A house. A house means people. New people that I can talk with. I’ve had but a taste but it seems I’ve become addicted to chatter--and chattering, as it is--even when my speech doesn’t match how it sounds in my head. Lola is a fine conversationalist, but she insists that she stops walking to turn and face me if a conversation erupts. This horribly proper character quirk erases valuable walking time, yet, I care naught if we stay put, locked in petty, fruitless conversation. Perchance Lola has been as isolated as I have. But granted her long history of wandering she has surely found comfort in the confines of her own head. Lest the anxiety chew your brain, the mind could be used to indulge in selfish, distracting desires. Images of clouds you haven’t seen. Smells of food yet to be eaten. Pairs of grinning, glossy lips that speak sweet nothings. …Regardless. Lola always seems present when we speak. She clasps her hands together and lets them hang by her thighs with the anxious posture of someone who chews their nails. She only moves to nod in acknowledgement.
    Which entirely contrasts how she chooses to walk. Her hands swing from side to side in rhythm with every footstep--intoxicatingly carefree. Every piece of her clothing sways in tandem with the wind. Her heavy wool overcoat--as do her braided pigtails--flap behind her like the feathers of a great-tailed grackle. The baggy cloth and lace of her milkmaid dress sway like trees of seaweed waltzing with the current. Vials of seasoning and small pots of herbs dangle from her body, mimicking the harmony of a windchime. The ropes that tie these knick-knacks to her resemble the bindings common in shibari--a style of bondage meaning “the beauty of tight binding.” Such geometrical precision--a five pointed star constricts her chest in the name of maximising carrying capacity. Does she gain pleasure from the ropes placed upon her body? The design is intentional at minimum, and pious otherwise. Because surely the royal caretaker, a servant to the court, hath more in her wardrobe than flayed rope. The colour of the silken ropes does match the outfit’s overall palette, but surely strangling your breasts cannot be worth the additional of such miniscule storage. I shouldn’t ask though. I can’t ask these questions. These questions must die within me as I, a stranger, cannot ask her to satisfy my queries--regardless of royal status. I shan't indulge my flagrant desires for knowledge lest she interprets my gaze as intrusive and spits in my next meal. My eyes should look elsewhere, savouring the walk instead of meandering conversation or wandering glances.
    Tall birch trees as white as marble stand around the mountainous path like an audience of subjects, admiring the procession of two with hundreds of eyes. Eyes--or a natural incision that looks like an eye--cut themselves into their bark just as a cold wind inspires goosebumps. Though they’re only a pattern etched into wooden flesh, their gaze gets betwixt my muscles and makes my skin crawl. The marble, as cold and unfeeling as it is, at least has the decency not to stare. Families of crows populate the upper echelons of the forest. Along the branches, they stand shoulder to shoulder from one another, creating long, dark lines of blinking eyes. Raised by a mother, the crows follow the marble’s doctrine and gaze upon the vacant sky--with the exception of a single nosy eye. The crow’s feathers are overgrown and tattered, giving it the appearance of a black tumbleweed. They obscure its face, leaving but a single staring eye. Its eye does not move, but perhaps they cannot as its head rotates as if on a swivel. It picks at these feathers with a crooked beck, quickly returning its gaze to us after satisfying itself. The crow’s black coat gleams in the sun, revealing none of the nightly blues that its brothers and sisters possess. I opt not to immediately mention the stalker to Lola, continuing to walk a fair pace until we’re out of earshot.
    “Lola?” she stops walking, places her hands together and turns to face me.
    “What is it, my prince?”
    “Was that bird staring at us?”
    “The raven?”
    “Raven? The one that looked like a tumbleweed?”
    “Mhm. The raven. It was black and had a more triangular head.” she said, making the shape of a triangle with her index finger.
    “O-Oh. Okay.” I pause, what could possibly be the relevance of its genus? “Well…was that raven staring at us?”
    “I don’t know! I wasn’t paying attention, hehehe. But my dyre prince, worry not, there are a lot of reasons for a bird to stare.”
    A strange answer, even for a person I had not suspected as a birder.
    “None of the other birds were looking at us.”
    “Perhaps… But they’re just creatures of habit, like us! Our appearance may have spooked them because based on this trail…” Lola pushes her index and middle finger into the dirt path, dragging it gently across the ground pressing the soil softly in between her fingers. “...I don’t think many others have used this trail for quite a long, long time.”
    “Hm…okay…well thank you. Let us keep pace.”
    “I agree! We have a long way to go, but we should consider finding a place to camp for the night.”
     The trail suddenly ends at the end of a cliff face. Two wooden poles stick out from the ground. They’re a light brown colour with an orangish tint. Similarly coloured rope is wrapped around the stakes, their bodies have been weathered by rain, rendering them an odd desaturated hue. The wood and rope’s horribly abrasive texture reject the touch of my fingers, scratching my skin like a foul-mannered cat. The offputting colouring inspires some primal instinct, and my bovidae nose takes a quick whiff of the ropes. I gag instantly as the sharp smell of mould and sulphur constricts my throat. “Lola? Might you have water?” I clutch a hand around my throat.
    She pulls out a small bota bag and presses it to my lips. Both of my hands wrap around the bag, raising it as high as I can so I can drown the smell that’s creeping into my mouth. Lola turns outwards to the open clifface, methodically scanning the crag for any way forward. “My prince!” She leaves the bag in my hands and walks to the wooden stakes. “There is a way down, look!”
    She tugs on the ropes, pulling up a small collection of equally cut wooden planks--a fallen rope bridge. It lays peacefully pressed up against the mountain, swaying lightly in the breeze. Across the gap and barely visible, is the other end of the bridge. A metallic surface glimmers in the sun. A humanoid body hangs off the edge, utterly motionless. The knight grips a silver shortsword, duty still coursing through their congealed blood. Despite the distance between us, the crimson hue is unmistakable and Families of crows tear into their trapezius, pulling out strings of ligaments of muscle before guzzling them down like worms. They weave sticks and leaves into the knight’s hair, gracefully decorating their new nest. Hark, the crows cry out before rolling around in the knight’s back like a birdbath. What filthy creatures. Finalising my perusal of the scene, I spot a large rectangular banner amidst the chaos of the forest. It’s a bright and lush green, dissimilar to the light green of the birch that surrounds it. Sewn into it is the insignia of a white spiral within a lime green circle. “L-Lola. How familiar are you with iconography?”
    “I am no scholar, but the court has trained me adequately…what do you request?” she asks, playfully dangling her feet off of the cliff.
    “The banner, across the ridge.” I extend my index finger and Lola begins to squint, mouthing silently to herself.
    “I believe that is the seal of Metatron, however I may be liable for error.”
    “Metatron? Who is that? Is he a knight, perhaps a lord?”
    Lola’s eyebrows met in the centre of her forehead as her eyes widened and lips pursed. She paused as if I were supposed to fill the void with an answer to my own question.
    “Metatron is no lord, nor knight, nor vassal.” My face began to mimic hers, my words slowly forming one word at a time.
    “If he-”
    “They.”
    “I-If they are neither lord, knight or vassal, what are they?”
    “A god. Hmph. ..To some at least.”
    My mouth hangs open and I scratch my chin, trying to avoid her gaze. “So they’re zealots?”
    “I would say “crazed fanatics,” but zealots is another good descriptor.” Lola freezes with curled lips, the silence beginning to lacerate my throat.
    “I’m sorry, Lola, did I upset y-you?”
    “No, my prince, but I am certainly shocked. I cannot believe you do not know who Metatron is.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry I was uninformed of their influence…could you be so kind as to tell me?”
    “Metatron is titled the “Truth Teller,” they’re a serpentine god whose followers are in endless toil to find their deity’s severed head.”
    “I enjoy the truth. Surely they have pure intentions.”
    “Truth without compassion is mere cruelty. The actions of their followers illustrate this mantra quite well--doctrine is not justification.”
    I choose not to answer.
    “They yield little if anything to the world but chaos. And the “truth” they seek is little more than a false rumour. Should they find themselves betwixt paradise and inferno, they would pray they had worshipped a more benevolent god-”
    “-Like Gaia.” I spoke, unknowingly.
    “Of course! Like Gaia. My prince, I am so glad you know the trials of our true god, Gaia. …Perhaps the royal scribes kept your education tighter than I thought!” Lola said, smiling and letting out a deep exhale. “Praise be to our cerulean deity, Gaia, and her endless grace. Prithee she blesses our journey.”
    I stare off at the clouds, slowly mouthing words. Who is Gaia? “My prince, shall we continue our journey? Pardon me, I do not wish to rush you, but we have stalled our decline as long as we could have.” asks Lola, tugging on the rope bridge.
    My eyes glaze over. I blink rapidly before I can fully internalise what she said. “Yes. Yes, we should get moving.”
    “Excellent! Prithee our descent doesn’t take too long, the sun shall be setting soon.”
    “Shall I go first?”
    “Please my prince, let me go first. Should my stature become a problem, I will not hesitate to jump off for your safety.”
    What?
    “Pardon?”
    “My prince, you need not be nice to me. I have come to acknowledge my body to be an issue. I would cast myself from the bridge should it endanger the safety of the throne.”
    “You cannot be serious. You shant need to lay down your life for me.”
    “If Gaia wills it, I shall.” She smiles and shrugs her shoulders.
    “But-”
    “But nothing, your safety and wellbeing is my sole responsibility.”
    No more stalling, we cannot let this discourse distract us from getting you home.”
    I simply nod my head and watch as she lowers herself onto the bridge. She pants heavily, the bridge swinging ever so slightly from side to side with every miniscule movement. The wood audibly splinters. It neither looks nor sounds safe. “It is safe, my prince! Please, begin climbing!”
    Sigh. I hopelessly obey, grabbing the makeshift rungs and begin descending down the bridge like a ladder. The sharp winds of the mountain refused to yield, slicing my calves and creating waves of goosebumps. My nose begins to possess the most irritating sensation and drips snot down my face. I cannot wipe it with my hands, my mind too worried that I will fall if I do so. My stomach drops everytime I’m forced to release my fingers from their closed position. I desire to look down but something stops my head from sinking anywhere below parallel. Rampantly dissociating, I see myself falling past Lola as she gazes with a horrified look on her face. My body becomes twisted as my fall is ever so slightly broken by a blanket of birch trees. In some visions, I hit the ground. The husk that was once me bounces as my bones instantly shatter on impact. Every nerve in the back of my head cringes as it visualises its own demise. But it's an addiction, it almost feels good, thus it continues to visualise. In other visions, I don’t even make it to the ground. The birch trees impale my body and I feel my entrails slowly slipping down the side of my torso. My vision becomes halved as a single branch skewers one of my eyes. Before my vision entirely gives out, I see a murder of crows descend upon my body. And without giving me the respect to die first, they tear at my entrails. With my arms broken and limp, I can do nothing but let them feed. In these visions, I yell, but I can never produce a meaningful amount of sound. A meaningful amount of sound that would let Lola know that I’m hurt. Or that I need help.
    But she would understand. It doesn’t take intelligence to know that falling from a cliff would certainly kill someone. But Lola would understand. If I were to fall, she would hold my body close to hers, swatting away the crows as they surrounded me. I feel like she’d still try to use those herbs of hers to try and heal my fatal wounds. I would adore the smell of lavender as the blood loss makes me light headed… The illusion shifts. My eyes move below parallel, looking not at the forest below but at her. Lola exhales softly with every rung, her eyes obeying her brain and looking nowhere but right in front of her, like me. I wonder if we think of the same things. She mentioned jumping earlier, but perhaps I know little of how duty differs from desire. I wonder if she bothered to look up. At the cliff we came from or the corpse that hangs from the opposite ridge--or at me. I would use my body to block the sun at just the perfect angle to keep her from going blind… I wonder if she’s looked up and gazed upon my body. Upon my legs, upon my torso, or even upon my face. Would she gain pleasure from it? Am I pleasant to gaze at? Or am I simply the arse that is to sit upon a throne? I suppose I am not to know. My gaze explores her body, not as a pervert would, but like that of a curious child. I had not known how the top of her shoulders looked. Nor how her bovine fur pattern wrapped around them. Nor had I known how her bergère looked from above. She has two little roses stitched betwixt the straw of her hat. It’s cute. A small quirk that with our height difference, I may have never known. An intimate detail, all for me. Perhaps she doesn’t think about these things, nor does it cross her mind that I am thinking about these things. Would she even know if I were planning to jump? Would shaking the rope alert a cause for concern and finally make her look up? If I were to let go, would Metatron catch me?     Would this “truth teller” let my body crash into the cold forest floor? Or would they swoop in with a grandiose smile and callipygian body, just in the neck of time? “Truth teller.” Harumph. Quite the grandiose title, as if it’s hard to tell the truth. I do nothing but tell the truth and I have no title to my name. I sincerely doubt that this Metatron really exists--and if they do exist, I’m certain they have a fat arse. You wouldn’t have legions of people scouring for your severed head if you hadn’t currency or looks. Maybe that’s why Lola seemed fussy, that a collection of knights and mercenaries would spend their lives searching for something that nay even exist. Or maybe she’s just jealous that Metatron’s arse is larger than hers. Haha. Sigh. It would be nice to have legions of men do your dirty work and gruelling labour. Curse the cruel fate that I know not of my looks. Certainly I am an ugly bastard born from a bitch and a mutt. …That’s probably why my father grew out his hair--royalty or not--he probably looks like a dog behind it all. A horrid scowl with unaligned teeth and a protruding forehead. Eugh. And with no beauty…I have little fiat outside of this poor excuse for a sword. Thank you father, this great gift you have bestowed upon me will be great against sleeping cripples- Stop…I should be grateful, I sound like I did in the marble tunnels. I should not let the worms in my head consume me so easily. I have a new friend who looks at me with kind eyes. Kind, green eyes. Eyes so glossy and emerald green, I can almost see myself in them. Though this hospitality may only be duty, I should still smile when she talks to me. There’s still a lot to know about her. “Hmph…my prince, we’re here!” cries Lola from below, her voice waking me from my daydreaming.
    “Wow..! It’s so pretty down here…” she says, skipping through the small grove.
    I get off the ladder, allowing my feet to sink into the soft soil. Blades of grass tickle my skin and press small orbs of dew against my feet. Tall, dark green pines populate the bluff, their trunks are a dark red shade, hollow and littered with holes that bear resemblance to a wasp hive. The breeze cuts through the thicket, playing the hollow trees like flutes. Hmmm… I hum, trying to match nature’s harmony. Tuscan pillars stand amidst the woodland, supporting small entablatures that direct the eye through the forest. I faintly see Lola galloping in front of me, occasionally stopping to ogling the construction. She gasps loudly enough that I pick up my pace. “My prince! Hurry!”
    Rushing down the cobblestone path and through the brush, I fall into a marble rotunda. Lola’s eyes widen as she covers her mouth with a palm. Her other finger points to a brutal scene, laid out in the corner of the rotunda. Crushed between a marble pillar and a pile of rubble is the splayed body of another knight. The skeleton lays idly as a small murder of crows sit gracefully upon his head. A large slashing force divides the knight’s head into two distinct hemispheres. Spikes protrude outwards from the skull like shrapnel, certainly a case of cutaneous horn. The crows pick at these abnormalities with their beaks, entranced by the strange spires of keratin. Large claw marks rend the knight’s silver armour, leaving only small hanging pieces of leather and plate in its wake. Lodged within his chest cavity is a large piece of gnarled wood. Despite its sharp appearance, the wood is pleasant on the eyes. A sunkissed redwood colour with tufts of bark looking not too dissimilar to pulled pork. Reduced to bone, there is no smell of rot to cover the wood’s strong aura of lavender. Beside the knight’s body are his weapons of choice, a silver shortsword and a small silver buckler--both of them actively being reclaimed by a thick layer of moss and white fungi. I operate my left leg manually, shuffling forward with a narrow and defensive stance. I am worried these crows will swarm my likeness to bite my horns. Luckily, the crows fly off as soon as I enter their perimeter, they caw loudly and disperse to their homes among the trees. As they ascend, I spot a familiar green banner, stuck between a flurry of branches.
    “...a knight of Metatron.” I whisper, gently running my fingers across his skull.
    “This seems utterly excessive.” Lola says, still watching at a distance. “The knights of Metatron are known to be practitioners of a sadistic school of magick. I wouldn’t exclude this to be an act of familicide.”
    “But why is his body underneath the pillar? Such a drastic case of overkill.”
    “Pardon, my prince, but I cannot say with certainty.”
    His arms dangle. I grab his wrists, yanking his hand out from the tightened roots of fungi that restrained him to the ground. Where the radius and ulna meet with the proximal row, the bone has been slashed very heavily. It looks like its residual damage through repeated cutting--intentional repetition. The worms in my brain thrash within the grey matter, forcing my wrist to feel an uncomfortably accurate sensation. I cringe, holding my own wrist, inspecting the non-existent damages. Adapting to the discomfort, I squat beside the body, yanking the buckler and sword out from their resting places. The buckler’s leather strap has been tarnished by the moss, adopting a washed out dark brown colour. On the other hand, a few wipes removes the light layer of dirt and moss clumps, revealing a nearly untouched body of silver. The sword is not too dissimilar to the buckler--a pristine silver blade with a washed out leather handle. I equip both of the weapons and enraptured by the sense of power they fill me with, I swing frantically at the air. Lola chuckles quietly to herself before lightly applauding. “My hero! My hero!”
    I turn around and smile as a single bead of sweat runs down my face. “I figure they will grant more protection than the sword my father bestowed upon me.”
    “I understand, my prince. I just think it is a valiant trait to equip yourself so quickly.”
    “Oh. Thank you, Lola.”
    “But you must have tired yourself out after that showcase! Shall we begin to prepare dinner?”
    “Here? Should we not base in the presence of a corpse?” I ask.
    “I don’t think it is an issue. The disciples of Metatron rarely show compassion for worshippers of any other belief.”
    “I-I mean is it rude? Will their spirit haunt our campsite?”
    “That is mere superstition, my prince. At worst, the raven we saw earlier will eyeball us in our sleep. But it's only nature.”
    “Only nature…okay, you know best.”
    Lola nods and begins to pull out small trinkets from her overcoat. A small metallic pot, vials of various seasonings, and a set of flint and steel. “My prince, I hate to prod you for further labour but could you grab that large slab of wood?”
    She points at the log that impales the knight. “To use in the fire? Of course, but we have no kindling.”
    “It is firewood, my prince. It will burn regardless.”
    What a nonsensical statement. If the fire is large enough or furious enough, all wood can be firewood, can it not? This forest is also cold, quite moist, and every exposed stone surface is covered in a blanket of moss--it shant light. But I obey regardless, and press my fingernails deeply into the trunk. With a firm grip, I hoist it out of the knight’s chest cavity, my knees shaking profusely as I stumble over to Lola. I drop the log, and gibbs of the trunk explode outward as it makes contact with the rotunda’s marble floor. “Thank you my hero, hehehe.” she says, rolling it towards her cuisine.
    “Lola, what do you mean when you say it will burn regardless? Wood is wood, is it not?”
    “It is firewood, my prince. Are you unfamiliar with the myth?”
    I pause. “Of firewood? I am not.”
    “I’ll tell you while I prepare dinner! Are you biassed against vegetable stew? I find that it is a seasonable dish for this type of weather.”
    “I have never had vegetable stew…I’m open to trying it once.”
    “Perfect! I already have the ingredients so it shant take long to prepare.”
    She begins digging more and more out from her coat. She grabs a large gourd and wooden slab, placing them right beside each other. The plank is in pristine condition; beautifully sanded and has a dark, earthy tone that matches Lola’s complexion. The gourd makes an audible sloshing noise and has a pleasant, carnivorous smell to it.
    “Please, my prince, take a seat.”
    I descend onto my knees, laying my hands softly atop my thighs. The marble is so dense it irritates my knees and calves--the hardness brushes against my bones. With the constant need to shift my weight around, I fidget with my clothes and my hair, rubbing my fingers between their soft bodies. “Why do you believe in this myth of firewood but not spirits?”
    “Because firewood is a creation of Gaia. It is a truth that I can support with my eyes, nose and my own two hands. Spirits…the soul…they’re all just intangible concepts that I cannot indulge in. Should I be able to manipulate a spirit, then perhaps my opinion would change. Should my soul become more than an abstract construct of the mind, then only then should I finally rescind my words.”
    “Okay…I can agree with that. But spirits aside, wood is wood. Is it not?”
    “Not firewood. Firewood is special. It is always dry and smells like home.”
    “Home is not a scent.”
    “But it is! It is that familiar smell that transports you back to when you were young, innocent, and not truly of this world.”
    “It smells like lavender.”
    “Lavender to you, perhaps. But to me, it smells of smoked meats.”
    “Pardon, Lola but I think that your nose must be broken. It is very clearly a sweet, flowery scent.”
    “That is why firewood is so special, my prince. Gaia has blessed it to always inspire home. That is its truly unique quality…dryness aside.”
    “Then why does “home” smell like lavender? I had never truly encountered the flower until we met.”
    “Seems like I am “home” to you, prince. Hehehe. But truthfully, I cannot answer. Did your father ever smell like lavender?”
    “I don’t believe so. He had an unpleasant, earthly aroma to him, like a dog who had just finished rolling around in dirt.”
    “An outdoorsman! Sounds like the king I know.”
    “Yeah…”
    “Look my prince! I will show you the splendour of Gaia’s creation!”
    Lola sets the log down, equipping herself with flint and steel. She quickly flares out her arm and produces a cascade of sparks. They fall from her hands and into the firewood’s open orifices. The log becomes consumed by flame. Lola claps. She places a small metal grill atop the fire and a metallic pot atop the grill. She begins pouring the carnivorous liquid into the pot--but only a little bit--stirring slowly with a beaten wooden spoon.
    “Voila! There is flame and soon there will be food.”
    She throws in carrots, celery, garlic and thyme. Despite the fresh, savoury smell I expect from these foods, the fire overwhelms me with the sweet odour of lavender. Lola slowly adds tomato paste from a small glass vial, stirring the pot as she does. Salt and pepper join the stew, but it still smells sweet.
    “Lola.” I ask, watching her pull ingredient after ingredient from her jacket.
    “What is it, my prince?”
    “Where do you get such plentiful amounts of food? A-And how do you store it all in your jacket?”
    “Oh! It is quite simple: as a member of the royal court I am granted a quite extensive allowance for food. Additionally, I have found a way to keep my spending quite low.”
    “How do you manage that?”
    “Bartering. People seem to find it easier to part with their goods when they see it's going to a good place.”
    “The court seems to be held in high regard.”
    “Certainly. But I would also say that having a pretty face makes the bartering process easier. Hehehe. Some people intertwin their politicks and business, though I cannot say I blame them. But playing to their basic biology always eases the connection between them.”
    “What? You use your looks to save money? I-I don’t know what to think about that.”
    “Oh my prince, I don’t only use my face. With the right words and right voice, you could accomplish anything. I frequently use a sultry voice, bedroom eyes and submissive body language. Without these tricks, I doubt I…I mean we…could have such a bountiful selection of cuisine.”
    “This seems manipulative. You’re a representative of the court! Is the money not enough?”
    “Oh, your father has blessed me! The money is not an issue. But the desire to cook for you often supersedes any scene of consumer empathy.”
    “You’re still a representative of the court, Lola…”
    “Mhm. Just as my mother before me and her mother before her.”
    “That’s manipulative!”
    “You know not the state of every vendor I’ve had the displeasure of speaking with. Some of them put me into the role, I simply act my part.”
    “But-”
    “My prince, it is simply how I must navigate myself. I understand you’re young but some things cannot be helped. I simply use what I have to my advantage…and when you try this stew, I’m certain your mind will change.”
    A frown unknowingly formed on my face.
    “My prince you are a beautiful, beautiful girl. I know this may seem difficult for you, but people will only care about you for your looks or what you can do for them.”
    “Does this statement refer to you as well?”
    “Perhaps! It is my responsibility to the court to keep you safe, but you’re a lovely girl to be around. Your looks are not my primary motivating factor.”
    “Because I’m ugly?”
    “My prince, I just called you beautiful! I just mean…I mean that I do not feel the urge to protect you solely because of your beauty. But whether it is because of duty or compassion, I have yet to understand.”
    “Okay…when should the food be finished?”
    “No more than a few minutes, my prince. You are free to practise your swordsmanship while I make the finishing additions.”
    I nod, finally able to sit still. My shoulders relax, becoming less narrow as I sink onto my elbows. With a cleansing breath, I exhale, looking up to the moon as it slowly reigns in the night. The warm sherbet reds and tangerine oranges slowly fade below the horizon line. A large blanket of darkness descends upon the mountain, leaving little light apart from the flickering campfire and the odd shooting star. As I lean backwards onto my arms, looking to the stars, I find myself nodding off as the fire’s warmth lulls me to sleep. We had not even walked that far today. We had not done much but casually chat today. The fact that this is what made me so tired is pathetic. Those farmers Lola talked about, surely they break their backs, toiling away in the fields for days. They deserve rest and fair compensation. They don’t deserve to be swindled out of their earnings. Certainly not for me. My tired demeanour is unworthy--unearned. Even the stars seem to avoid my gaze--in disgust at my figure, they fade back into the murky black depths of space. My face feels irritated, my cheeks twitch and my eyes are heavy. I think my body wants to cry, but for whatever reason it can’t. I feel like a rag filled with water, a filthy dirty rag, with no one to wring me out. Well, there is Lola, but I don’t know if I’d want her to be that person. She would cook for me, lead me home, and even jump off the rope bridge for me--but comforting me seems…selfish to ask for. We all eat. She was going to cook regardless. But I don’t know if she really feels the same things I do, or if she can feel the same things I do. At least the stew smells good--it seems to be overpowering the lavender. Now entering my point of view, is Lola, holding a small wooden bowl. “Sit up, my prince. It’s hot.”
    I obey, getting off of my arms and straightening my spine. I reach for the bowl, but she doesn’t reciprocate, holding the stew close to her. She dips the spoon into the stew, pulling out a hefty piece of potato. She repeatedly blows on the potato, slowly inching the spoon towards my mouth. “Say ahhh, my prince.”
    I obey, letting her put the spoon in my mouth. A shockwave ripples down my body, the food could’ve been blown on a little more. I juggle the veggies on my tongue inbetween inbetween tight exhales, eventually letting my teeth reduce them to mash. The smooth, savoury broth and mash feels really good in my mouth. I swallow. My stomach feels warm.
    “Is it good?” she asks, the spoon already loaded with another portion of stew.
    It’s good. It’s really good, actually. Not nearly as delicious as I would’ve expected from what I assumed to be a random assortment of ingredients. I loved the taste, the texture and the aura it oozed. The comfort of eating a warm stew beside a warm fire while being surrounded by chilling winds, it simply could not be matched. Is the environment a food is served in a part of its culinary delight? I felt as though I had dug my teeth into the mountainous taiga itself. The cold marble, bright leaves and lackadaisical species of bird seemed just as important to me as the potatoes, carrots and garlic. So beautifully arranged together, I could almost taste them with my eyes. They all meshed so well together, like stew.
    “Yeah.” I look Lola in her eyes, pushing my head towards her to take another bite. “-Irts really good.”
    I stop chewing to speak my mind. I wish I could’ve said more, but Lola seems to appreciate my input, regardless of how little I provide. Her smile relaxes into her raised and prominent cheekbones. Lola takes the metal pot off the fire, letting the flame slowly run its course. Steam rises from the stew, summoning beads of water that coalesce around and run down Lola’s face. “Good! Because I made a little too much stew…we will have to finish it all by tomorrow’s morn or it’ll spoil.”
    “I don’t mind eating a lot. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such delicious food.”
    “Thank you, my prince! And please take as much as you’d like…I’m trying to eat less.”
    “Shouldn’t the journey require a lot of energy?”
    “That it will. But I am prepared for what’s to come--I have walked the path once.”
    “I still think you should eat.”
    “Nonsense. I’ll be fine! I have some drinks that will keep me sustained on our journey…Speaking of, would you like a glass of milk before we rest?”
    My face blushes a bright red colour. I wet my lips as my eyes dart from feature to feature of Lola’s body. Bovine horns, loose red hair and fur, random spots of lightened colouration. She couldn’t mean-
    “-Oh!” her face becomes flushed with a rosy red colour. “Nonono, I should clarify that despite my features and dispositions, it is not my milk! Pardon me, my prince, it was an honest and embarrassing mistake.”
    “Oh o-okay.” I cannot bear to make eye contact with her right now. “Then s-sure, I would like a small glass.”
    I hear the sound of glass clinking on the marble floor followed by the quiet rush of a liquid being poured. She scoots the glass across the floor until it presses against my knee. I shiver briefly, before picking up the cup and sipping it slowly away from her gaze. My curious eyes drifted from the empty forest, slowly waltzing back towards the fire. Unbeknownst to me, Lola had already gotten up and began clearing a sleeping area. It looks so horribly uncomfortable. She laid out all of her knick knacks and food items beside a bush, pulling her arms into her overcoat and rubbing her hands gently. The pillow--our pillow--seemed to be little more than a mishaped cloth pincushion, and she pressed it against her head, sighing before putting it back into her coat. The urge to break the silence is overwhelming, “Where will we be sleeping?”
    “This is where I admit to you my fault as a caretaker. My dear prince, I have only brought a single bedroll. My overzealous nature seems to have valued finer dining over the blessing of sleep. I apologise.”
    “Have you a blanket?”
    “Nay, lest you count my overcoat.” she blows hot air in between her hands.
    The bedroll is still wrapped in its portable, cylindrical form. Two heavily woollen sheets are sewn together along the bottom and one side to allow a sleeper to bury themselves between the two halves. There’re small cloth straps that wrap around the bedroll, allowing it to be opened or closed.
    “Could you open the bedroll?” I ask while inching closer on my knees.
    Lola nods, releasing the small flax rope used to keep it closed. It unrolls, and to my surprise, seems extremely large. Lola reaches inside, pulling out small curios and miscellaneous vialed ingredients. “Apologies, my prince. I forgot I had been using the bedroll for storage.”
    I simply nod, placing a hand inside the bedroll, running it up and down the material. The wool tickles my hand, hugging it tightly with its soft furry tendrils as I run my palm against the insides. The longer I indulge my sense of touch, the larger I realise the bedroll is. It certainly makes sense why Lola was using it for storage. “Lola, I’m sure that we could both fit inside the bedroll.”
    “I appreciate your kindness, my prince, but it is my responsibility and I have failed. I will have to live with the consequences of such a scenario.”
     I part my lips. “It’s okay Lola, I wouldn’t feel good if you were to lay out in the cold--especially tonight. You could catch a cold…”
    “You’re so very right. If I become ill…I would lack the facilities to take care of you. But…my coat should provide me with appropriate warmth.”
    “Lola…please…”
    Her eyes drift, gazing inward before peering at me. I throw open the flap of the bedroll, taking off my geta and crawling inside. The marble and dirt press against my back like a mild-mannered masseuse. Repetitively patting the bedroll, my body is already beginning to sweat. She stares attentively before crawling over on her knees. “Fine. But only until this cold withers. I shan't be taken to bed with royalty--no matter the circumstance.”
    She takes off her wooden clogs, placing them beside the fire and begins to inch inside. The bedroll’s seams begin to stress like a freshly filled bota bag, but it’s perfectly sized--like jigsaw pieces, my body fits perfectly within every notch and groove. Lola places an arm underneath my neck, pulling my head to her chest, her fingers scratching the back of my ears. “I will keep you warm, my prince.” she whispers.
    My body melts. The sandman rapidly begins to eclipse my brain with his slumberous shroud. With little anxiety to combat his advances, my heavily eyelids fall closed. As the fire crackles, time stands still, seconds blur into hours. Beads of sweat collect on my forehead, running down my face before she inevitably wipes it away. Our legs intertwine, and my feet ache. I don’t want it to be morning. I don’t want to walk. I don’t want to get up. I just want to stay here for as long as I can. I cannot even bear to open my eyes, or even a single eye, should I gaze upon the morning sunrise and wake from this dream. …I just want to lay here and indulge in the scent of lavender…
    …
    …
    …
    The sound of metallic footsteps and crunching leaves pierce my slumber. Lola shrieks. My eyes jolt open.