Kitten paused their walk to reference her borrowed map, and the traveler used the opportunity to inspect his battered cloak. He unfolded the bunched-up wad of cloth and sighed his dismay at some newly appeared lengthwise tears.
The cloak had been his mask to the world; a way to remove himself that much further from the light. He felt uncomfortably exposed without it shielding him – especially from the very girl standing by his side. Morosely he crumpled the cloak and stuffed it back within his rucksack just as the girl decided their course and replaced her map within hers.
The weather was clear as they moved along the open road, with not a cloud to obscure the sky. Since they headed for Frogmorton, Kitten asked him if he had hunted frogs, and other beasts, before. He replied that one had to eat sometime, though in truth he rarely took game for himself. Most of his kills were done to feed others.
She then asked if he could teach her how to hunt game. He seemed to consider the idea for a brief moment, but softly suggested that she would be better served learning proper archery. Grudgingly accepting that the range of an arrow bested that of his own unconventional style, the traveler thought it would be the safer skill for one such as she. Particularly with more dangerous game.
Still she persisted, asking him how he had felled the boar for her weeks ago. The traveler withdrew one of his small knives a moment later, its blade covered in a neglectful dark patina. He deftly rolled the knife between his calloused fingers towards himself, flipped it in the air, gripped it with his opposite hand and instantly launched the blade in a blur of movement.
He nodded his head at a young tree just ahead, and without remark approached it. Sweeping back the branches revealed the knife embedded in the trunk – with a dead squirrel pierced through. Unceremoniously he yanked his blade free of the tree, the squirrel corpse still impaled on it.
He offered it to the girl, asking if it would be enough for her to eat, then yanked the carcass off his blade. A bit of blood spattered Kitten's face. The girl did not seem to notice, and she replied that she still wanted to bag a frog when they arrived.
The traveler held the squirrel upside down by the tail, letting the remaining blood slowly drip onto the ground as he returned to the road. Kitten badgered him further about eating as they walked and seemed concerned over his lack of hunger. He had his smokes, and they were a better comfort to him than food would ever be.
It was deep night when at last they walked through the village called Frogmorton, and thankfully that meant few of its residents were about to look askance at the suspicious-looking pair. They meandered unhurriedly to the canopied marsh behind the sleepy hamlet and were rewarded with a low cacophony of croaking.
Kitten snapped off a reed idly. The traveler paused and motioned for her to be quiet, then he crouched low and silently crept across the boggy ground, the cold mud seeping into his tattered boots. The girl followed along as best she could, though her footfalls squeaked perceptibly in the mud.
They came to a patch of reeds and the traveler heard the raucous calls of what seemed to be a large bull frog beyond them. He gestured to the girl to come to his side, then reached under his tunic to withdraw another knife which he pressed into her small, soft hand. It was still warm from his body heat when she looked at him in open surprise.
He let his roughened hand linger over hers, tapping for a moment, then guiding the blade upwards, parallel to her shadowed face, blade poised for the killing shot. She looked to him in that instant, and though they were only illuminated by the pale light of stars, he saw that her wide azure eyes reflected complete trust in him.
It both pleased him and terrified him, but there was no time to ruminate on those thoughts.
Still cupping her hand, he ensured that her fingers were only loosely holding the blade, then slid his hand down to her small wrist. Not giving her time to react, he snapped the blade back and then forced her hand forward, sending the blade flying into the night air. With a fleshy thud the nearby croaking was silenced.
The girl ran forward gleefully to find their spoils and came back with a huge dangling dead frog.
He stood passively as Kitten beamed brightly, taking back his knife and slipping it under his tunic. Again she insisted that he share in the bounty, but he only returned an odd look. He felt no hunger, not for food anyway. Why couldn't she understand that?
She sensed his mind apparently, and asked why he was cross with her. The frog dangled grotesquely against her leg, now a sad marionette puppeted carelessly by its killer. The traveler denied that he was angry, which she accepted before turning to find a place to build a cook-fire.
As she gathered kindling and twigs he set to work slicing open and peeling back the skin of the frog and squirrel, disemboweling and disjointing limbs. He muttered that it was a shame he had ruined the pelt of the squirrel between a badly-placed blow and the resultant blood, but the girl still wished to keep the scrap of fur regardless. He piled the legs and good flesh into a stack before dumping the offal into the flames of the new fire.
Picking out two pieces of green wood for skewers, he sat next to Kitten and watched her select her first piece of meat, twisting his own empty skewer between his fingers. Her face seemed to darken. He asked her what was wrong now. Yet again, she asked if he were angry at her.
The girl had a way of making him feel incriminated, though he had done nothing to her.
He sighed deeply and looked to his cloak, resolving to get it repaired somehow. He needed his veil again, both to keep out the world and to maintain his delicate walls. Everything was easier that way.
She poked at her nearly overcooked frog for several long moments while he reassured her, and finally she took a few slow nibbles. Then she asked him to try it. He took a small bite, only to appease her, exaggerating his chewing and swallowing movements.
He thought that the meat was probably awful. Stringy and with a taste somewhere between chicken and fish, but as he suspected that his sense of taste had been diminished from his smoking he could not know for certain. Still, the girl looked satisfied and even smiled at him while they joked about possible seasonings.
He pulled his rucksack behind him, laid down his head atop it, and closed his eyes as she finished her meal.
