The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with damp, thick with the smell of earth and wet wood. Inside the tent, Adam slept. Only the crackle of the embers outside broke the silence.
Rufus, though, was restless. His small body tensed beneath the blanket, fists clutching the fabric, lips moving in a mute murmur. Cold sweat shone across his brow.
In his dream, the tent was gone.
He was back in the cabin.
The walls were dark, the split planks letting in the icy air. The smell… the smell was everywhere. Not of wood or rain, but sharp and acid, of flesh wasting away. He didn't want to remember it, but in the dream it pressed heavier than ever.
There were the bodies. On the straw mattress, two still forms, untouched by hunger, unmoved by his cries. Hollow cheeks, cracked lips. His mother. His father. Rufus no longer dared to touch them. He knew that if he pulled back the blanket, he would see the glazed eyes.
And there was the silence. A thick silence, broken only by the crows tapping at the window, by the storm outside. Five days. Five days he had counted alone, fingers wrapped around an empty bowl.
— M'ma? … P'pa?
In the dream his voice was that of a little child. But no one answered.
And then the worst came back. Not only them. But before them. His little sister.
She had died years ago, but in the dream she returned, curled in a basket, hair fine and dark as silk, her mouth still milk-soft. His mother always said she "had eyes brighter than the moon." She coughed often, harder each time, until one morning she simply faded, without a sound. Rufus remembered the hollow in the house that day. And yet in the dream, the little girl laughed, her clear giggle ringing through the empty cabin.
— No!
Rufus woke with a jolt. His chest heaved, his throat burned. He gasped for air like a drowning boy. His eyes caught the shadow of an arm—and a scream caught in his throat.
— Hey, hey, easy, kid. It's me.
Adam.
The young man leaned over him, chestnut hair tousled, his face swollen with sleep but sharp with concern. His large hands closed over Rufus's shoulders.
— Breathe. It was a dream. Just a dream.
Rufus trembled, unable to answer. Adam pulled back the blanket, drew him close, held him without fuss, the way you'd shelter a shivering kitten under your cloak. The warmth of his chest, the smell of leather, sweat, and cold tobacco replaced the cabin's stench.
— Look, I'm here. It's over.
Rufus hiccupped, then stammered, his voice cracked:
— I… I saw the cabin again. And them. And… and my sister.
Adam tightened his hold.
— You don't have to carry that alone. Tell me.
— I… I lived with them. Five days. Five days they were there and… and they never moved. I didn't know what to do. I was hungry. I was scared. The only ones who answered were the crows.
His small fingers clutched Adam's coat, trembling. Adam rested his chin on the boy's hair, closed his eyes for a moment.
— I know, kid. I know.
Silence fell, broken only by Rufus's ragged breath. Then he whispered, lower:
— Before that… I had a little sister. She was sick. All the time. She didn't… she didn't last. But I remember her hair. So fine, sticking to her cheeks. And her laugh. It was… it was pretty.
His voice broke. Adam's arms tightened, one hand rubbing his back awkwardly.
— Yeah. I get it. I lost people too, you know. Not the same, but it leaves holes you can't ever patch.
Rufus lifted his head, eyes still shining.
— You?
Adam gave a crooked, sad smile.
— Me, kid? I've got a past so pitiful it's almost funny.
He paused, choosing the words.
— I grew up with my aunt. A decent woman, but worn down, already feeding too many mouths. She always said I had "the head of a mule"—and believe me, she didn't mean it kindly.
Something flickered in Rufus's eyes through his tears. Adam shrugged.
— At seventeen, she threw me out. Not 'cause I stole, not 'cause I smashed things. No. Because they caught me… fooling around behind the stable. With a girl I actually cared about.
Rufus gave a startled gasp. Adam raised his hands.
— Hey, nothing filthy. Just clumsy. We kissed, we laughed, we thought we'd change the world together. But that didn't pass. So my aunt told me to clear out, and the girl… they sent her to the Sisters. I never saw her again.
Rufus said nothing, eyes wide. Adam scratched his neck, uneasy.
— Anyway. After that, I tried every job you can think of. Hauling wood, fishing without knowing how to swim, guarding geese that chased me instead… I even stood at a tavern door for three days before realizing I was just there to take the punches meant for the real bouncer.
A small laugh slipped from Rufus. Adam grinned, satisfied.
— And then… the games. Dice, cards. The rush of winning, the pit of losing. At first I thought I was clever. But soon, I owed everyone. Men you don't want to meet twice. So I had to choose: pay, or vanish.
He gave a dry laugh.
— The army found me. Well… not the army. Captains who needed bodies to bleed. I didn't have much else. So I picked up a sword, and walked.
His voice dimmed.
— And that's where I met Robin. Emma's brother. A man… straight as they come. The kind you follow without thinking, 'cause he always had a joke ready, even in hell. He held me up when I should've fallen. He became my brother.
Rufus lowered his gaze.
— And he died.
Adam nodded slowly.
— Yeah. And I lost plenty more. But Robin stuck. That's why… when I saw you, in that cabin, I couldn't walk away. Because I knew what it meant to be alone. And because Robin would've skinned me alive if I'd left a kid behind.
A heavy silence fell. Rufus bit his lip.
— But if I'd gone out, shouted, maybe… maybe someone—
Adam shook his head.
— No. You can't carry that, Rufus. Your parents starved. You couldn't give them what you didn't have. And your sister… she was sick long before. You weren't a healer. You were a child. You still are.
Rufus sniffled. Adam ruffled his hair.
— You know what? From now on, if you cry out, I answer. Even if I sleep like stone. You don't wait five days for someone to hear anymore.
The boy looked up, hesitant.
— You… you always answer?
Adam smiled, tired but true.
— Always. I'm the official big brother here.
— And Victor?
— He only got promoted when you showed up. He doesn't have my long experience.
A quiet warmth settled. Rufus yawned despite himself. Adam tugged the blanket up to his chin.
— Sleep, kid. The dreams will come back, but we'll shut 'em up together. Next time, I'll tell you how I tried to teach a chicken to fetch stones.
— That's stupid.
— Yeah. But it makes you laugh. And that's all that matters.
Rufus curled against him, eyes heavy. His breath steadied, finally even. Adam stayed awake a while longer, eyes on the tent's canvas, one hand resting on the boy's shoulder.
He thought of Robin. Of the girl behind the stable—Livia. Of all the debts unpaid. And he smiled anyway.
— Don't worry, he murmured. I've got this.
The rain began again outside, soft as a curtain. And Rufus slept.