Armand awoke the next morning with bits of hay floating up his nose and into his cloak. He coughed out a few stray strands and sat up, then struggled out of the tent that he'd been hiding under. The ground was still caked with frost, which meant no one would be about yet. Perfect.

He crept outwards a few feet, careful to keep an eye on his surroundings, since it was utterly possible there would be guards in the sky keeping watch. He pulled the hood of his leather cloak over his head and headed on his way toward the marketplace.

He'd almost gotten there when something heavy landed behind him. Armand wheeled around, ready to draw his weapon in an instant. His heart jumped into his throat when his eyes locked on Griffon's. He took a step backwards. 

A million different expressions flashed across Griffon's face in a single instant, and for a moment Armand thought he might actually cry. But then his face hardened like stone and he gave Armand a hard look through steely, blue eyes.

"Where have you been?" Griffon demanded. His jaw flexed and Armand's heart dropped from his throat into his stomach. The other side of the caravan pulled at him and he turned to run. Griffon caught him by the arm and held him so tight he thought it might bruise.

"Let go of me!" he shouted.

"Stop this!" Griffon snapped. He turned Armand to face him. Armand turned his face away. His cheeks burned. Facing Griffon just made it all the more real. The hurt in his eyes barely hidden behind the anger. Like Armand had betrayed him somehow by wanting his own life. Armand's chest got hot and he clenched his fists and pulled away.

"I'm not staying," Armand said quietly. He shoved his hands in his pockets. Griffon's eyes burned holes of shame into the top of his head even though he wouldn't look at him. He knew what he'd see. Anger mixed with fear mixed with frustration mixed with something Armand couldn't place, but it made him never want to run away again.

"Do you understand what you're doing?" Griffon asked. "Because I don't think you do. Do you get that people die out there? That you don't have any money and you aren't good enough to get a job? Do you?" Griffon's expression broke and hurt flashed across his face. Armand winced.

"I met up with some sellswords," he said. "Aegan's not going to let me back, Griffon. You need to let me go." The fear of the unknown paled in comparison to the thought of facing Aegan. He barely bothered to yell at Armand for anything he did, which only made his reactions that much scarier. Armand knew it was Griffon that bore the brunt for most of the things Armand did. It made him feel terrible.

But at the same time, he remembered all the times he'd been told not to do things. When he'd asked, over and over, to go on scouting missions and Griffon lied to make it sound like it was Aegan's decision, not his. When he was twelve and asked for a metal sword, not a wooden prop weapon, and Griffon just repeated the same words over and over: No. When you're older. Maybe next week. 

That lasted until Gabriel took pity on him and gifted him one of his old blades. Griffon had been so furious he threatened to take it away and not let Armand out of the tent for a week, then never mentioned it again. That's all Armand ever was, was someone else's pity. That was the only way he ever got anything. Weapons, respect, training. 

Griffon's eyes didn't return to angry. Instead they echoed that hollow sort of hurt that kept Armand from doing something he thought might displease his brother. Griffon folded his arms and his wings fluttered along his back. He looked like the whole world might crumple with a mere breeze.

"What if you get hurt?" Griffon asked, and suddenly Armand remembered his eye and the deep bruise around it. He turned his face away as if that would prevent Griffon from seeing it.

"I'll figure it out," Armand responded. "I can't figure out how to get hurt if you won't let me get hurt." Armand's fists quivered, then relaxed. An echo of space widened between them until it felt like they stood on opposite ends of a vast chasm. Griffon's face softened and he cradled his forehead in his hands for a moment, then wiped his face with his hand and turned back to Armand.

"Do what you want," he said, and his voice was all flat and empty of emotion. He turned and walked off and Armand almost shouted after him. But wasn't this what he wanted? Somehow he didn't feel more free, though. He felt like a bird set adrift in an endless ocean of sky, without any indication of direction or course.

No one looked at him as Armand wandered through marketplace tents. The wind played with white canvas that flapped in the wind as people milled about shoving ingots at one another. It all felt empty. He couldn't stay here, not forever. He had no wife to run a market stall with and no money to buy one, on the fat chance that Aegan would even sell to him.

He couldn't get Rannok's warning out of his head. Don't go back to the sellswords. Why? He had half a mind to go back to the guard and ask--no, demand--the reason, but he knew it would be fruitless. If Aegan saw him back, he'd be tossed out again just as quickly, and he wasn't taking that risk again for such a slim chance of information forthcoming.

He could finally do what he'd been putting off doing and go find Wren. The thought made him sick to his stomach, still. He'd wait until after lunch, when the marketplace got busy and Meria would be gone. 

She was crying, when he'd met her, though she'd wiped at her eyes and tried valiantly to look like she hadn't been. She'd hidden herself in a distant corner of the guard tents and brandished a tiny throwing knife at her as if it was supposed to be a threat. He was fourteen but still knew enough that throwing knives were nothing up against a sword. She'd sworn at him and threatened to poke him with it and he'd laughed and then they'd gotten to talking and eventually she admitted she was lost. 

She stayed lost for three more hours while they split his dried biscuits and dates. They talked about the caravan and how much it sucked to be here and how crappy adults were. About her parents and how they didn't know she was out here and when they found out they'd probably kill her and then kill him. 

And then he'd taken her back and for a moment he thought Maron really WOULD kill him, but then he didn't. Instead he just glared and told him not to come back, but Armand kept doing it anyway and after a while Wren started meeting him at the edge of the marketplace instead to avoid questions. They'd slip off together over boxes and out into the open desert, just close enough that animals wouldn't bother them and people wouldn't wander close. 

The first time she mentioned how her mother wanted her married and the fear hovered over him like a shadow. She just looked annoyed, and that pissed him off, though he didn't understand why. Then a few days later he found her despondent and livid at her mother and he wanted so badly to take her hand but didn't, because someone might see and ban them from spending time together.

Losing her hurt more than he could imagine. Finding her again was like a cool drink of water after wandering in the desert for days, but it made him tense and anxious, like a wire spring ready to give at any moment. And it hurt, knowing that he might not ever get the answers to questions he couldn't put into words.

People buzzed and milled around him and pushed him out of the way. Armand fingered the small number of ingots in his pocket, more money than he'd ever carried despite not being much at all. He passed a few off to a shrewd man with a beard and beady green eyes. The man smiled at him and handed him back a leather pouch filled with dried meat. Perhaps she'd take it as a peace offering. Maybe it made sense to buy sugar glass, or even some of the brittle candy her mother sold, but he knew her well enough to know they'd sit uneaten on a shelf somewhere until the sun made them dry out and crack.

He wandered the caravan for eons longer, so long the sun started to set and the air started to get cold. He'd have to wait until tomorrow. He started making his way back to the tent full of hay he'd slept in the night before only to find it completely empty and devoid of any warmth. He swore under his breath. 

There were options, but not many good ones. He could find more hay, but that was unlikely. He could hide in a supply tent, but someone might find him and accuse him of stealing. He couldn't sleep in the open unless he liked the idea of freezing to death or being kicked like a bum. And he certainly couldn't go crawling back to Griffon.

Armand thought about it for a little bit, then resigned himself to wandering the caravan until he found a suitable place to rest. He eventually found a gap between some supply tents just small enough to protect his body from the wind and curled up there, shielded by his cloak. He hoped he didn't freeze to death.

---

Griffon has finally realized he needs to let go. Would you feel guilty if you were Armand? Do you think his actions are justified? Share your thoughts in the comments!