By the time Soap and Thunder returned to the camp, the sun had risen higher, no longer soft like earlier in the morning. The air felt warmer now, and the clearing looked quieter than before, with only the faint crackle of the campfire and the occasional rustle of leaves breaking the silence.
What awaited him... was his master.
Ser Dymitr was already awake.
He was leaning against the elm tree near their camp, sitting in the shade with one leg stretched out and the other bent slightly. In his hands was a piece of cloth, and he was sewing it with slow, careful movements. He had likely been awake for a while. His shaggy, short dirty-brown hair fell loosely over his forehead, his brown ears flicked about, and his blue eyes lifted the moment Soap stepped into the clearing.
Soap's attempt at whistling stopped immediately.
Dym looked at him for a brief moment—nothing sharp or harsh, just a quiet, steady look—before returning his attention to the cloth in his hands.
Soap didn't say anything right away. He simply guided Thunder toward the tree, keeping his movements calm and unhurried. The horse followed along easily. When they reached the elm, Soap tied Thunder beside Chestnut, making sure the reins were secured properly.
Only after that did he walk back toward the fire.
The campfire was still burning, though there was nothing cooking over it. Thin smoke drifted upward and was carried off by the breeze. Soap lowered himself near it, sitting on his heels for a moment.
"Where have you been?" Dym asked without looking up, continuing to sew.
"Training, ser," Soap carefully replied.
Dym paused briefly. He glanced at Soap, taking in his appearance—the dust on his clothes, the slightly messy state of his cloak, even his dirty blonde ears and tail. Then he looked past the squire at Thunder on the corner of his eyes, who didn't look much better.
After a second, Dym nodded to himself. "Don't wander off without telling me," he said, returning to his sewing.
Soap nodded. "Yes, ser."
He looked down at the fire and picked up a small stick, using it to poke at the embers. A few sparks shifted, and the wood settled with a soft crackle.
For a short while, neither of them spoke.
Then Soap glanced up again.
"What are you doing, ser?" he asked.
"Sewing a patch," Dym answered without looking up.
Soap kept poking at the fire for a moment before replying, "Is that not my job?"
Dym rolled his eyes and let out a quiet huff. "You know how?" he asked, glancing at the boy.
Soap paused, then shook his head slightly. "Not really... But I know how to crochet, ser."
Dym went still for a second. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped himself and exhaled instead.
"I see," he muttered.
He didn't know what crocheting was, but it sounded close enough to sewing, and the boy seemed confident about it. Still, now wasn't the time to figure that out.
"Not today," Dym said, returning his attention to the cloth. "Go get the brushes. Thunder looks like he's been dragged through a hedge."
Soap lifted his head at that. "What about breakfast?"
"There's salt beef," Dym replied flatly, "and yesterday's leftovers. After you're done."
Soap made a face, clearly unimpressed. "I'd sooner eat the horse, ser."
That earned him a sharper look.
"You'll eat my fist if you don't do as you're told," Dym said, his voice firm, with a slight edge creeping in.
Soap immediately looked down, any hint of complaint gone. He set the stick aside and pushed himself up carefully, dusting his hands as he turned toward their things.
Dym watched him for a moment.
The irritation on his face didn't last.
It slipped, just slightly, replaced by something else—something quieter. He looked down at the cloth in his hands, then back at the boy, then away again. His jaw tightened for a brief second before he let out a low sigh.
"Never mind that," he said, his tone easing a little. "Come here. Help me out with these."
Soap paused mid-step and turned back.
"Show me... you—" Dym gestured vaguely with the needle in his hand, searching for the word, "—that crochet thing of yours. Maybe it'll do."
Soap blinked, a bit surprised, but nodded and walked back.
Dym gathered a few of their more worn, torn clothes along with the needle and thread, then stood up and motioned for Soap to follow. They moved a short distance from the fire to a low stone fence that marked the edge of the clearing. The stones were uneven and weathered, warmed by the sun, but flat enough to sit on.
Dym settled himself against it and handed Soap one of the less-damaged pieces.
"Here," he said. "Start with that."
Soap sat beside him, cross-legged, and took the cloth. For a moment, he adjusted it in his hands, then began working the needle through the fabric. His movements were a little unsure at first, but not unfamiliar.
Dym watched closely.
The boy wasn't clumsy.
Not at all.
"...Yeah," Dym said after a moment, leaning slightly to get a better look. "Yeah, just like that. Keep it closer to the edge."
He pointed with the needle.
"And that's a whipstitch."
Soap rolled his eyes lightly. "I know, I know. I've been doing something similar and boring since I was a child."
Dym snorted under his breath. "You are a child. A petulant one at that."
Soap huffed at that but didn't argue further, focusing back on the cloth in his hands.
They worked in relative quiet after that, the only sounds being the pull of thread, the occasional shift of fabric, and the soft rustle of wind brushing through the trees. Every now and then, Dym would glance over, correcting small things—how tight the stitch was, how close it sat to the tear.
Despite himself, he noted that Soap was doing well.
Not perfect—there were uneven parts, a few stitches too loose or too tight—but for someone who claimed not to know how to sew properly, it was more than decent.
So that crochet thing... is related, Dym thought.
Soap, meanwhile, kept stealing glances at Dym's work.
His master's stitching was cleaner. Straighter. More even.
"...How'd you get it so even?" Soap asked after a while, holding up his own patch for comparison.
Dym didn't look up right away.
"Well..." he muttered, guiding the needle through another line. "Just practice. Do it again and again. That's it."
Soap frowned slightly, but nodded, returning to his work.
Time passed quietly like that.
At some point, Dym leaned in again, watching more closely as Soap worked on the final stretch of his first patch. The boy slowed a little, concentrating, making sure the last stitches held properly.
Then—
"There."
Soap pulled the thread through and tightened it, finishing the patch.
Dym looked at it for a second.
Then a small smile broke through.
"Yes," he said, a bit more openly this time. "That's good. Well done."
==========
By the time they finished mending what they could, the sun had climbed higher, and the camp had settled into the steady rhythm of midday. The patched clothes were set aside, and without much discussion, they moved on to the horses.
They of course, started with Thunder.
The brown warhorse looked exactly like he had been worked hard that morning—dust and mud along his legs, bits of grass tangled in his mane, and a dullness to his coat that hadn't been there before. Soap took one side with a brush, working through the dirt in slow, steady strokes, while Dym stood on the other, doing the same along the neck and shoulder.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Dym broke the silence.
"So... What were you training about this morn?" he asked, his tone neutral.
Soap hesitated for a moment, then answered while continuing to brush.
"Simple commands." he said.
Dym glanced at him briefly, then back to his work.
"Commands?"
Soap nodded. "Getting him to move when I tell him. Stop. Turn. Run in circles like a list field." He paused, then added, "I had to shout a lot. Chase him a bit too."
Thunder flicked an ear again at that.
"I also tried practicing with a lance," Soap went on. "Well… sticks. Anything long enough. Just… getting used to carrying it, holding it steady while moving and imagined myself handing it off to you or other knights."
Dym hummed quietly.
"And my sword? Why would you need to take it?" he asked.
Soap nodded. "I practiced with that too. Taking it from weapon's rack, handing it back. In case… you know. If there's a melee."
The hedge knight didn't respond right away. He kept brushing for a few more strokes, slower now, thinking.
Then he let out a small breath.
"Mm."
It wasn't disapproval.
But it wasn't approval either.
"Be careful next time," he said after a moment.
Soap glanced at him.
"And next time," Dym continued, "wake me first. Doesn't matter when. I'll get up."
The brush moved steadily through Thunder's coat.
"I can show you how to do it properly," he added. "What I learned when I was squiring for Ser Arlan. You don't have to guess your way through it."
Soap didn't argue, but he didn't fully agree either.
"Training for the lists isn't simple," Dym went on. "It's dangerous. For a child like you, for the horse… and for anyone nearby."
Soap scoffed lightly.
"Thunder's been anything but trouble, ser." he said. "Just... stubborn. And a bit difficult to command, that's all."
Dym huffed a quiet chuckle.
"Aye," he said. "Just like the old man."
He gave Thunder's neck a firm pat before his tone settled again.
"But I'm serious," he added, more firmly now, "it's dangerous. So don't do it again."
A short pause.
"At least not without me watching. Aye?"
Soap sighed, softer this time.
"Aye…"
Dym tilted his head slightly.
"Aye what?"
Soap rolled his eyes.
"Aye, ser… tak jest."
Dym shook his head, a faint chuckle slipping out as he muttered something under his breath about the boy's insolence, though there was no real sharpness to it as they went back to brushing the horse.
The squire worked the brush along Thunder's flank in steady strokes before speaking again.
"Ser."
Dym was at the horse's shoulder, brushing along the neck and down toward the chest, careful around the harness lines. He hummed in response without looking up.
"Hmm?"
Soap hesitated briefly, then continued, "This morning… after my training."
Dym's hand slowed just a little at that, but he said nothing.
"I met Ser Don."
That made Dym glance up.
"Really?" he said, one brow lifting slightly. "And how is he?"
Soap reached down and absentmindedly picked at a bit of grass near his feet, rolling it between his fingers as he spoke.
"He seemed fine," he said. "Better than before. Cleaner. More well-kept. Healthier, I think."
Dym nodded once, returning to his brushing.
"I see," he murmured. "Where's he staying?"
Soap shrugged lightly.
"He said something about Leithanien business," he replied. "But… I think he's staying near Lord Fremont's pavilion. He was wearing Leithanien clothes."
He paused, then added, "And he said he's been… raiding Fremont's wine cellar and food."
That got a snort out of Dym.
"I see," he said. "I can imagine that already."
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly before he went back to his work, brushing along Thunder's shoulder again in slow, even strokes.
Soap fell quiet after that.
The only sound between them was the brush against the horse's coat and the occasional flick of Thunder's tail.
"…Ser?"
Dym hummed again, still focused on his work.
"Hmm?"
Soap lowered his voice a little, his hands slowing on the brush.
"Ser… I... I told him."
Dym didn't react right away, but his hand paused briefly against Thunder's shoulder before continuing again.
"Told him what?"
Soap swallowed, then went on.
"About yesterday. And… the whole week... the whole week we're here." He kept his eyes on the horse as he spoke. "Looking for knights and lords to vouch for you. How none of them would. Until… until Ser Mlynar Nearl did."
Dym's brushing slowed.
"And then… about Lord Fremont," Soap added. "His offers and everything."
The tall knight said nothing.
Soap hesitated, then continued, his voice dipping slightly.
"And… about Swift."
That made Dym stop.
The brush stilled in his hand.
Soap pressed on anyway, words coming out a bit uneven now.
"I told him… that you had to sell him. Because... I found out just this morning from him, the prices went up. Because of the grand tourney. And…" He faltered for a second. "And that even after what he said—to take things slow—you're still… like the other new knights. Trying to prove yourself. Or chasing the fight."
He glanced down.
"He said he understood," Soap added quietly. "That he's been there too."
Silence settled between them.
Dym didn't move for a moment. Then slowly, he lowered the brush and rested his hand against Thunder's side, his gaze drifting—not at Soap, not fully—but somewhere in between.
He looked at the horse.
Then down at his own hands.
Then, finally, at the boy.
He let out a quiet breath.
"I'm not angry," he said first, almost as if to get it out of the way.
Soap didn't speak.
Dym shifted his weight slightly, leaning back a little against Thunder.
"Not at you, or... or anything. I'm just…" he paused, searching for the word, then let out a faint, humorless breath, "afraid, Soap."
The word sat there, plain and unguarded.
He rubbed the back of his neck briefly before continuing.
"I've disappointed myself before. Many-many times… and I'm used to it." He gave a small shrug. "But now…" He gestured vaguely with one hand. "Me being a knight, faced with all this... these expectations and pressures."
He shook his head slightly.
"It's been hard for me to think clearly."
There was a short pause before he went on.
"Because if I don't make a name for myself now—here, of all places…" He hesitated, then said it anyway, "how... how are we supposed to... eat in the days ahead of us?"
His jaw tightened just a little.
"…Or be a proper knight," he added more quietly, "and... not let you down."
Soap looked up at him.
Dym exhaled slowly.
"Fremont's offers yesterday were… good," he admitted. "More than good, you know. It's every hedge knight's fever dreams. We'd have a place. A proper and permanent one. A stable life, a better training, just like what Ser Don experienced. And you'd come with me too—to Leithanien."
He paused, then shook his head.
"But... But I can't take something I didn't earn."
He lifted his hand slightly, looking at it for a moment.
"It doesn't feel... right to have something that is just handed to me without proving that I had earned it as my right."
His voice wasn't stubborn. Just certain.
"You're a squire now," he continued, glancing back at Soap. "And in the days ahead, I'll teach you what I know. Everything that I learned under Ser Arlan."
His tone softened a little.
"So that one day, you'll be… better than me. Smarter. Wiser... Honest."
He gave a small nod, as if convincing himself as much as the boy.
"And when you earn it, I'll make you a knight."
A pause.
Then he exhaled again, quieter this time.
"But… I just don't want you to become…" He frowned slightly, searching for the word. "…a disappointed knight."
Soap blinked, confused.
Dym looked away.
"Disappointed in everything," he added. "In this life. In what it becomes."
Another pause.
"…In me," he said, more quietly.
He dipped his head slightly, then straightened again.
"I want you to be better," he said. "And one day, when you have your own squire…"
He let out a small breath.
"They'll be better than you too, and you can be proud of them."
The clearing fell quiet again after that, save for the soft shifting of Thunder's weight and the faint rustle of wind through the trees.
Dym fell quiet after that, the words settling between them.
For a moment, he simply stood there, one hand resting lightly against Thunder's side, the other hanging loose at his side. Then he let out a long breath, slower than before, as if something in him had finally loosened.
He rubbed the back of his neck again, then glanced at Soap, his expression softer now.
"…Sorry," he said.
Soap blinked at that.
Dym looked away briefly, toward the trees, then back again.
"I didn't mean to make things… tense," he went on. "For you. For us. These past few days."
His gaze flicked down to the ground, then back to the boy.
"If it made you feel like you had to… do things like your secret training this morning," he added, "going off on your own like that…"
He trailed off for a second, thinking.
His brow furrowed slightly, not in frustration this time, but in consideration—turning over his own actions, the past few days, the pressure he'd been carrying without quite realizing how much of it had shown.
Then he exhaled again.
"…Maybe," he said slowly, "maybe I should take things a bit easier."
He gave a small shrug.
"Slower."
It wasn't said with full confidence, but it was honest.
"I mean… who knows what's ahead for us," he continued, quieter now. "What's going to happen next."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the open clearing, where the sunlight filtered through the leaves.
"There might still be something better waiting," he said. "Some kind of chance."
He looked back at Soap and gave a faint, tired smile.
"…There might still be hope for us."
The boy nodded, a little more firmly this time.
"Aye, ser. Don't lose hope…"
Dym snorted under his breath.
"Aye, I won't."
He reached over and gave Soap's bald head a brief pat, his large hand pressing down just enough to make the boy's blonde ears fold under his palm. Then he went back to brushing Thunder, steady strokes along the horse's side.
For a moment, things settled again.
Soap shifted his weight, glancing down, then back up, as if trying to push the conversation somewhere else—anywhere else, until he found the right... topic.
"By the way, ser…"
Dym hummed without looking at him.
"Hmm?"
Soap hesitated. His face flushed slightly, and he scratched at the side of his head, suddenly unsure.
"Is it… uhm…"
He trailed off, then forced himself to continue.
"Is it weird that… that I have some…"
Dym paused his brushing just enough to glance at him.
"Some what?"
Soap took a breath, clearly bracing himself.
"…Is it odd that I've got… hair growing… down there?"
Dym blinked.
"Growing where?"
Soap looked away immediately, his ears twitching with embarrassment.
"Just… somewhere. Under my… near my legs."
There was a brief pause.
Then Dym scoffed lightly and went back to brushing as if nothing had happened.
"Well," he said plainly, "it's odd that you're telling me."
Soap stared at him.
"…What?"
Dym shrugged one shoulder.
"You're growing. That's all," he said. "It happens to boys like you."
He dragged the brush along Thunder's side again, completely unfazed.
Soap blinked once. Then again.
"…Huh?"
Dym gave him a sideways look.
"What were you expecting?" he said. "Another sermon? Look, I also had hairs the same colour as the one on my head and tail growing on my stones when I was around your age, it's normal, there's nothing to worry about."
Soap opened his mouth, then closed it again, still looking a bit lost.
Dym shook his head faintly, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
"Look, next time," he added, "well... we'll discuss it when you're older. For now, don't think about it to much."
Soap huffed under his breath, ears flicking in annoyance as he returned to brushing, though his embarrassment hadn't quite faded yet.