By the time he woke hours later, Ren's head hurt, his throat had gone dry, and his body felt like he'd been thrown beneath the wagon he was inside. It shook as they traveled, rumbling against dirt and stone as they rumbled along well-established roads bound southwest. It was midmorning, judging by the warm light filtering through the canvas above him, and it was surprisingly warm, with a stove and burning coal in the tiny wagon he was in.
With some struggle, he sat up, reaching up to scratch that odd itch beside his eye, and instead found the wood of a mask. He blinked, then reached up to remove it. But as he wrapped his hands around the cloth behind his head, he hesitated. After a moment, despite his odd discomfort at the thought, he removed it, revealing the contours around his eyes, the sharp angles of them. Gently, he rotated the mask in his hands, looking down at it. The feathered patterns at the corners, the way the nose hooked almost like a beak. The slits that covered the eyes. Carefully, he swung his legs from his sleeping arrangement, setting them on the wood of the cart with an imperceptible click.
It wasn't much of a bed, but a row of crates lined up. Moving stiffly, arms wide and chest exposed, before grabbing the mask in both hands and raising it above his head, stretching out his arms.
All about him, the sounds of laughter, walking, horses, and music filled the air alongside the groaning carriages. For a moment, Ren was stunned. How could these people be… Okay? After everything that had just happened? They were harboring a fugitive, now. Gnawing gently at the corner of his lip, Ren looked down at the mask once again, then set it on the makeshift bed.
"Father, I had no intention to leave him–" A voice echoed from the head of the carriage, young and defensive. As Ren's memories collected themselves again, he recognized it– Silas. The Reaper who'd abandoned him at the wall.
"Intention is not the problem, Silas," An older, gruffer voice replied, "Intentions don't change the fact that your execution was faulty. You could've copied his abilities and both walked out alongside the southwest part of the wall."
There was hesitation, then Silas relented, "... Yes, father."
After a moment, 'father' spoke again. "...You handled yourself well. Got out of there alive."
Ren could somehow hear the smile in Silas' response, "There were at least a dozen men there. I Harvested the Scales from one of them and jumped over the wall. You should've seen the look on their faces."
"You're lucky you were wearing a mask, son."
Silas shrugged off the condescension and kept speaking, his voice light and unbothered, "Yeah, and Ren's… Well, he's good enough in combat. Turns out his fancy arbiter training did something right."
"Be careful speaking ill of the Arbiters, son," Father spoke again, "They were… Are… Necessary."
There was a pluck of a guitar string, then another, as if one of them was testing notes. "Yes, father. But you have to admit that it was coming sooner or later. You saw the soldiers lined up on the border of Lord Rivercrest's territory three months ago."
Ren had had enough. He tried to stand, underestimated how much strength he had, and toppled to the wooden floor below, the sound of it immediately quieting the conversation.
Cursing under his breath, Ren forced himself to sit up. Was he that weak, still? What was it that the physicians had called it? Shock? Shivering, Ren tried to stand again, this time with far more caution and a deeper, calming breath.
"Ah, you are awake!"
Jumping far more than he was proud to admit, Ren fell right onto his backside once again. "Pillars!" He gasped, grasping his chest, "Announce yourself next time."
Through the canvas flaps, Silas grinned, then flipped it open altogether, cold early spring winds blew into the wagon immediately, adding to Ren's already horrible shivering. "Sorry. Just eager to see what the arbiter's heir is like when he's not on his high-horse."
Ren sneered, then stood up again. "Shut up."
"Silas!" Father called, and Ren peered through to get a glance. Dark hair pulled back and gathered in a band behind his back.
Silas' response was immediate. "Sorry! Didn't mean to poke fun of recent events." He winked at Ren, then turned back to the open flap, draping his arm over a guitar that Ren was just now noticing, and plucked a few notes.
Finally, father turned, tilting his head over his shoulder to look at Ren. Rose gold eyes glanced over at him, hard, evaluating, but kind enough. "It's been a long while, Elren."
Lips curling down into a frown, Ren tilted his head, "Do I know you?"
Father smiled. Small, precise, but genuine. "Come, sit. We've much to discuss."
After a brief moment's hesitation, Ren stepped forward. Cautiously. Carefully, then out onto the driver's seat, where Silas sat against one of the bows, and father leaned forward, driving the small team of horses dragging along the cart. After a moment, Ren sat between them as Silas idly plucked strings of the guitar, coaxing out some meagre melody as if attempting to practice without putting in any real effort. Ren, however, couldn't focus on any of it.
They were leading the caravan, it seemed. Several wagons trailed behind, along with a small crowd of people. And despite the walking, they laughed and danced and sang as they wandered along.
It was father who spoke first, his voice steady in that way only a man with such a title could hold. "Your father and I knew each other, young man."
Ren's face immediately hardened, and he looked between the horses, avoiding eye contact with either of the men beside him. After a moment, Ren spoke, his throat tight. "Yeah. I… Figured."
"Jeremiah Winter. Finest Arbiter in generations." The driver reminisced, "And I used to be his companion."
Eyes narrowing, Ren finally dared look at the man, racking his memory for anything his father might've mentioned about a companion. But he could find nothing. "I'm sorry?"
There was silence as father drove along, save for the laughter of the caravan and the pluck of Silas' guitar. Memory flashed in the light of the man's eyes, nostalgia, perhaps, for years gone by. After a moment, he sighed, then turned to Ren. "Name's Leonidas Burnham."
There was a pause, then Ren's eyes widened with recognition. "The deserter?"
"If that's what they call me now," Leonidas said, turning back to the horses as they drove. "Though it's not unfounded." He sighed, "Manifested the Reaper. Just like my boy, here."
"A footsoldier…" Ren muttered in response, suppressing the disappointment.
At that, Silas abruptly stood up, as if already annoyed at what his father would say next. He mumbled something about finding Evelyn and mother, and jumped off the side of the cart with his guitar.
Watching Silas fall behind the cart, Leonidas spoke again. "Yes. A footsoldier. I'm sure many of your attendants had manifest the Reaper, too."
Ren hesitated, thinking of Gentry and Winston, how they'd been barred from High Arbiter positions because they lacked the Scales, or the Sword, or the Blind. "You left because you couldn't progress?"
Leonidas laughed, "No. I left because I didn't want to be an executioner."