*clears throat* Welcome back to the penultimate installment of the madness!

Fred came to breakfast the next morning with the sword at his side. He did not look up, not even when he heard a startled gasp from Marjorie. But when he began to hear whispering, he did.

Sandy was leaning over with a hand cupped around her mouth, hissing things to Marjorie. Both girls giggled.

Fred felt himself flush. What on earth was Sandy saying about him, anyhow? Grimly he lowered his eyes to his food.

It amuses me that Fred has to be so "grim" and "dour" when those are words I actively avoid using for him in any context whatsoever now.

He cornered Sandy as they were preparing to break camp, and asked for an explanation.

Sandy only grinned impishly at him. "Things," she said airily. "Girl's things."

Sandy lowering herself to make a distinction between herself and boys. He never thought he'd live to see the day.

~

He was glad they were still following the river for several days; that would make it easier to get accustomed to the weight of the sword. Even sitting down in the boat it was somewhat awkward.

*wheezing cough* um sir. It might be more awkward when you're sitting down in a boat than when you're walking freely, like a swordbelt is designed to accommodate; just, just saying.

Also future Verity would like to let you know that swords are designed to be wielded easily over and over and unless you picked up Sir William Wallace's claymore by accident I don't think there's gonna be a weight problem.

He watched the river as it slipped silently away from them. A few days... only a few days and they would be leaving this river behind. Entering the wild lands which many never left...

He forced his thoughts to a halt. Why must they be always wandering like that -- considering morbid, terrifying prospects? Frightening him? Did Sandy have that irritating problem? Or Marjorie? He thought not

You'll never know if you never ask them, bro

If only they could get to Orden... then there would be other things with which to occupy his mind... He could work, and -- and -- what did you do when you got to the land of your dreams? Do all the things he had done in Keelover, he supposed. Perhaps it would be easier to find a steady job, since nobody would know him as the son of drunk, shiftless, good-for-nothing Brick Thorn.

And when he came there... where would they live? They couldn't have signs all over the country with big black arrows and big bold letters saying, If you are newly arrived, this way to a house and a job.

Enough, enough! They would cross that bridge when they came to it.

Fred leaned forward and began to paddle recklessly.

~

I am suffering btw

These last few paragraphs are murder to type out

"nobody except me has anxious thoughts"

"Well, at least once we get to Orden I can just work... or something... and my problems will go away"

"oh no :( more anxious thoughts"

"I hate my brain"

I mean I get it, Fred, I GET it, but the fact that 14-year-old Ver was basically just channeling her annoyance with you into your own POV narration robs it of any meaning to me lolol

On to the wilderness. The worst is yet to come, folks.

One part of him said they should hurry. Winter was already upon them, and the further north they went, the worse it was going to get.

The other part was not in any hurry to leave semi-civilized country.

But one way or the other, the end was the same. Late one afternoon, as snow was beginning to swirl down from the sky, they saw ahead through the silhouettes of dead and leafless trees the glittering river curve away in a wide arc.

With a heavy heart Fred turned the boat towards shore.

It was Marjorie who suggested that they put the boat in a sheltered spot, for any travelers who might need it in the future. She was right, too, and very sensible about it. But something inside Fred wanted to let the boat sail on without them, to let it float unhampered down the river without any eyes upon it, so that they would not have to see the end of its journey.

Who knew you were such a romantic, Fred :|

Is there some weird extended metaphor for your own psyche here that you need to talk about

Perhaps Sandy was feeling similar emotions. At any rate, as they turned their backs at last to the water she looked searchingly at Fred's face, and for a moment her hand pressured his. Then with a wry smile she turned away. Fred shifted his pack, fingered the sword at his side, and stepped forth. Into the wild lands.

That first day seemed the worst. The storekeeper's words ran constantly through his head. "Home to strange, fell creatures..." And the breeze-rippled grass became the track of a fearful snake, and the keening of the wind the cry of wolves. "Roaming groups of bandits..." And his straining eyes saw a flicker of movement behind every tree they passed, and in every tangled thicket arrow-heads rustled with the thorns. He and Sandy took their turns with a watch that night, but Fred could not sleep even during Sandy's turn. He lay awake, listening to the sounds of the night and the pounding of his heart.

Fred, son, has anyone ever told you that you might have severe anxiety?

But the next night his body succumbed from simple exhaustion, and when he was not on watch he slept like a log. Sandy had difficulty waking him in the morning. After that he forced himself to sleep, emptying his mind of thought and breathing deep, measured breaths, sensing the drowsy calm as it spread through him and finally losing all connection with the world in deep oblivion. It became a thing he looked forward to, all through the long, cold day brightened occasionally by a witty remark from Sandy or a dark but amusing premonition of Powhatan's. Then, at last, would come supper; and the fire; and then the blankets in which he rolled himself and stretched his aching legs, forgetting in those even breaths the wilderness which he so feared and hated...

Fred: I've hacked anxiety :)

Me: you've exchanged it for depression is what you've done lol. So bed is the only thing you look forward to?? Get a life buddy

Fred blinked, halting suddenly as doubt came to him. Did he hate the wilderness?

Oh, yay, epiphany time.

He looked around him; at the tangled, dry grass underfoot, the groups of scraggly, stunted pines huddling together, the undulating, craggy hills. It was lonely, it was perilous -- it could kill you. But it was beautiful, too, Fred realized...

And with the realization of that beauty he knew that he did not hate the wilderness. He did not even fear it as he had, partly because hate strengthens fear and also because ignorance fuels it. And while he knew little of the wild lands -- nay, very little -- he knew them with the knowledge of one who has traveled in them and seen their rugged loveliness.

Wow only took four paragraphs. how much time... has passed... exactly... because I'm slightly at a loss

Lightness in his step, he walked on, ignoring Sandy's good-natured, "Fred, you turned into a statue up there?"

How far had they traveled over this by now? When would they reach the Great Waste? Optimistically, Fred decided twelve days. Realistically, he conceded that at the least it might be eighteen. And even that was guesswork. There were no towns here, no landmarks, no way of knowing how far they had come. Their only guide was the sun, when she showed herself, guiding them steadily to the east. East. Orden.

Fred quickened his pace, the name ringing in his ears. They had come so far from Keelover... they could not fail to reach Orden now.

It was that afternoon that they saw the bandits.

~

If you don't remember this next episode it's because it was entirely RUTHLESSLY REMORSELESSLY excised from every subsequent draft.

At first it only looked like another stand of the gaunt firs which dotted the landscape, dark and wind-tossed. (dang I like "gaunt firs", repurposing that somewhere) But as he stood on the crest of the steep hill, he leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. It would be an odd stand of trees indeed which moved so swiftly over the ground.

Yeah don't take rocket science to detect that one

Fred whirled to face the others, dropping to the grass and motioning that they do likewise. Instinctively, his hand felt for the sword.

"Stay down," he said quietly, struggling to keep his tone calm. "There is a group of people heading in this direction, but I cannot tell anything about them yet. They may be -- only travelers."

Sandy was prompt in her suggestion. "Let's go back down the hill a little ways to those scattered trees and hide in them. I said they looked good for climbing, remember?"

you would notice that, Sandy

(Part of the reason this scene had to go down the tubes was because once again Sandy was being incredibly competent and, through no fault of her own, rendering Fred ridiculously redundant, not to say useless. Practically begging for some flaws and character development)

Fred opened his mouth, and hesitated. "I don't know... they might not come over this very hill."

"Better safe than sorry," Sandy replied virtuously.

"I suppose..." But still he held back. "Are you sure we won't be seen in them?"

"Not if we climb high enough."

Fred looked again in the direction of the men and rose swiftly to his feet. "Come then," he replied. "We haven't a moment to lose."

They wriggled down on their stomachs until they could stand without showing over the top of the hill, (hold the phone Fred literally was just standing up) and then they ran -- down -- down... It seemed longer to the trees than it should have. Fred glanced over his shoulder, and heard an alarmed call from Sandy -- "Fred!" an instant before he slammed into the rough, unyielding trunk of a crooked spruce.

Ignoring the stinging in his face, he reached for the lowest branch and hauled himself up. Above his own panting breaths he thought he heard the drumming of feet and froze, every muscle rigid and every sense straining. And again he heard it, faint, but growing clearer by the second. Quickly -- quickly it grew louder, and quicker still he climbed.

When at last he had come to a point perhaps halfway up the tree, a dead branch snapped under his hand -- and he fell -- clawing vainly against the bark -- slithering -- tumbling -- toppling --

And he felt all breath leave his body as he hit against something -- the ground, he presumed.

*my fave 2021 manager voice* Never Assume

Seconds later he realized it couldn't be the ground, because only his middle was touching it, and the rest of him was sort of... hanging off, like clothes on a line. So he must have fallen onto a tree branch. (Honestly I'm impressed your momentum didn't send you falling again, but we won't press the physics too closely here.) His eyes saw crisscrossing branches and pine needles beneath him and confirmed this. (Because Fred's deductions are always right) As he was still finishing this thought, his brain brought another fact to his attention, an odd fact, and a rather serious one too: he wasn't breathing.

Okay, I admit the delivery of that last bit was funny.

Feeling curiously light and weightless, he managed with difficulty to right himself and sat there on the limb, waiting for his breathing to begin again. It struck him as he sat there, patiently enduring, that this was a fairly ridiculous situation, and, if he had had the air to do it with, he would have laughed.

It was not until things had started to go dim before his eyes and he felt himself swaying dangerously that the air came, suddenly, tearing into his chest with pain so sharp that he shut his eyes in the agony of it. And then -- he was breathing.

Btw I take no constructive criticism on that sequence because it was directly based off my own single IRL experience of having the breath knocked out of me

With one thought uppermost in his mind, Fred turned to start climbing again, while there was yet time. But there came a shout almost directly below him, and he knew there was no time.

As silently as possible he worked his way along the limb, to the places where it branched out more and he might be better concealed. Then he lay still, watching the ground.

It was only a moment before a shaggy head of dark hair came into view. The man was dressed roughly and Fred could see a quiver slung across his back, the arrowheads winking up at him like eyes. He moved about almost aimlessly, peering here and there. Once or twice he tilted his head up, and Fred held his breath.

Finally he threw his head back and bellowed, "Right, boys! Here's a fine spot t'camp tonight!"

Fred, his muscles already cramping with the forced immobility, (do u need magnesium sweetie) (u do seem like stress has probably got your mineral stores depleted) was horrified. Camp? Here? No. They were going to camp somewhere else. Somewhere else! He wanted to shout the words; and then was angered by the laugh he felt rising in his throat. Need he find everything so funny today?

Fred we need to work on you not hating every emotional impulse that comes out of your brain

But, it was silly to imagine yelling out at the bandits to make their encampment elsewhere...

Stop, he told himself firmly, feeling the rising hilarity again. Stop.

Oh Fred you and your Victorian hysterics

He managed to push it down, only one subdued snort coming out. Amidst all the noise the bandits below him were making, they never heard it.

Yes, they were bandits. Their rude behavior, their motley clothes and weapons, and their coarse accents and careless language left no room for doubt. (Way to go with the negative stereotyping, I strongly doubt that sheltered high-anxiety Fred has either first or second-hand knowledge of bandit characteristics. This passage flavors STRONGLY of The Hobbit and a similar passage about trolls btw lolol) As they scattered about the trees, gathering firewood and shouting pointed insults at each other, Fred thought grimly that he was in for about the longest night of his life.

Soon the bandits had a large bonfire crackling in the middle of the grove, and smaller fires were cropping up further away (The Hobbit vibes continue lol) One produced the carcass of a deer, and this they skinned and began to eat.

The bandit turning the spit looked longingly over his shoulder at all his companions who were having so much fun. (Clarify for me what fun, it literally just said they were eating + gathering firewood, except that they're apparently not eating yet because you're still busy cooking the food. ??) He scowled and turned to a nearby man.

"Hey -- you. Go and tell one of the new recruits that it's their turn for this."

The other man grinned hugely. "Right." He walked off and poked a dark-haired man sitting hunched over. "Hey, Percival or whatever you said your name was. It's your turn to roast the venison."

The man stood and stretched rather insolently. "Whatever you say, my dear sir. And if you can't remember my name, just please call me John Smith."

Fred had been shocked by his brother's sudden appearances too many times to feel surprised now. He only found himself thinking, So he's joined up with bandits now. He remembered that the bandit had said, recruits, and wondered if that meant that Andre was here too. It probably did.

Fred felt the familiar tightening of his stomach when he thought of Andre. The guide who had betrayed him, the man who had humiliated him. He did not hate Andre, could not hate Andre, but he was afraid of him.

You can SEE the gears spinning vainly in Verity's mind right here. "Who is Andre to Fred? What can we do about it? Where in all of these random interactions can we get a conflict-to-resolution trajectory?"

Leave, he pleaded silently at the bandits. Just leave.

The evening wore away, and became night. Chill settled over everything, creeping into Fred's limbs, numbing his fingers. The embers of the fires below gleamed in the darkness. Fred would have slept, but that he feared to fall off the limb. For some time he shifted position constantly, until a piece of bark chipped off and whistled down, hitting the ground with a faintly audible thud. One of the bandits groaned in his sleep and rolled over. After that Fred lay very still for a long while, only breathing hard on his cold fingers.

I have to say that the only really worthwhile element of this chapter is that my childhood love for tree climbing (including writing in them for hours at a stretch) stood me in immensely good stead to write about how uncomfortable it is to sit in one.

The night stretched on unbearably. The wind soughed and whispered in the branches above him while he struggled to control his ceaseless shivering. Many times he knew he could bear no more, and still it continued.

And then, as is the way of things, he suddenly realized that the sky had long been lightening, and now it was not black but grey. And below him the camp of bandits stirred.

Their chief was the first one up. He stalked between his sleeping men, kicking them rudely awake with a sardonic, "Rise'n'shine."

You cannot imagine how badly I want these people NOT to be bandits so that Fred can be wrong

They wasted no time with the niceties of breakfast, but all grabbed what they could find before their leader hustled them belligerently onward. Their pounding footsteps faded.

Fred climbed down, his stiff hands fumbling on their holds. At the bottom of the tree he looked up anxiously, searching for the others.

Powhatan set foot on the ground and folded his arms. "Indian has slept in many tree, but none so hinder his comfort." He scowled blackly at the tree. "Indian also long for bow and arrows, to wound evil white man and make him flee."

Sandy swung out of her fir, alighting on the ground with ease. She did not seem to have suffered terribly during the night. (Fred is jealous, jealous, jealous...) "Well," she grumbled, "that was hardly an enjoyable experience. To think that ten years ago I wanted to be a bandit!"

Imagining seven-year-old Sandy aspiring earnestly to be a bandit has been the HIGHLIGHT of my day.

Marjorie reached them at last, weary and shivering but insisting that she was all right.

Fred surveyed them all. "We will not travel today if you don't want to," he said, sounding more vigorous and assured than he felt.

"Well, if we all can go on, I think we ought to," announced Sandy and seemed to think that point settled.

Marjorie agreed with Sandy. Powhatan, obviously, would follow them no matter what.

Sandy looked expectantly at Fred. "You're well enough to travel, aren't you?" She clearly had no doubt of his answer.

Yes, he was perfectly well enough. It was just that he wanted to stay. He wanted to rest here for a day. He had been hoping they would feel the same...

But if they wanted so eagerly to continue, why should he stop them? He managed a smile for Sandy. "Yes," he answered. "You are right. We will go on."

~

What a supremely unsatisfying way to end the scene. Thanks, Fred, and your beautiful combo of people-pleasing and resentment.

The days after that were filled with tension and the fear of seeing bandits again. Once more they set watches at night; (did they ever stop? i didn't hear us say they stopped) once more Fred's hand strayed often to his still unused sword. Snow fell often now, and the days were colder still.

They passed one day through a small village, and there acquired more supplies; but the people were reticent and wary, regarding them with suspicion. They did not linger there.

Martyr Fred will be back next chapter!

There are about seven pages and half a chapter to go before we reach the turning point of The Journey, where a few things came suddenly together -- my decision to cut Powhatan, to add Sandy's point of view to the story + scale her character growth back, and to distance myself from Fred's headspace a bit instead of transmitting every thought he/I had to paper. The presence of Gwenda (who will appear shortly!), being a catalyst of sorts that changed the status quo, helped fuel the sense of a fresh start and gave a beautiful common impetus to the story's elements.

Because at the current point, I felt like I had lost the vision of the story I wanted to tell.