The Sound Of Solitude - Part 2/3 (Early Access) (Patreon)

The sun had fully risen when Rory finally tore her eyes from the trail. Her tea sat cold on the porch railing. She turned away, then peeked back over her shoulder, but the spirit did not appear.

Her routine had been ruined, and now she was restless. The long word that the spirit had spoken to her repeated in her mind when she tried to clear it. Now she knew the sound by heart.

Rory slung her satchel over her shoulder, whipped her scarf around a few more times to cover her cheeks and ears, and slipped a knife into her belt. A trip into Ironhearth would remind her of why she hid away in the forest. All the people, all the interactions, all the chaos of society and its complexities behind the tall fortress walls.

And there was a library. If she had time, maybe she could find an interesting book. Not regarding anything in particular. It could be any book. Anything at all.

“You want what?” croaked the old woman behind an enormous mahogany desk. She leant further over the wood, pointing at her ear with a long nail.

Rory could feel herself flushing lavender. Her head ducked a little reflexively, letting her bangs cover more of her face, dipping her nose into her scarf self-consciously. It had taken the half-day of walking to Ironhearth to muster up the ability to attempt a repeat of the strange word the spirit had offered her.

She sniffed at her scarf, grounding herself, and promising she would only try to speak the word once more. Then, if the ancient librarian still didn’t understand, she would bolt out the door and run all the way back to her cabin.

Rory lifted her face and mimicked the spirit’s sound once more, projecting the noise into the librarian’s ear as loudly as her nerves would allow.

The old woman paused, blinked slowly, and pushed her glasses up her nose in order to inspect Rory with fervour.

“You don’t look much like a nature demon or what-have-you,” she said with disdain. “But I know deep forest whisperin’s when I hear ‘em. Books for your kind are down there. The ones with as much bark chippings around ‘em as dust.”

Rory followed the woman’s finger, giving a grateful nod on her way past. The woman grumbled something about Rory keeping her saplings to herself and returned to the enormous tome she had been perusing when Rory arrived in the small building.

There was a tiny collection of thin, worn tomes loosely stacked on the shelves. Rory scooped them all up into her arms and waddled them to a long bench table to begin her research. Half of them were written in a language that resembled chicken scratch, the other half were written by humans, but clearly from a distance. Finally, the penultimate cover she turned revealed an attempt at a translation guide. There was plenty missing, but Rory knew the word she was looking for when she saw it spelled out by its sounds.

Keeper.

Rory mouthed the word. Her initial assumption had been correct, then. The spirit was a guardian of the forest heart. But Keeper… was her name?

It wasn't a bad choice, but it sure sounded prettier in the spirit's language. Rory carefully organised the books back onto the shelf, nodded to the librarian on her way out, and began the long walk to her cabin.

In the privacy of the forest, one hundred counted steps past the first trees, she had begun practising the name. So far, she had managed to push the full word out only once, but the ‘Kee' sound she had solidified. As long as she was alone, that was.

The sky had become dusty by the time she was clearing the trees that ringed the immediate area of the cabin. Sunset would be upon her soon. Hopefully, so would Keeper.

She set aside the few supplies she had purchased in Ironhearth and hurried out to the porch to watch the sun lower, and hopefully Keeper dancing past.

The porch railing creaked a little in her haste to throw her weight onto it and fall back into their shared routine. Whether Keeper was aware or not, she was an integral part of Rory's schedule. Setting her body clock to the right rhythm with her presence.

The sky ripened to a peachy shade, then deepened to orange, and finally a pomegranate red, before the sun was no longer on their side of the day. Disappointment squeezed at Rory's throat... and worry.

She paced the porch a few times, talking herself into and out of a search mission. She didn't really know anything of the spirits’ ways or their rituals, this could be completely normal. But for months it had been the same, and forest spirits didn't hibernate.

The chill that had been biting all day wasn't alleviated as it usually was at this time in the evening. It only served to hurt Rory's chest further. She stomped her foot with aggravation. There was no reason not to go searching, because if she didn't she knew she would get no sleep anyway. If she found nothing, at least she hadn't spent her time sitting.

With a few hurriedly bundled provisions, Rory buttoned up the top of her coat, tightened her scarf, and stomped out into the eerily quiet forest. She knew the track Keeper trod to a point, that point being when she disappeared from view of Rory's porch.

Best course had to be a circle, it would keep her from crossing into heart territory at the least. There wasn't a great deal to distinguish one part of the forest from the next, with little game to be found there weren't tracks or droppings or other signs of life to set one patch of grass apart from the next.

Still, she wandered on. Walking what she hoped was a wide berth around the forest heart.

A huffing sound drew Rory’s eyes ahead. A lump of roots and leaves was shivering at the base of an enormous tree. A wounded animal would be whimpering or whining, unless it was very close to death.

Rory followed the huffs until her eyes could make out a clearer shape through the darkness. The dull glow that thrummed from Keeper's limbs helped. She was huddled on the ground, almost all of her covered in crisp leaves. Her eyes peeked from her pile and one foot was stuck out at an angle. Ankle snared in a metal trap.

The pressure pad was so rusted it seemed a miracle that Keeper’s weight could have disturbed it at all. And the rust worried Rory far more than any enchantment that could have been placed on the barbs.

"Kee..." Rory whispered.

Keeper didn't appear concerned by Rory's approach. In fact, her drained demeanour showed little concern for anything but laying still. Perhaps she had called for aid already. Rory didn't like to think that she had... given up.

She would wait with her. There was no way she could leave. And in the meantime, she had her basic healing salves in a small satchel, under her coat and over her shirt. If only Kit were by her side to assess the wound, she would have a much clearer idea of the scale of injury she was dealing with. Alas, her taking the old outpost had been a decision based in soul-searching and reflection. Her ghostly companion had to stay behind. To allow her to think. To hear her own thoughts in her own voice, even if it was only in her mind.

Rory took a carefully chosen seat at Keeper's side, kneeling in the damp grass gingerly. Dull grey eyes watched her as she unloaded her tiny tins of pastes and oils. She had to be ready for any sudden blood spurts. If forest spirits had blood... either way, removing any weapon or object from the body wasn't ideal without being ready to clean and cover the wound.

Rory washed her hands with a sprinkle of water from her canteen and began prying pieces of the trap back into their set position. When she reached the spokes that were embedded in Keeper's ankle, she glanced up at the forest spirit's face, checking for any sign of distress or aggression. Keeper blinked, almost bored in her expression, and Rory proceeded with the extractions.

Something did come out of the wounds, a silvery liquid that drooled to the soft arch of her foot. There was no time for questioning or researching. Rory cleaned the cuts as carefully as she could with the little water she had and applied the salves with her fingertips. In small swipes she covered each wound with a sealing salve and dabbed around the rest of the ankle with an oil that would protect against infections.

Keeper was either very brave or very delirious. She didn't react to any of Rory's ministrations.

Once Rory was finished, they sat in silence for a few minutes. Keeper was limp against her and it twisted Rory’s stomach.

A snarl sounded from her side, and Rory glanced at Keeper curiously. It had sounded a lot like 'thank you'.

Rory hummed wearily back and Keeper repeated the noise. This time, Rory was sure the creature was replicating Human language. Perhaps it could project words like she could.

Rory nodded and attempted a small smile. Keeper returned it with droopy eyelids. The urge to touch and discover almost overtook her. There was something about Keeper that drew Rory in like a moth to a flame. She wanted to trace her tiny face, her slightly pointed ears, the wispy hairs of her eyebrows and hairline.To stroke and comfort her in her time of pain. She was so much more magnificent to look upon up close, Rory could only imagine what her skin felt like. It glowed like an enchantment, and held few marks or scars. Rory could only compare it in her mind to the softest of velvets, but springy. Everything about Keeper had a bounce and a liveliness. It felt unnatural to see her laying so still.

No one came for her, but Rory stayed at her side until the sun returned. Keeper limped away in the opposite direction of Rory's cabin, wiggling her fingers behind her at Rory. Almost cheekily. An ounce of her sprightly nature returning.

Rory watched her go, transfixed. Even with a whole evening of observation, she still wasn't sated.