kingdom come /av+e

The swamp makes his hair stick to the back of his neck, and the sound of the crickets and the frogs sets him on edge, but it's the first sign of light that actually makes Eden stop.

He's sure he must have passed any nearby settlements by now. The only people that live in the bog are the swampmen who build their homes on stilts and fish for minnows in the shallow filmed-over ponds. Eden's already learned that they're not very friendly to outsiders.

He stops on the outskirts of the firelight, almost surprised at being noticed. But he's tired, and he's spent the past month constantly looking over his shoulder for the Lannister guards, expecting them to finally catch up. He's weak from exhaustion and hunger and his boots are heavy from the muck. He's already disposed of the heavy armour of the Queensguard, travelling light, and as he approaches the North, travelling cold.

But the stranger with the fire has a creature with him large enough to be a direwolf. Eden's eyes catch and linger on it. Direwolfs are near mythical in the South. He steps forward eventually, conscious of the sword on his hip, still there not out of attachment, but of practicality. A weapon was, is, too vital to be thrown into the mouth of the Trident alongside its matching armour. It's flashy still, but not if he keeps it sheathed.

He sits across the fire from the stranger and holds his hands in his lap. Easy. Non-threatneing. Eden spoke little in Essos and even less in King's Landing. The Queen wanted a sword, not an advisor, and so that's what he was.

He glances at the wolf again, and then back to the fire.

The wolf watches Eden like it knows. He tries to cast his mind back to the stories of the direwolves, whether they had any powers of the mind or could see thoughts.

He catches the wineskin and drinks quickly, warming already. It only occurs to him afterwards that it could've been poisoned, or at the very least drugged. Eden can't tell if that little feeling eating away at him is disappointment or not, when nothing happens. He takes a second swig anyways and tosses it back, nodding.

"There are bog-men." The stranger says, and Eden grimaces, because he knows.

He brushes at his hairline in answer, showing the thin gash that he'd gotten two days ago from wandering too close to one of the Crannogmen settlements.

It had bled a surprising amount, worrying at first, until Eden actually stopped to rest and it mellowed out to something more manageable. The wound's closed already, cleaned in the least disgusting pool he could find, but the lingering sting of it is always present, tender in a way that reminds of him of where he is. What he is. What follows him.

The stranger stands and Eden half-rises out of instinct, more from a remnant of training than from being threatened. But the wolf eyes him, and Eden forces himself to settle.

The knife's set aside now. Eden could rush and grab it if he really wanted. He could rush with his own weapon, that damned sword he hates so much, and then take off again. But it's not like he has anywhere to go. It's not like he even knows where to go.

Jo used to always say that they were Westerosi, and that she actually remembered the hall they used to live in as children. All Eden remembers is Essos, and the port in Tyrosh that was always too colourful and too dangerous. If he once had any memories of Westeros, they were quickly overrun by images of the slave markets and the sand pits, the way the Windblown liked to recruit from the deadmen.

So Eden's hit a dead end. Too North to know the landscape. Too South to be safe yet.

He just grunts. The Crannogmen aren't the only ones who don't like him.

The light shifts and he's standing in front of Eden, holding whatever he was fiddling with at his wagon. Eden blinks. He's not sure where the last few minutes went - if he lost them because of the exhaustion or if there's some kind of magic lingering over the bog making his mind and his body weak.

He realizes, with a startlingly clarity, that he likely wouldn't be able to fight this stranger off if he tried.

Especially not with the wolf.

He doesn't know what tansy does. He's not even completely sure what tansy is. They were never allowed poisons with the Windblown because it might have given them ideas. The practice was even more frowned upon in the Queensguard. The only noble way to kill a man is face to face, with a sword in his chest.

Eden's not stupid enough to believe that that rule applies to everyone though.

It's a strange thing to place your trust so completely into someone you've never met before. In the span of a few minutes, Eden has sat by what is possibly a dire wolf, drunk something that is possibly poisoned, and is about to allow something that is possibly dangerous. His whole life has been a wild fluctuation between full and absent trust, either one or the other, the choice often completely out of his hands.

It's strange to be given the decision this time.

But he knows he's injured. Broken. He nods slowly. Watches warily. Puts his hands palms up against his knees like he was taught, so that the stranger knows approaching him is safe. Relatively safe.

The cloth brushes over the cut and Eden jolts. The sting of it is gentle, so it's not the pain that makes him jump. The way he moves is instinctual, grabbing the stranger's wrist and only remembering at the very last second not to squeeze and turn and break it. Even so, his grip is weak. His fingers are cold where they hang on.

Eden's thumb rests on the inside of his wrist, right where he can feel a pulse between those two little bones.

The fire brackets the stranger and it takes a moment for Eden's eyes to adjust when he finally looks from his hand to his face. The light makes his features shadowed, elongates the cut of his jaw and blurs a sort of halo around his head.

Eden lets go of the wrist slowly, peeling his hand back finger by finger, but he watches the light cast by the fire now. It jumps against the stranger's shoulders, creeping up and over and then back again. It flits against his cheek and then brushes his neck, retreats back to the embers when it's done.

Eden wants to chase it.

How strange to be knelt to. To be treated gently. How rare it is to find something soft in a world that crushes anything even remotely good. Touch is violent in this place, or else it's fleeting, like the firelight. But never like this. Eden goes still, uncoiling the tension he's been holding for as long as he's remembered.