling to the cloister to ensure he didn’t freeze during the rest of their trip.
The stall door creaked behind him, a mass of bright-red hair
