Ulric pursed his lips, brushed solemnly against limestone as he traced the perimeter. Infrequently jostling stalagmites that plunged from the gravel, cursing under his breath. This cave was bad juju. The entirety reeked of emptiness and stale memories. Filling his palate with a bitter tang, as if he’d bit into the rind of juvenile fruit. Veering away, he almost wanted to spit. Squat by an ancient, mossy trunk with a skin of wine and listen to the call of a whip-poor-will until the breaking of dawn.
Night had soured him, it seemed.
Already the tiny fire was gutting, and he raised a sidelong glance at Mirei, though her cheek stayed hidden under a shadowy veil. She rejoindered him brusquely, with the kind of clipped, growling intonations that conjured up imagery of straining whips. Yes, it’s best to accept your fate, he mused, with a frown. Even if the yarn she’d spun of fragments was regrettable, he lacked any deeper compassion for her. He couldn’t feel it, for he’d suckled on a medley of violence until he’d become inured to its vagaries, relaxed with the devil on his shoulder.
These things just happened.
“Maybe they’re at peace,” Ulric lied, partly trying to deflate the tension that’d wafted up so thickly that it filled his lungs. Peace is mostly an illusion, anyway. Mirei didn’t care to linger over it, either. Ulric neared, only for her to kick at the clumps of twigs and leaves, stifling what glow he’d left.
Again, the gloom closed in around him, left him alone. Angrily grasping his axe at the futility of it all, he plunged into what light the crescent sliver afforded through the deciduous canopy. Seeing nothing but what he suspected, only figments. Mirei had already departed, leaving him with just noises.
Ulric resolved to wait, for they’d only be taking the wrong juncture. “Mirei,” he called. “I’m not going to dash off without retrieving the rest of my armor, and the bulk of my provisions. If you can guide us back to the river, we can circle back to my camp.”
