The trio left London. The run gradually died down, transitioning to a measured pace. They rode in silence, listening for any noise until they were certain there was no pursuit.
They decided to stop in a small hollow hidden from the road by a sparse patch of woods. They didn't light a fire; the full moon illuminated everything around them.
As soon as his feet touched the ground, Anastas let out a tense breath through clenched teeth. From the fast riding, his wounded shoulder had started throbbing with a pulsating ache again. The man stepped slightly aside, toward a fallen tree trunk, and began unbuttoning his frock coat with his good hand. The stitches pulled tight. He mentally prayed to all the gods he knew that they wouldn't tear and the wound wouldn't open again. In the moonlight, the skin around the incision looked dark, but there was no blood. Anastas closed his eyes, trying to even his breathing.
A few steps away, Thomas hastily shed the remnants of his London nightmare. The youth took off the cloak, and then the clothes they had dressed him in. His movements were nervous, as if he were trying to tear the memories of what had happened off himself along with the fabric. Finally, he put on a simple linen shirt and dark trousers. Thomas exhaled in relief, buttoning the collar right up to his throat.
Eist stood with his arms crossed over his chest, silently watching them both.
He had a keen eye. Years of life spent among all sorts of people—from port cutthroats to noble lords—had taught him to read people. The relationship between these two had been clear to him from the very beginning.
Eist shifted his gaze to Anastas. The nature of his contradictions was complex and deep. He was used to controlling everything, but now he faced something that defied control. Anastas was too proud and too absorbed in himself to rationally assess the situation. He had built an impenetrable wall around himself, suffocating from his own feelings, but still not daring to take a step forward.
Then Eist's gaze slid to Thomas. The youth was washing his face with water from a flask. Thomas was different. He was simple and easy to understand; everything could be read in his every word, gesture, and facial expression.
Eist chuckled at his own thoughts. He flirted with Thomas, paid him ambiguous compliments, but not at all for empty amusement. And certainly not to take an extra jab at or anger the jealous Anastas.
Thomas was a genuinely good kid. Eist perfectly understood who he was and what place he occupied in this world. He didn't view Thomas as anything serious. But he was completely unopposed to staying near this light a little longer. To touching it.
Eist pushed off from the tree and approached the youth.
"Let me help," he said quietly, taking the flask from Thomas, which the boy was trying to close with trembling, tired hands.
Thomas flinched in surprise, but upon recognizing the voice, relaxed his shoulders.
"Thank you," he replied, looking up.
Eist easily screwed the cap on, but didn't step away. He remained standing—close—looking down at Thomas. The mercenary raised his hand and carefully, barely touching the skin, brushed aside a fair lock of hair that had fallen onto the youth's forehead.
Thomas froze, slightly flustered by such an overt and gentle gesture.
A few steps away, Anastas finished buttoning his frock coat. He saw this gesture, saw Thomas's reaction. Another bout of jealousy constricted his chest, but Anastas only clenched his teeth harder. He remained silent again, battling his own conflicting feelings.
They finished their tasks and settled on the flattened grass. The silence was broken only by the snorting of the horses and the rustling of branches.
Suddenly, Thomas froze, remembering.
"My watch," the youth's voice suddenly cracked, sounding almost doomed.
Anastas, sitting opposite, gave him an inquiring look.
"They stole the watch," Thomas explained quietly, not raising his eyes. "The one my father gave me."
A pause hung in the air. Anastas slowly looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said shortly.
Anastas felt guilty that he hadn't fully dealt with those bastards in the port. It was clear that the thug with the smashed face was just a small fry. They should have looked for the leader, shaken down their whole rabble, but they hadn't had the time. Thomas had been in danger, and the choice was obvious, but now, seeing the youth's despair, Anastas blamed himself for his own powerlessness.
"It's not your fault, Stas," he said. "You saved me. I am grateful to both of you. Endlessly grateful. It's just that they are dear to me."
He shifted a warm gaze from Anastas to the mercenary. Eist, who had been sitting quietly and thoughtfully until this moment, perked up. That familiar, slightly sly smirk touched his lips, and catching the youth's eye, he winked at him.
Anastas rolled his eyes in annoyance and took a deep, heavy breath, trying to quell the wave of anger rising inside. Thomas merely hastily cast his gaze down at his own hands.
"But we were able to save this."
Anastas reached into the inner pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a small object. On his palm, gleaming in the moonlight, lay the gold signet ring on a broken chain.
Thomas gasped softly. His hand instinctively flew to his neck and collarbones.
"I... I didn't even realize I had lost it too," he exhaled in disbelief.
In his joy, Thomas leaned forward and pulled the man into a tight embrace.
Anastas felt the soft, fair hair smelling of the night's coolness against his cheek, felt the warmth of his neck. His heart skipped a beat, and then pounded so hard that the sound of its beating seemed to echo across the entire clearing. And in that very moment, Anastas realized one thing: he did not want Eist to ever feel the same way with Thomas.
He saw his interest. It was obvious to Anastas that Eist wasn't serious. Men like him don't get attached. Probably in every port city, in every tavern he has a girl, maybe more than one, or... a guy. These constant enigmatic smirks of his, this carefree smile—Eist was as easygoing as he was fickle. For him, all of this was just a game, an amusing adventure. And Anastas genuinely didn't understand, and was angered to the point of grinding his teeth: why was Thomas acting as if he didn't notice this at all?
But Thomas did notice.
Returning to his spot, the youth stole a glance at the mercenary. He saw everything: those lingering looks, and the flirting with jokes. It's just that Thomas didn't see Eist as a rival, didn't see him as a threat. To him, this man had simply become a new, reliable friend. Yes, Eist was a mercenary, a man of questionable moral principles. But what difference did it make if he had stepped into the very fires of hell without hesitation to pull him out? He had saved them, saved him personally, without demanding anything in return.
Yes, he flirts with him. But Thomas reasoned in his own way: it was probably just his manner of communicating. Eist hadn't done them any harm. He had been there when it was necessary. For Thomas, who was used to believing in the best in people, this was more than enough.
The fire was never lit. The night gradually took hold. In the end, each of them closed their eyes, plunged into their own tangled thoughts, leaving unresolved questions until dawn.