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Parton sat in the woods, his back against a tree trunk, and prodded at his split lip and the swelling of bruises around his face. He could barely see out of his right eye, and his head throbbed from the repeated blows. The rest of him ached too. The cut on his stomach had been torn open, and now a layer of bruises added their own pain to that hurt. It felt like every part of him was bruised. His trousers were torn and the skin beneath grazed. There was nothing life threatening: the wounds would heal given a few days or weeks, but the loss that couldn't be healed was the loss of his grandmother's books. He thought of the book of stories she had read to him when he was little, and the big history book with its map of the kingdom, and, the treasure of Parton's heart, the recipe book, written in her own hand, with notes and crossings out as she'd developed her recipes over the years. All gone. Nothing but ash and smoke now.
When he'd read that book, he'd almost been able to hear her voice; he'd been able to see the way her hands moved as she worked, the gentle smile on her face. He'd made the meals according to her recipes and felt her closeness as he breathed in familiar scents, even though she couldn't be there to make those meals herself. But now the book was gone, and it felt like he'd buried her all over again.
He didn't understand how this had happened, how people who'd known him all his life, since his grandmother had brought him to Shrind as an infant, had turned on him like that. He'd known Corron had hated him, but he couldn't believe that people who'd been his neighbours would be so quick to believe him evil, or to accept that he could do magic. There had been people in that crowd who'd given him suspicious glances after Lucion had been sent away and whispered quietly to each other as they'd done so, but believing rumours that he'd done something awful to Lucion was different from believing he could do wicked magic.
Were those people really so gullible? Or did they simply hate him too much to care about truth? Would they rather believe he was evil than admit they'd been wrong to leave him out as a sacrifice? There had been few people in Shrind he'd really considered friends since Lucion had gone, but there had been enough he'd been on friendly terms with, and those like Ivy who he'd been closer to. Had the people he'd considered friends not been there to see what was happening, or had they held back out of fear, not wanting to invite a beating on themselves?
He wondered what he was supposed to do now. He couldn't go home, not when the rest of the villagers might beat him again or do worse to him. He could try and go south, make his way to a city, and look for work, but he was doubtful what his prospects would be. He idly considered trying to find Lucion, but that wasn't really an option. He knew nothing about where Lucion was except that his father had sent him to some religious training institute in the city of Solar, and Corron had destroyed the only map Parton had when he'd burned the books. Perhaps he should just get up and start walking and see where his feet led him, but it wasn't easy to walk away from the only home he'd ever known, not to mention all his possessions. If he just left, then the people who'd beaten him would be free to pick over his belongings like carrion eaters picking over a carcass. Parton didn't want them to have anything that was his.
He heard footsteps through the trees and wiped his face, scrubbing away tears and wincing as his fingers ran over tender flesh. Anxiety rose, and he hurried to his feet, wincing but not wanting to be caught sitting in case this was someone Corron had sent to finish the job.
But it was Cull who stepped from between the trees. He looked Parton up and down without a word, taking in the torn clothes, the blood, the bruises, and the unmistakable signs of tears on his face. Anxiety gave way back to misery.
"I must look pretty pathetic to you," Parton said.
Cull didn't deny it. He simply said, "Come on."
An invitation to follow him, perhaps to go back with him to that cabin again. Parton didn't know whether to be glad at this, or to despair because the only person who wanted anything to do with him was a monster at least some of the time.
There was another thing that made him hesitate. He thought of that cabin, with its narrow bed and the single bowl, the lack of anything to give comfort. It was a tiny place, too small for one person, never mind two.
"I have to go back to the village," Parton said, even though that idea made his injuries seem to ache more and his heart beat faster at the fear of another beating. Cull didn't respond, but his expression said plainly that he thought Parton was a fool for that. "My house, everything I own is there. If I just leave with you, it will all get stolen, or distributed around the village. If I want to reclaim anything that's mine, I have to get it quickly."
It might already be too late. Or would people be afraid to touch anything that had belonged to a supposed witch? A part of him was afraid that they might put a torch to his house, the way they'd burned his precious books. If they did that, he would truly have nothing.
"Are you going now?" Cull asked.
Parton considered that question. Going back now would mean that there was less time for anyone to loot his belongings, but it would also mean walking back into the village in broad daylight, past people who had beat him not so long ago. Would they even let him set foot in the village again before descending on him with more violence?
"After dark," Parton said. He wouldn’t have to see anyone, and that thought made the idea a little less frightening.
Cull nodded and then said again, "Come."
He didn't lead Parton back to his cabin, but to a small stream that ran through the forest, just a trickle of water that would eventually join the main brook that ran below the village. Parton drank a few mouthfuls of the clear water, only realising now how thirsty he was, no doubt from all the tears he'd shed. Then he let Cull dab at his injuries, wiping away the dried blood from the new scratches and cuts. He frowned as he scooped up handfuls of the water, and Parton could only guess what he was thinking of. He was probably wondering how he'd ended up lumbered with this useless man who got himself sliced open and beaten twice in such quick succession.
He didn't ask about the beating, didn't ask why Parton had been cast out into the forest a second time. Why should he care? They were strangers, and Cull had obviously thought he was done with him.
"I'm sorry," Parton said. Cull frowned again, but he didn't accept the apology or ask what Parton was apologising for. He just stood and walked away abruptly into the forest.
Parton wondered if he'd offended the man. Or perhaps Cull simply felt that he'd done his duty and wanted nothing more to do with him. Parton sat by the stream and wondered if that would be the last time he saw the strange man. Cull had already done so much to help him, more than his neighbours and friends had done. It wasn't like Parton had any right to ask any more of him. So Parton stayed where he was and waited alone for the fall of darkness.
