“I'm not sure this is wise, Prince Tyr...” Mikhail had his reservations. Ever a constable and a protector when he was allowed to be, even the more red minded of their remaining men were not keen on the idea.

“This stretch of forest may be safe, but I share the man's opinion.” Samson added. “I will accompany you.”

“You both worry too much. I'm walking some miles down the road is all. My father will not put you to a breaking again if something happens. He gave his word.” Jartor was a real bastard, but he had never once lied to Tyr nor any other man as far as he was aware. The primus was a 'man of honor', whatever that meant. Regardless, he was an honest man, near to a fault if not for his incredible authority.“That's not my concern.” Samson protested. Tyr didn't exactly fear the large man, but there was a strength and vitality in limbs and voice that'd cow anyone – prince included. He'd half a mind just to relent out respect for that in particular.

Respect...? Hells, I really have changed. Tyr soured at the idea that he owed the old man anything, but these little things were incessant. Small changes. He wasn't a 'new man', but he noticed that he was more amenable, less... Lost. Still had the itch to hurt someone when questioned, but the impulses that ruled his mind in the past became more distant by the day. He found himself concerned as the daydreams of putting a sword into someones neck began to lessen in number and intensity.

“Fine. Fennic can follow me.” That was that, and they'd departed. Mikhail trusted Fennic, and Samson would probably follow some distance behind regardless of what Tyr said. Near constant, that man would hound the prince until he was lost in the trees or with Thomas. Samson, on the rare occasion in their proximity, seemed cowed by the significantly smaller man despite not being privy to his capabilities. He could feel a power in Tyr's teacher, confident in the fact that few could threaten the princes life with Thomas there.

They had horses now. Or... Ponies? Tyr wasn't sure he'd call them steeds. They were thick bodied, stout things. Mountain horses they called them, built differently than the mounts found more commonly in the north and east. Fairly rare in this area, Riverwood had naught but four of them. Sturdy enough to haul logs to the river for floating to the sawmill downstream. He'd wanted to walk if not for two problems.

First, Rorik hounded him near constantly. 'Do you need for anything?' and other uncle-ly concerns barraged Tyr until he was ready to slap the man. Maybe he would have, but Rorik would've struck back and the prince didn't like his chances in a brawl of bare fists. He liked Rorik, but he was too much the knight. Too ready to serve, and he did. Serving as an able sparring partner as well, holding nothing back when he beat a very overconfident Tyr to the ground. Everything with him had an enthusiasm Tyr found hard to understand. His strikes with training swords, uncaring of whether it was prince or otherwise again him... His attempts to serve, and even his laughing smile and extended hand as he picked Tyr up from the ground and told him what a talented swordsman he was. Tyr didn't feel talented, Rorik was a monster on par with Tiber. In the 'knightly way', Tiber wasn't your stereotypical knight and had a mind toward the wily things that wouldn't be accepted in the slightest on a tourney field.

Tyr was better than Mikhail who was well trained though favored mixed tactics and a bow, unused to the reach a longsword provided. The ex-constable was no weak man, but he wasn't trained in the ways of a knight. He was trained to debilitate and capture his opponents, track or quarry men. Still, the prince spent some time with him. Rorik was all too happy to train with the blackguard, and the middle aged constable had accepted their offer without complaint.

It was 'something to do', he had said. He liked a good, friendly brawl, a spar. Said Riverwood was magical, but a bit boring at times.

Tor could beat him in a fight, but not a duel of swords. Otherwise, the only man in their company who could match him was Samson. Except in 'matching', it was more akin to a slaughter. The prince still found himself wondering how drunk the big man must've been a lose a fight against him in that pub. Maybe he'd done so on purpose? Samson insisted otherwise. A single swing from a wooden trainer was enough to knock the prince sideways. Rorik fared a little better, but even with his superior form and skill, Samson always won in their ritual duels. Tyr supposed there was a reason why sanctioned arena matches were separated by weight class. Samson was near seven feet tall and 300 pounds, roughly 140 kilograms.

As for Fennic... Tyr didn't know. Fennic was scrappy, the prince had seen it, but he politely refused to spar with the men. Mikhail's explanation through the signs being that Fennic didn't fight unless he planned to kill. That there was no point to posturing, he'd nail a man to a tree at a hundred yards and sparring was a waste of time. Tyr accepted this, but he found the mentality a bit... Concerning?

This very same pair of Tyr and Fennic made their way down the river road to the north, crossed the bridge to head nowhere in particular. The second concern that had led to him accepting the horses was the large distance to anywhere else other than Riverwood. It'd take much longer to walk the paths on foot and return before nightfall. It stood as a benefit to be able to outpace any men who followed them. Overly concerned with his well being all of a sudden. Tyr found it irritating, choosing Fennic for what he was. Mute and incapable of verbal critique.

Old Fennic didn't seem the type who would, even if he could. Perhaps finding some peace in the losing of his tongue, Tyr found that he in turn missed the mans highlander accent and way of speaking. Fennic's face was placid, riding alongside the prince. There was a thing about that silence, too. Tyr felt himself talking more than ever to the man, more than anyone else. About all manner of random things.

He'd turn to Fennic, unable to understand all the signs – and laugh in response to the mans grunted answers to questions as if they'd been having a real conversation. The old hunter and tracker didn't seem to mind, smiling softly yet ever watchful of the road. On more than one occasion, he'd pulled his composite recurve bow from the saddle and fire a snap shot into the brush.

The man would do so, walking into the dense undergrowth astride the road to pluck a fat hen or rabbit from the bush. His skill with putting an arrow exactly where it needed to be was second to none among the blackguard. Tyr hadn't seen nor heard a thing, but Fennic's senses were something else. They had a lot of plains in the east but apparently the forests were more wild and fearsome. It bred... If Tyr understood Fennic's signs at all, 'better men'. The best men, not the horse riding kin to the south near Arendal who'd made his bow via dwarvish techniques, but those living closer to Aelas. People said elves lived there, Tyr wasn't so sure. He'd seen so many races, but never an 'elf'. Supposedly short, scrawny men with wings who could cast spells without a single motion. That was just ridiculous, but some said elves were tall and scrawny with eyes that could see through anyone or anything, it was hard to know what to believe. One of the only places Tyr was permitted not to go was Aelas, the 'elves' there killed anyone who tried to violate their borders and left them skinless, strung up on trees. That's what people said.

They'd ridden further this day than ever before, breaking from the forest onto the wide rolling foothills that contained the densest population of the demesne that had once had been House Regis. It was beautiful, in its way, a bit different from the forests. Rolling and green, less wet. Autumn had bathed the land in patterns of oranges, yellows, and reds. Only the spruce and pine remained green with the passage of time. Soon... Very soon, winter would come, Tyr had thought it was winter in Riverwood but it turned out that the climate was just uniquely terrible beneath the mountains. It made sense, he'd left in mid August, about that time, and arrived in the beginning of September. Say two months had passed, that made it the end of October at the latest.

An estimate that appeared to be correct. Judging on the flurry of activity surrounding the small hamlets they passed, it was the harvest time. Men, women, and children toiling alongside one another to work the land and reap its bounty before the snows came.

Wheat was a popular commodity in most of the empire. Greens, beans, potatoes, tomatoes... Corn grew well in the rocky soil of this place as well, a relatively new agricultural product brought from parts unknown. The south, he thought. Tyr didn't care for it too much, but most of the other vegetables were in his wheelhouse. He'd eat practically anything, though.

“Oi Fennic.”

A grunt.

“Did you know that there are over ten different kinds of wheat in the empire?”

A whistle, that which would call Tyr's attention over. Fennic pointed to a field of wheat and spread the digits of his hands. Counting out...

“Eighty one? Truly?”

Fennic nodded.

“I never knew that. Thank you, Fennic.”

A grunt, and then a pointing toward a small plot of tubers closest to the road. Another whistle, and Fennic extended his hands again.

“Ninety three? Potatoes? There are ninety three different kinds of potatoes?”

A nod.

“Why do they have so many different kinds? I've never had a potato that tasted any different than the others...”

Fennic shrugged, though Tyr didn't miss the immense sense of self satisfaction in the mans eyes. He laughed. With his stub of a tongue, it was a bizarre sort of noise. Tyr didn't mind it, he liked the man enough to associate the sound with something good at least. Fennic as due a bit of satisfaction, a low born man allowed to teach the prince. Tyr didn't really think about it like that, but to the older man it was a great gift. Something that would please his ancestors a great deal, to be a mentor or educator in any capacity to a young primus.

“What's your favorite vegetable, Fennic?”

Another point. This time, toward a trellis hung with leafy green vines being tended to by a homely woman with streaks of gray in her hair. Her home, or what must've constituted as one, was near the road and set apart from the distant village like the other farms. She silently watched them with a visible suspicion as they rode nearer to the crumbling stone fence around her garden. Fennic and Tyr rode with their faces revealed, no need for hoods in such pleasant weather. What with the pins that marked them as imperial dignitaries or at least capital men, few peasants would stare overlong. The old woman though seemed eager to see them gone, growing nervous as the horses stopped near the gate to her home.

Fennic remained mounted while Tyr leaped down from the horse. “My lady.” He bowed in a way that a common peasant wouldn't be comfortable with, he saw it in her eyes. Knights in Haran were expected to bow when nearing the domicile of a free man or woman, it was custom but he doubted this lady had met many knights in her time. “What are those?”

“Er... These? Tomatoes... Sir?” She added that last part anxiously and with a delay, unsure of how to refer to the man. He certainly didn't look like any knight she'd ever seen, but the sword at his waist was proof enough that he was of means. His banded leather armor lacquered black was uncharacteristic, but all sorts served the empire. All sorts with all different looks to them, though the hair was a little surprising, all white and long like an old woman.

“Tomatoes?” Tyr asked, pointing at the fat spheres hanging from the vine. “But these are green.”

“Aye. The growth season of tomatoes ends in the early summer. We pick them like this for pickling, frying, might stew 'em. Depends. Why for?”

Tyr turned towards Fennic. “I've heard that tomatoes are a fruit, though.”

The older man looked skeptical, shaking his head adamantly with lips curled upward as if this were a source of great amusement to him.

“You like them green?”

A grunt, and then a nod.

“My lady.” Tyr turned around once again to address the woman. 'Elder' should have been enough, but custom varied and it was better to aim high with respect than misstep and shoot too low. “Might I purchase a few of these tomatoes? I've never had them green, and I'd like to try.”

“Purchase?” The woman asked, as skeptical as Fennic had been regarding the classification of the... Fruit? Vegetable? “You folk normally just take 'em. No disrespect, sir, but go ahead and move along before me husband gets back from the field. Take all you need. We don't want no trouble.”

Tyr was confused at that. “Imperial men, with brooches like these?” He pointed to the golden symbol of office that held cinched his cloak just above his left breast. “They take your vegetables, without due compensation?”

She nodded. “Sure do. Barons rules and all, meanin' no disrespect to our noble lord. Not quite like that one though, all silver and copper. Not seen a gold pin before, not outside town. You an arbiter?”

Silver and copper. Copper for constables or a knight of the hedge. Silver for a house knight, entitled noble, or official retainer. Tyr found that hard to understand. To arrive at a place and take. He'd take, surely, but Tyr was not a thief. Perhaps not out of nobility, but if a man could ill afford a bushel or potatoes or apples, they were pathetic. Food in Haran was easy to come by what with their rich farming lands and abundance of such – it was not expensive... Part of a mans pride was remaining fair in their dealings. In Tyr's experience warped morality, taking from the mouth of an honest man was something he couldn't empathize with.

“Ah, well. Can you keep a secret?” He asked the woman. He saw no harm in it, and wanted to be on his way as soon as possible, preferably without giving her a fright and ending up with his face on a poster somewhere. She nodded slowly.

“I'm actually the crown prince of Haran. My companion here insists that you're the most beautiful woman we've seen on the road, meaning no disrespect to your man. Says he wants to taste the fruit of your labors. Respectfully.” He grinned at her in an attempt to be as charming as could be. Tyr almost flinched when the woman laughed. Loudly, too, a passing blush on her wrinkled cheeks. At the very least, the mood between them had improved. She no longer saw him as a threat, and this was good.

“Yes, yes.” She replied. “And I'm the Empress of Varia. Go on then, take these and move along, got work to do before the night falls. Best keep that sword close, my young 'prince', ruffians about from what I hear.”

She tutted them off, accepting no coin in return. Still, Tyr slotted a gold sovereign into the parcel box as they left the farm. He had little concept of money, not understanding that a golden crown was near an entire decade of earnings for a peasant farmer, if not more depending on their product. For a small farm like this, they'd be like to earn ten silvers a harvest. A gold coin every five years should the weather be favorable and their product supplemented by cash crops like cotton or one of the many leafy plants people put in their mouths or smoked out of pipes. It depended on how the nobles ran things, but most of the time they would take all of the peasants gold for themselves. A good lord ensured that this gold went toward a pool by which to cover all of their possible liabilities in the future. A leaky roof, cracked well, medical expenses, stuff like that. A bad lord... Tyr wasn't sure which Regis had been, the houses were mostly thatch and logs, small hovels and the like. But people seemed happy enough with their lot, so it was hard to tell. That sovereign had been worth more than the whole farm, he had no idea. Rorik had provided it to Tyr as 'emergency expenses' from the road, taken from a coffer that remained uncollected by the barons tax men.

Riding on, Fennic crunched into his green tomato, smiling at Tyr with a mouth full of the stuff, giving the prince an appreciative nod. Tyr tried it as well, finding the taste to be bitter and fibrous. Tough and firmer than a tomato should be. After a single bite, he made to throw his to the roadside before Fennic protested with a grunt and began to eat both, one in each hand. As for the sack full, the prince graciously allowed the man to keep them all.

“You're welcome.” He thought the grunt must constitute a 'thank you'. Must've done, Fennic seemed pleased enough. A conspiratorial glint to his eyes that seemed to say 'the others would be so jealous if they found out about this'. Fennic inferred that he liked them fried, trying his best to make a hissing sound with his mouth, confronted by a raised eyebrow and Tyr's best guess at what that could possibly mean.

On and on, morning was long behind them with the sun high overhead before Fennic held his horse up and abruptly dismounted.

“What are you doing?” The man pointed towards a peasant woman deep in the fields toiling away at the dirt with a hoe. “That's not an answer, man.”

Fennic grunted impatiently, waving Tyr off his horse. As loathe as the prince was to stop again with so little daylight remaining, he relented and followed the man into the field. Fennic didn't ask for much, a simple and easily contented man, so it was the least he could do. Leaving their horses at the fence adjacent the road, they closed in on the woman working alone in the field. Breaking dirt with an uneven stance and heavy breathing. Even at their distance, Tyr could tell that she was struggling with her labors.

Grunting, Fennic elbowed the prince and pointed at the woman. Trying his best to decipher the mans actions, Tyr called out to her.

“Uh... Hello?” She was startled by this, whipping around with hoe in both hands as if to defend herself with it. Only then had Tyr realized she was heavy with child. Like the older woman from before, her eyes were suspicious of the two armed men who'd entered her land unannounced. The prince, on his part, could not blame her. Their actions were indeed bizarre, showing up out of the blue and blatantly trespassing.

Fennic... I didn't know you were into stuff like this...

“Excuse the interruption, miss. We were... Perhaps wondering what you... Were doing?” The land was empty of crops. So late in the year, it was strange to see anyone planting at such a time. Soon, the frost would be upon them and few plants would grow. The field wasn't large either, not like the others. Perhaps twenty meters by double that. Still, she labored to work long furrows into the earth, at it for some time based on the dirt staining a dress that might've been of an acceptable make... Once.

“What's it looks like, dumb brute?” She responded angrily. “I'm hoeing the fields to prepare for the winter planting. Never mind that, fancy britches, get off my land! Ain't nothing here for you but a hoe upside your head if you push your luck on me, I'm not a ripe village girl looking for a fine knight to sweep me off my feet!”

“Winter planting?” Tyr asked.

“Aye. Night basil, frostbloom and the like. What's it your business?” Suspicious, like the old woman, but with none of the moderation in approach. Perhaps this was how women laden with child were like to act. It certainly couldn't be pleasant, working with the weight of her belly.

Fennic approached her without further word, silently snatching the hoe from her hand. Without preamble, he began working at the earth as she had been doing. Shaking his head, the man seemed to be irritated for some reason. Tyr didn't interrupt him, Fennic would do as Fennic would do. All of the men were allowed their agency, they weren't servants. And there was little point in demanding answers from a man that couldn't speak.

“Where's your man?” Tyr asked.

“Gone traipsing around the capital, probably. Expected him back months ago, still carting his chubbiness around, most like. What's it your business?” She repeated herself, while Tyr's heart felt heavy in his chest. Those who had served the baron, even those who had 'escaped' – hadn't done. Most were dead now, surely some had families like this.

“I think my friend here is loathe to see a... Uh, carrying woman working. I'm not sure. He doesn't... Speak much.”

“Just say pregnant.” She huffed. “It's a word, it happens, I'm pregnant. Carrying, I'll carry my foot up your ass if you don't GET. OFF. MY. LAND!”

“In any case, you shouldn't be working like this. It can't be good for the baby...” Tyr paled, her eyes were full of wrath when he said this, but she calmed down a bit and shook her head.

“Can do as I please. Tell your man to return the hoe and be off with you. Not welcome on my land, as I said a time or two, you got ears – kid?.” She was young, early 20's. Spirited too, not cowed in the slightest by the sword or hatchet at their waists. Fennic refused her grasping hand what she'd asked for, instead removing his cloak and folding it before handing it to her and continuing to work. On her part, she accepted the finely loomed cloak with grace and frowned, some hesitation in her eyes.

“He's a knight, miss. Pardon his chivalry.”

“A knight? What are two knights doing on my land?” She asked, though her tone had softened a bit, fixing the shoddy job of folding Fennic had done. Tyr shrugged, following Fennic's judgmental stare and pointed finger toward a pile of other tools. There was meaning in it, hard to misunderstand that. Fennic was being quite authoritative, very out of character, but Tyr didn't complain.

Tree work was no inferior to farm work. Both were a service to provide for others, so he grabbed a hoe and began working alongside the man. Unused to the stooping it required, his back was sore and his muscles burned at him. It wasn't difficult, but it was unfamiliar, again that same revelation that his body was far from perfect after all that effort. That improvement could be made in all things, and progression took longer than his privileged mind expected. At least the callouses on his hands made the chopping motions a bit easier, the initial stint in his short lived lumberjacking career was much harder in comparison. Up, down, drag. Up, down, drag. Furrow the soil for planting, split it and drag a channel through the rough and rocky soil. Little effort was given toward clearing them of debris, it seemed, unless rocks and slabs of slate had begun falling from the sky in recent times. Yet still, the men worked, while the woman remained staring in judgment of them. Correcting them on their posture, form, and explicitly telling them not to remove the rocks.

Fennic tried to point toward her house. Many times, in fact, only to be refused with each request.

“Not letting two scoundrels prowl my land without a care. You knights can think all you want toward the woes of a woman with child, but I say I'm twice the man you are.”

Fennic laughed, twisting his face up and dropping the hoe. Despite her flinching reaction, perhaps expecting a punishment, he took no movement toward the woman. Instead, he approached her home and took hold of a rocking chair on the porch, returning to plant it firmly in the dirt before continuing his work.

“Er... Thank you...”

She had a well built home. Nicer than the others, of well fitted stone and sod shingles rather than wood and thatch. A commoner home, not one of a peasant farmer. It had a chimney rather than a hole in the roof and all of the windows sat on well wrought moorings. She even had glass in those windows, rather than tarred shutters. A bit odd. Glass was expensive, too expensive for a farmer, even Tyr knew that but only because he'd broken many windows in the past and been made to listen to a lectures on all things melted sand.

“Why are you doing this?” She asked.

Tyr shrugged. “Looks like old Fennic here's in charge today. He's mute, better off not worrying about the specifics. Why is your field not clear of stones? Makes for hard work, this soil.”

“It's the way it must be. Well turned soil is bad for alchemical herbs.” She replied with a shrug. “I'm not a farmer. I'm an apothecary and herbalist by trade before I found myself knocked up by my idiot husband. Leaves me with twice the work. Out gallivanting as men are wont to do.”

“I'm sorry.” Tyr replied.

“Don't be. Town says the man returned and head off elsewhere, not like he died in war or nothing. My poor taste in a man has nothing to do with you.”

“Returned?”

“Aye, the ass. Seen not two moons ago in the square buying travel supplies with the last bits of silver I gave him before taking off.”

Fennic looked sour at that. Tyr, too, before realizing that he wasn't exactly in a position to judge anyone on their merit as a husband. Though he was sure that if he had gotten one of them pregnant he'd stay for the child... Probably...? It was easy to say something, harder to do it. Promises made in anticipation of future events were rarely sincere.

Ella, as her name would turn out to be, only rested for the briefest of moments before padding on behind them barefoot through the soil. Sowing seeds in their wake and spraying a bit of water down on the buds. Not just an apothecary, but a mage too, as the mark beneath her ear would signify. Though apothecaries, herbalists and the like tended to be, the vocations went hand in hand. Just a petty mage, nothing serious and college educated but not employed nor entitled. Probably through the barons influence, industry vocations like this were normally given some special treatment. Nobles loved these sort of mages. All sorts of herbs, drugs, potions, tinctures, alchemy was a massive field of study but that of the apothecary sub-school was far more useful.

Four hours passed, and they were done. Fennic wiping the sweat from his brow with a satisfied grin at the woman. She had gradually relaxed to their presence, though she was no less wary of them in her tone. Her pregnant belly rested in her hands as if to support the weight of it.

“Be off with you then.” Ella was soft with it, pointing toward the gate where their horses remained hitched. Smiling, caught between her course posturing and an honest 'thank you'. She might have, Tyr couldn't tell if she wanted to or not, but the hesitation was there again. Fennic seemed satisfied, bowing as Tyr had done and leaving without a word.

Plot furrowed and seeded, days or perhaps even a week of work was done in such a short period with their help. Tyr's, in particular, was demonic – the speed at which he worked like some sort of farming psychopath. His furrows were a bit uneven compared to Fennic's crisp lines, but he was certainly fast. Several times she'd caught him near frothing at the mouth in his fervent splitting of the earth.

“Goodbye, Ella.” Tyr bowed as well, mounting his horse and riding for Riverwood alongside Fennic. She waved, reluctantly, before turning toward her home.

There was a thing about it. A thing about working the earth and meeting these simple people that confused and interested Tyr. Like the chopping of trees, there was a simplicity to it all, but there was purpose in that simplicity. Watching them in their insignificant lives, yet realizing they were no less significant than his own. Men were insignificant, temporary things, just like him. He enjoyed it, the labor. Returning to help some few other farms alongside Fennic who marched right alongside Tyr with a dumb grin on his face. He was in it for the tomatoes, or whatever other vegetable could be provided for their nightly fireside meals. Tyr was in it for a lot of reasons, but mostly just because Fennic insisted on helping the elderly, infirm, and those clearly impacted by their actions in the capital. It was something to do, in any case.

He knew Fennic was a kind man, but this kind of selflessness said a lot about his character, Fennic observed. He always stared. When they stopped at a home with young children, he would not take food. Always looking toward the barn, shed, or silo, to make sure they could spare it. He'd labor anyways, and they'd always offer food, but half the time he'd walk right back and plant it on their porch based on whatever 'code' governed his mind.

The prince had never considered the fact that the man might harbor such a nobility of spirit. It made him consider his own and wonder if he had any at all. He'd never considered the result of his actions. Cause and effect. In reality, he didn't think Fennic thought about any of that. Tyr knew on an instinctual level that Fennic was just like them, a common man. A free man who had probably always been this way. Or his own past gave him thoughts of making amends, a showing to the gods, whatever the case – he did a good thing.

As for Tyr... What did he want out of all of this? Or more appropriately, how he felt about it.

He felt... Strange. Unfamiliar to this sensation. If he had to put a word on it, he'd have said that he began to feel a wholeness. Something about the tight knit community of farmers who worked and waved with friendly hands as they passed one another. There was a warmth there. Men who would not see each other for months until the harvest festival and fall into an effortless friendship, or walk all day just to see an old pal. Bonds stronger than the steel they said flowed in the blood of Harani men. Maybe this was the steel.

There was something so small, yet at the same time... Incredible. Insignificant, fleeting, yet eternal. That sense of community. The meaning behind their lives. It made Tyr want for a true meaning for his own. If he could have, minor complaints aside, he'd have abandoned his old life in an instant for a life like this.

Fennic grunted, putting a soft hand on Tyr's shoulder and pointing to the ground with the other. Below them, in the soft earth, the man had carved runes into the dirt. Low and behold, Mikhail had been teaching Fennic how to write.

'Proud.'

That's what the word said. The rune was crooked and all off, scratched with a stick, but Tyr had never been so happy to see a single world in his entire life. Warmth. Two men sharing in the honest contentment of a hard days work.