Enter the Witchwood

The boy grinned. "Yeah, just us. Mama tells me I don't have a father." He tilted his head. "We get a lot of visitors, though, and sometimes they leave us things." He scooted closer, bedding and all, and grinned. "One guy left me all of his books, and one of them let him use magic, so if I keep reading it, I might get to, too!" The boy's grin was wide and carefree, as though, to him, magic was exciting and safe.

"Do you use magic? If you do, can I see? Can you teach me? I want to learn how to throw fireballs!" The boy's babbling didn't stop. He continued asking questions, often before Sam could have any chance at answering.
 
The barrage of the boys questions took Sam aback, eyes widening at the sudden flurry of fervor he seemed to have. No chance at all he had of even answering and trading questions.

What did stand out was the boys mention of magic. Such a thing was talked about in hushed whispers and was often a foreboding omen, the work of Devils and cruel beings. It made his blood run cold for a moment.

The hardest part was hiding his hard wired fear of the unknown from showing, keeping it blank behind a face of stone. "Easy lad, easy.." It had barely finished before more words came. Asking him of all people to teach him! The most un-magical of all people! Samson didn't even wear a religious icon, believing man to be the only one capable of progress. In reality he was just cold on the matter, but that history wasn't for a boys ears.
 
The boy's questions refused to stay on one topic-- ranging from magic, to Sam's clothing and the cause of his injuries, to whether the man could read and swim. He asked about everything-- right up until he ran out of breath, and paused to breathe mid-question, watching Sam eagerly from under the blankets a moment, brown eyes searching his face with interest. "Sorry. Mama says I'm bad at asking cuz I ask a lot." He closed the little gap in his blanket, but not before his face had a chance to turn as red as a strawberry.
 
Well at least he'd not asked his marital status, Samson mused inwardly. Each question was usually answered silently in his own head with a yes, no, no, you're too young, violent, or some other such dull way an adult answers the probing questions of a child.

"I can see why she might say that, lad. But let me tell you how an ol' friend of mine used to say it; 'there's no such thing as a wrong question or a stupid one.'" His tone pitched a bit higher, playing on the drunken tones of the old man. "You're just curious is all, Beliam. Nothing wrong with that. You're young. Get your toes wet, fingers dirty." He wished he'd had this kind of chat when he was the boys age. A pang of jealousy formed in his stomach.
 
The boy's face re-emerged, and he grinned widely. For only a moment, he was quiet.

After the moment was barely passed, he began to babble on, asking more questions breathlessly, though this time Samson had time to answer. "What do you do?" and "Why'd you end up so hurt?", as well as "What's it like where you're from?" and "You were dressed funny. Why?"

Beliam's eyes shone bright as he spouted out more questions, though he avoided asking where Sam was from, his marital status, and if he had a family that would miss him. He instead asked what Sam did for fun, why he got himself hurt, and more.

He paused only when continuing would interrupt the older male.
 
Sam had forgotten what it was like being in close proximity to one so young and curious. He couldn't blame the boy as far as he could throw him for sure.

"Do you want them all at once or should I make a list?" He chuckled as he spoke and adjusted how he was laying, a knot was forming in his leg from being so inactive.

Sam began answering slowly, to try and stem the boys speed. First telling him he was a guardsman of a small town near the coast where the winds were blustery and the sky often gray. How the bear had bested him and why he wore so much armor. All of it was kept short and sort of vague, not purpose at least, he was just answering quickly.

"What of you, Liam?" He asked, using another abbreviation of the young man's name. "What's it like beyond the house? Afraid not much can be seen from the floor."
 
Beliam blinked, as though caught by surprised. "We have a farm, and then there's a forest all around it. The forest is called the Witchwood. Mama says that's because of the witchberries that grow there." He tilted his head. "Our farm's nice. It's not big enough to be a lot of work all day, but it's big enough we get a lot of extra stuff from it." He pointed up at the various preserved food hung from the ceiling. "Mama says we gotta preserve the stuff we have extra, in case we ever do have a time we can't harvest enough, or in case visitors need to take some with them when they leave."

His voice slowed during the last few words, and he looked away from Sam for a few long seconds. "Mama has a box, though. She got it as thanks from one visitor. It makes things inside it very cold. I put my hand inside once, and it was like it was winter inside!" His face split into a grin. "It's so weird. Mama uses it to store milk and fruit, because they taste really good cold."
 
The name was of course a bit foreboding, but that was quickly alleviated by mention of some local berries. It almost made him laugh. Never had he considered himself superstitious or a religious man, but for that moment he thought he felt a sense of dread. A foolish thought brought a foolish grin.

"It's good you're self reliant. Other people can't always be there." He stated politely, trying to keep any edge of animosity from his tone while speaking to the boy.

For a moment he was unsure of what the boy meant about the cold box. After some very short thought he figured it was like the pits at home. "We have something like that. But it's a hole in the ground we dump snow and ice into. Some even bring it from the mountains later so we can keep it." He was want to admit he'd quite enjoy a box and not have to dig up his food or lift a stone slab for it.
 
The boy nodded at his comment about reliance. A lot of children might not have known the word, but Beliam didn't even pause to think about its meaning before nodding his agreement. He was self-reliant, he and his mother both.

The topic changed to the snow hole, and he grinned. "We used to have that! Mama yelled at me for playing in it a lot. The box is smaller. I can only fit if I squish myself small." He huddled slightly inside the cocoon of blanket. "Like this, but more."
 
Samson nodded to the boy with a chuckle that came off too dry. It wasn't meant that way, perhaps he was just thirsty from the night and talking?

"One of these days you won't be able to fit into it. Squeezing gets harder as you get older." The sentence felt foolish. Like he was giving himself advice that he ignored or never even got when he was the boys age. There was the pang of jealousy once more, rearing its nasty head in his gut.

A quick thought came to him to alter the subject. "Not sure what I brought I could gift you both." Eyes wandered to where his belongings were nearby. A look of contemplation crossed his features before his shoulders moved about in a laying shrug.
 
"Oh, you don't have to." The boy blinked. "Mama always says she prefers company and help over gifts and such." He grinned and sat up, clearly more awake, and let the blankets fall around his waist. The room was definitely warming.

From the door, his mother's voice came. "Oh good, you're not pretending to be dead anymore." She grinned at her son, a grin just like his-- both vicious and playful all at once. She looked between them. "Who's hungry? I don't know about you two, but I certainly worked up an appetite." In one hand, her wooden bucket was filled with straw and eggs. The other, metal, was full of fresh, warm milk. She placed both down and stretched, leaning back with a hand on her back. Not the most ladylike stretch, but Ellith hardly considered herself a lady.
 
His reply was just to his lips as the owner's voice chimed in about food and a good meal. As much as he'd be elated to have a large stew laden with thick vegetables and a hearty broth, he knew such a meal wouldn't remain down long with him having not eaten for some time.

"If the wounded soldier can have a simple request of a light meal." Was his reply to the caring woman. His neck craned to see her, an upside down view of the room, at least partially.

"As long as it's no bother." The last thing he desired was to act demanding when he was laying upon the floor with a deal of time left to recover.
 
The woman nodded. "Alright. I think I can manage that." She picked up both buckets and carried them to the kitchen, where she began to breakfast routine. She cooked bacon, then scrambled some eggs mixed with vegetables. She toasted some rolls. It didn't take long, and Beliam's attention was on the sounds and smells coming from the kitchen as he licked his lips.

The woman was efficient in her kitchen, and it didn't take too long before she poked her head around the corner. "Almost done. I'll be out with breakfast shortly!"

True to her word, she soon emerged with a bowl of scrambled eggs, a platter of bacon, and a plate of rolls-- one roll for each of them. She returned to the kitchen to get plates and forks, and in that time, her son grabbed a fat strip of bacon and stuffed it into his mouth with a shameless grin.
 
The sounds of sizzling bacon and the distinct pop of egg shells against a counter top held the wounded soldier's attention as well as any guard post. When the smells began to waft in his stomach let loose a growl that he might liken to the bear that caused him such grief. As the noise subsided he was made acutely aware of the slight pain of hunger had turned into a full on pit. He envied the boy, knowing he'd eat his fill.

"Not as if I'm going anywhere." It felt like déjà vu repeating those lines so much that he rolled his eyes at his own inability to care for himself. For a moment he wondered if this is what growing old felt like.

With her from the room he tried once more to sit up, adopting a more angled sit to keep from moving his ribs too much. Had he been anywhere else he would've scolded the boy for the theft, not this time, not his place.

"Growin' boy." Sam stated, playing off his own prejudice as the words he was often told when he used to do the same acts. Now the only thing left to do was stand.
 
Ellith returned with plates in time to spot him, and shook her head. "Belly, help him sit up." She ordered as she knelt and began to fill the plates.

Beliam turned to the shelf and pulled down all of the bedding there, then rolled up his own and jumped over the food to get to Sam's side. He tucked them against the wall, then carefully, slowly, lifted Sam to a full sitting position. "Ok, gotta turn now, or you won't be able to face us when you're eating!" He grinned and pulled one hand away from Sam's back in order to wipe his nose, then began to carefully ease Sam along to face the right direction.

"You can sit, but you can't stand, and you can't use your arm. Both were broken badly, and it will be another few days before I am willing to let you put weight on your leg." Ellith spoke sternly, and then her voice became slightly more gentle. "Do you want help eating? It's hard with only one arm, I know."
 
As if getting help just to move wasn't enough of a wound to his pride. Now a child was helping him just to be able to sit and eat. He knew sound wisdom in it of course, but that did little to quell the pain of it all.

"It would be rude of me to not." Was his reply as he slowly moved in a half circle with the boys help. He was surprised by the boys sturdiness as he held his shoulder with his free and unharmed hand to move.

Once situated and settled he leaned with his back to the wall, letting the core of his chest begin to relax. The comfort was near instant as his chest relaxed. "Thank you, but I can manage that I believe." He hoped he could anyway. It took a bit of finagling to get into a spot just right that he felt the plate would sit flat on his lap or beside him and his arm could reach it well enough.

"It all smells quite nice." It may have been plain meals, unadorned and some may say dull, but to a wounded man living upon others care it was like a feast.
 
The woman beamed. "I'm glad you think so." She offered his plate to him, minus fork, and waited for him to situate it before she offered the fork, handle first. The fork was wooden, and the plate was made of polished stone, and quite hefty. The food and plate were warm-- she'd made sure to stick them by the stove to keep the meal warm on them.

Beliam sat next to him and reached out eagerly for his plate and fork, a wide grin on his face. He began to dig in once he had it, and Ellith could only shake her head.

"The boy only wakes to eat, some days." Her laugh was affectionate as she finally served herself. There was plenty left-over-- certainly enough for seconds and perhaps more. "What we don't eat, the pigs will. Get them nice and fat for meat." She nodded and began to eat just as eagerly as her son, though she chewed with her mouth closed and didn't shovel.
 
The plate felt warm on his lap as he set it down just so, a little angled to the right, but it was planted firmly enough that it'd not topple unless he moved. "Thank you." He replied as he took the fork, a brief adjustment as he watched the boy begin to eat. Children. Something about house and home too.

"Don't we all?" It was a poor attempt at a joke as he began attempting to eat. Her warm laugh raising his spirits a bit. A pleasant sound to be sure.

The first part went rather well, the bacon being used as a small platform to keep some of the egg steady on the way to his awaiting mouth. Warmth of the fluffy eggs were complimented by the fatty savory flavor of the bacon. Always a fan of different textures in his food this was rather nice given the circumstances.

Samson's second attempt nearly ended in a painful lesson as he nearly dropped the forks contents to his chest, only saving it by leaning forward so it simply bounced back onto his plate. No chest hairs present thankfully. The mild look of irritation was evident but quickly shaken off as he managed a successful bite.

"May I ask you something, Ellith?" He'd paused eating to ask, no egg had fallen at least. "What are the sounds at night that sound like talking?" Curiosity had welled up while the soft clatter of wood upon earthen plates had made their soft rhythm.
 
The woman watched him eat, to make sure he wasn't having too much trouble, then began to concentrate on her own meal, right up until he asked about the sounds at night.

"To start, they aren't talking. They're incapable. Even if they had the throats for it, they don't have the intelligence for it-- not anymore." She tried to dismiss the subject with a shrug as she averted her eyes. The woman stuffed a big bite into her mouth, if only to keep him from asking further-- or so she hoped.

Beliam slowed his inhalation, then began eating faster. It was clear he wasn't doing it for the pleasure of it, though.
 
A touchy subject was made clear, he would press no further. The chill down his spine was of fear of the unknown, the way she spoke of it so casually, and his own inability to grasp what it was that could make such noises and for her criteria.

Rather than form a coherent response he made a slight grunt and nodded, catching the boy scarfing down his food even faster. His own next bite nearly didn't make it down before he tensed, holding it down through sheer willpower alone. A second swallow forced it down followed by a second bite, once more a bit of the pale yellow egg falling from his fork to bounce back upon the plate, he seemed far less concerned with that now than he did before.
 
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