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They were going to freeze to death if she kept this up. The girl scuttered out of the leaf pile as soon as he threw her into it, hissing like some sort of creature, scattering all his hard work. He had to stomp on her rope to stop her. Did she not understand how nighttime worked? Eavus didn’t know why he even bothered. Summer, the locals claimed. Eavus was too angry to even scoff. Burn them all under a hot Aleterian sun.

He ignored her temporarily to re-wedge the long branches in between the trees, but the makeshift roof was only going to fall again. They’d get clonked on the head in the middle of the night. A low growl rose in his throat, and he bit it back. This wasn’t his expertise. That damn wind kept whipping at him, as if mocking him for picking such a terrible spot.

The girl had stopped writhing, stopped breathing it seemed like, but her eyes followed his every move. The dark powder around her eyes had smudged, leaving bruise-like streaks that made the whites stand out. Her tied hands were poised on the ground, and he suddenly had a flash of the Ciruum Arena from when he was a child, the captured slaves from some campaign of the emperor’s huddling together, jostling for a plan— but the lion had stood perfectly still, and watched.

He didn’t like that she reminded him of the lion.

He hauled over what material he could for something of a back to the lean-to, but the ambient light was disappearing fast, along with any remaining warmth. He’d have to fell trees to make something better, and he didn’t want to make that kind of noise, or damage Costae’s sword. They’d have to just nest it. He stripped moss and loose bark off the widest trunks, tossing it towards the pile. A sudden soft crunching made Eavus start. The girl had moved. She stared at him, but shoved a length of moss into a gap. He almost smiled. Good. If she knew how to make a shelter, maybe she’d understand how important it was they work together to stay alive.

“I think we’ve moved into Dinaeii territory.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to use a gentle tone, but what he hoped were night animals had begun to awaken with soft padding sounds in the distance, and noises that he hoped were feathers and wind. He tossed more materials her direction. “But I don’t know that it matters. Are you familiar with Arnea?” She simply kept on, filling every hole like they were going to stay for weeks. “It rains. Constantly. And then the wind shoots through and you swear you’ll never be warm again.”

“Isfjold is the same.”

He had forgotten she was from someplace cold. He went on. “There are approximately seven hundred and thirty-one tribes on this island, which means approximately seven hundred and thirty are likely to be hunting us. Ransom, revenge, simple blood lust. And then there are the animals. Bears, wolves, even a big enough deer will kill you if you get too close. Foxes and rats to nibble you in the night, midges to pester you during the day…” By the gods, he hated this place. “We need to stay warm, and someone needs to stay awake.” And they needed food. Eavus cursed his full kit back at the barracks. No Aleterian soldier marched without at least 3 days’ rations, but they hadn’t been marching, had they? They’d been on a short patrol, with the promise of Meat Mete and a dry night’s sleep, and instead here he was, famished and setting a watch with someone who might slit his throat while he slept.

It wasn’t ideal.

Eavus’ buckles clinked as he undid his cape. He winced at the sting the movement caused in his shoulder, his other wounds nattering like a chorus of neglected children, but he ignored them all and laid the cape on top of the leaf pile as another barrier against the cold.

“Come on.” He tugged her a short distance towards a low bush, then loosened her so she could move her arms. He left her hands tied.

“Do your business.”

She only stared at him. Eavus sighed. This was an aspect of hostage-taking he hadn’t anticipated.

“Your— your business. Your—” He gestured awkwardly to his parts and then to her. She recoiled. “No, I mean—yours.”

He didn’t know what else to do except keep gesturing, which was beginning to feel more and more stupid. But he didn’t want the damn girl wetting herself on his cape, or using needing to go as an excuse in the night, when he was tired and might be less on his guard.

“Piss? Is that the word?” His Northern had been picked up on campaign. He didn’t know what word regular people used.

She kept staring, and he suddenly had a horrible, embarrassed feeling that she’d understood him perfectly the whole time.

“I’ll turn around,” he said awkwardly, giving her his back but keeping hold of the rope. There was a lot of tugging and maneuvering, but apparently she figured it out, because after a long pause the rope went slack, and she appeared next to him.

“I’m not a dog.”

She went straight to the pile and lay down before he could retie her properly. Eavus felt so flustered that he let it go. Her wrists were still tied at least.

“I’ll take the first lookout,” he said lamely. “Get some sleep.”

She tucked her hands underneath her temple and curled her knees up without giving him another glance.

By Hirene, she looked like a child. What was she? Fifteen? Eavus supposed that wasn’t a child really—riconoi girls were married at that age sometimes, though it was usually purely political, and certainly he’d known conri girls that had gotten pregnant at fifteen. She seemed young, anyway, curled up like that, and Eavus had a twinge of guilt.

What was he supposed to do with her?

What was he supposed to do?

He sat at the open end of the lean-to where he could benefit a little from its windbreak and stabbed Costae’s sword into the dirt at his knees. He sniffed, testing his bruised nose. He could still taste blood, but it didn't seem broken. His shoulder was suddenly throbbing, as if awakened by his body’s stillness, and the wound in his side from his brief fight with the Dinaeii hadn’t stopped burning since he got it. He was used to bruises, used to aches and pains and even cuts, but these felt more significant. Stabbed by his own sword. If Costae found out, he’d never hear the end of it. Vaguely he thought of horsetail and willow, he should make an infusion, but more immediate than his fear of infection was the bubbling panic of what to do next. He’d kept it down all day, but in the darkness and the silence there was no stopping it.

He was a deserter. Gods, why had he gone after her?? Had he really thought one scraggy hostage would bring him the glory and money he needed? He hadn’t reported in by nightfall, and he wasn’t among the dead. He had stolen a lironi sword, and even worse, he had stolen from Aleteria itself. He was guilty of the worst crimes of the empire, never mind that it wasn’t true. His commander wouldn’t see it that way. Caea wouldn’t see it that way, not when they would make his true son take Eavus’ place in the ranks, wipe out Eavus’ six years of service and make Sept a low-ranking soldier, digging ditches and laying stones. Sept would have to start from scratch, a full twelve years, and Caea— What wouldn’t Caea do, to track down the slave that had condemned his son?

For all he knew how to survive in battle, Eavus wasn’t a survivor, not in the sense most people used it. He’d never been alone, not once since he was sold to the House of Caea at the age of four. He’d slept in the slave barracks with the nanny and the other boys, then in Septemius’ room, then in barracks surrounded by a dozen brothers. He’d never thought, not really. The others teased him for his plans, for his determination to save his coin and buy his way out, and for that he’d gained a reputation for smarts. But he’d never had to make decisions, never had to judge strategies or situations. He was a soldier, and a slave. Following orders was all he knew.

And now the night loomed over him like a physical thing, a giant of a monster that he couldn’t fight. His regiment was gone—that much was clear. They’d been moving out this morning, before everything went snapped blade. Even if he could find their last encampment, they’d be gone by now. So what now? Where to go? The infinity of choices in front of him was so vast it may as well have been empty.

A branch cracked, and Eavus froze. Slowly, he rose to standing, plucking the sword from the dirt. Behind him, the girl stirred, and he put out a sharp hand in a clear gesture of Stop. She went still.