She turned toward the front of the house, Witheric starting after her until he noticed Restag’s absence. Looking back, he saw unease on his friend’s face.

When asked about it, Restag’s eyes darted toward the girl disappearing around to the front of the house, and said quietly, “I don’t like it, Witheric. Something feels… odd. Bent, though I don’t….”

Witheric frowned. He supposed it was a little strange to just stumble across a house in the forest, and there was something about it all that made his skin itch, but did not events such as this happen in the old stories all the time? Unexpectedly coming upon a house of hospitality in a hostile land? Could it not be the work of the gods, providing for them in their need? Before he could pose the questions, the girl peered around from the front of the house, asking if they were alright.

“Yes, we’re fine,” Witheric replied. “My friend is just….”

Just what? What could he say that would not insult their hostess. However, the girl smiled sympathetically and nodded, as if understanding. Turning back to Restag, he said, “Come on. We agreed, didn’t we? Didn’t you say it seemed ordinary enough?”

Unwillingly, Restag nodded and, encouraged by his friend and the now questioning look from the girl his way, he stepped into the clearing. He shivered, though if from his fever or his unease, he could not be sure. As he approached the front of the house with Witheric, that unease did not lift. There really was something odd about this place. It looked entirely ordinary, but he sensed something out of place, though he could not discern what. His gut and the tightness in his chest, however, told him it was, so he rested his hand on the pommel of his sword as they entered the longhouse after the girl.

It was a clean house, neatly kept, the hearth lit with a small pot hanging above it, earthen floor bare of clutter, unused candles sitting in their candlesticks, and a sleeping bench sitting neatly draped in blankets against the wall with a few storage chests beneath it. Against the opposite wall were some tables, on which sat tools and herbs for cooking, pots and a small cauldron stored beneath them, and at the back sat two doors, one of which the woman opened to reveal a larder and the other which Restag deduced to be a closet based on the space remaining in the house. There was little decoration on the walls, and no sign of another inhabitant. Overall, it was a small, cozy, but lonely looking house.

Looking over her shoulder from the larder, the young woman said, “Hang your cloaks on the pegs by the door. I have some pallets under the bed you can use to rest. Would you travelers like a drink? Some wine, perhaps?”

To Restag’s relief, Witheric replied, “Your generosity is overwhelming, woods-maid, but I’m afraid we have no time for a long stay. Only tended hurts and directions are needed.”

“Oh, yes, of course, and that shall come, but please, there is no harm in a sit and a meal, is there? I should be loath to learn you did not reach your aim for want of food and rest. And it shall cheer your spirits, which is quite a boon for the battered body,” replied the girl, pulling from the larder some aromatic cheese and a few small rolls and smiling softly at her guests.

Witheric glanced at Restag, who said, “My thoughts remain unchanged, but I shall leave the decision to you.”

After another moment’s hesitation, Witheric unpinned his cloak and hung it as directed, Restag following his lead. Soon, the forest girl had them sitting on the bench, apologizing she had so little to offer as she ladled them both a small cup of dark drink from the pot over the hearth fire. Restag sipped it carefully, the liquid thick and warm and tasting of cinnamon and cloves and citrus and the smell bringing to mind memories of long, winter nights back in the Iron Hall of High Thanes, memories intoxicating in their comfort. Another sip came, as did like memories, and another, and another. Then Restag heard voices and realized Witheric and the girl were speaking. She was cutting up herbs on the table, and he was leaning against the wall nearby. The exiled thane had not looked so pleased since they had left, and as the young woman chuckled at something he said that Restag did not catch, he understood why. He wondered, the thought almost lethargic as it slid across his mind, how he had not noticed just how pretty she was. Yes, he would have admitted her pretty if asked from the first, but it had somehow not settled in how her hair shone and her eyes danced, how charming were her little gestures and the curve of her lips and the dimples of her cheeks when she smiled. It had not struck him at the start, but watching the two now, he understood, and he felt his cheeks heat from both wine and jealousy as he did. Why should Witheric be the one given her attention? Had they not come here for his sake, to tend to him? Yet there they were, ignoring him and his pain, twittering to each other like birds in spring. Why should Witheric be the one? After all, he–

Restag’s inner complaints cut off as Witheric suddenly slid to the floor and lay there, immobile. With a sobering chill, Restag realized that his friend had not been leaning against the wall in ease but for support. He tried to jump up to help his friend, but the moment he stood, his legs gave out, and he crumbled to the ground, his mind and vision foggy. From across the room, though it sounded a much farther distance than he knew it to be, he heard the girl say, “Come now, don’t move around like that. A burn from a wudwyrm’s poison is no wound to take lightly.”

He wanted to ask how she knew about his injury, despite having never looked at it. He wanted to ask what was wrong with Witheric, and what was wrong with him. But his lips would not move, and his tongue felt weak as the world came in and out of focus. As it did, the young woman continued, “What you need is rest. Lots and lots of rest. No use fighting it. This is my domain, and you hung your shield by the door of your own will, twice-lost-shield-man. Rest now.”