"Running again, young arbiter?"
Ren turned, scowling to see the pale face of Silas as the sun bathed the world in orange and red. He reached up, feeling the grain of the mask once again. "Where would I go?"
Chuckling, Silas leaned against a wagon pressing his head into the canvas cover. "You know, I hear the Grand City's just wonderful."
"What do you want, Silas?" Ren asked, looking back toward the Grand City again.
"Evie's not happy that you left the dancing."
Ren didn't respond. What was there to respond to? He didn't owe them anything. He'd danced for them, done what they asked. There was no need to apologize, then, and no need to bow to the whims of people he'd only met within the last two days. Deeply, painfully, Ren wished he was at home with his parents. Watching his father grumble about some law or muttering under his breath about an investigation. Debating with Erin over their readings of various laws. Listening to their mother as she recounted the 'real political warfare' of wifery as she saw to the parties of other noblewomen.
"Though, I can't suppose I blame you for running. I probably would, too." Silas continued, pushing himself from the wagon and striding over with lithe steps, the sound of each step crunching into the snow, mud and dirt. "You sure do a lot of thinking."
Still, Ren remained silent.
"Look," Silas said, falling into place beside Ren and turning his gaze on the endless northern horizon, "It's been a long few hours, but you need to let it go. She's… She's not coming back, Ren."
Something snapped inside Ren's chest, something deep and irreversible. Before he could even think, Ren's fist had already smashed into the side of Silas' face.
Silas took the blow, staggering a few steps back. His gaze darkened, then studied Ren. On his end, Ren's chest was heaving in a way that it hadn't all day, breathing in a way that was somewhere between pain and a desperate, needling rage. He wasn't poised in his usual way, either, tall and straight backed. Ren stood, feet apart, hands balled into fists. He stood like a street fighter. Not untrained. No, even in this, Ren stood like a professional.
Then, slowly, Silas nodded, lips parting at the corner. So, this was what Ren needed. A silver mist coalesced in his hand, a silver dagger made of Silas' Spirit. Ren had already moved out of the way and crossed half the distance between them as Silas threw it at Ren.
Dismissing the silver instrument, Silas slammed Ren's hand out of the way and thrust his knee into Ren's stomach. Much to Silas' delighted surprise, Ren didn't collapse immediately. Instead, Ren stepped back, gasped despite himself, and threw another fist. Silas caught it, the silvery marks on the back of his hands and wrists pulsing softly, illuminating the elaborate scythe that extended into weaving pattering up the back of his hand.
Ren roared, shifting his momentum into his leg and dancing beside him, violet Marks pulsing as brightly as Ren could muster.
Silas moved with him, flowing from one defence to the next, dancing far more than he was fighting. Ren, comparatively, had loosened his grip on his own restraint, training turning into pure prowess as Ren fought, his movements somehow growing more intense with every motion – Something that Silas certainly only kept up with because he was of the Second Mark.
Throwing fist after devastating fist, Ren grew tired of Silas' stalling, mixing up his attack by shifting all his strength into using his legs. Fast as he was, though, Silas was faster, conjuring a silver shield for one blow, evading another.
Why couldn't Ren pin him down? The bastard had already left him once, when he needed it most. Why couldn't he just take the blow and stay down, for once? Was insulting his sister's memory not enough? Let it go? Let it go?
Chest heaving, breath growing ragged from his own exhaustion after minutes of sustained, powerful movement, Ren halted when Silas caught his kick, then pushed him into the snow.
"Are you done yet?" Silas grumbled, "Venture?"
Ren snarled, leaping forward to grab Silas' legs, but was kicked away instead. As he rolled over onto his back, Ren stilled, chest still heaving, face streaked with sweat that stung his eyes as his mask let it drip into them. He was cold. And muddy. And tired. Roses and Ink, he was so, so tired.
"Stripped of everything, and you resort to barbary." Silas lampooned, squatting beside Ren, eyebrow raised. "And here I thought you noble types were more 'sophisticated'."
After a long, shuddering breath, Ren actually smirked. "Surprised?"
"Not in the least." Silas responded, amusement and… Mirth? Humor? Something alight in his gaze. Kind. Respect, perhaps the kind between friends, like Gentry and Winston. Holding out his hand to aid, Silas continued, "You're good. Incredible, even. Just don't unleash it on any of my Sparrows."
Glancing at Silas' hand for a moment, Ren leaned his head back and chuckled. "No promises. After all, I'm a barbarous stagehand, now."
"Come now," Silas laughed, actually laughed, "A mysterious barbarous stagehand makes quite the show."
Finally, Ren took Silas' hand and stood up. "...Thanks."
Clapping Ren on the shoulder, Silas finally turned his gaze east. "...We won't be going back for a while, Venture. Best you make your peace now, because you still need a place to sleep. And my wagon is not for stagehands. Or Sparrows."
Scoffing, Ren looked up at the lights of the city again, which had begun to dim as the city shut itself off for the setting sun. "And I assume former nobles aren't allowed, either?"
"The closest thing to that in the Garden," Silas hummed, "Are my father, mother, sister and I. So… No, it's not for former nobles."
Ren turned back to the wagons, shaking his head. "...Right. I'm just Venture."
"You're learning, stagehand." Silas chuckled, walking torward the wagon circle again. "Poor little Vivia's been wondering where her scary Sparrow went." He glanced back at Ren, summoning his silver dagger. "Though I think her parents are probably fighting to put her to bed." Shrugging, he tossed the dagger into the ground, where it exploded in a puff of silver smoke before reforming in his hand. "What to do with a scary Sparrow before bed, I wonder…"
Ren shoved past Silas, walking into the wagon circle. "Maybe getting him a tent so he can take off his mask. Or a towel so he can clean off all this mud."
At that, Silas let out a hearty laugh. "Sure, sure. Just don't expect anything fancy."
Ren glanced back at Silas, studying him. "...What? I can't get a warm bath, too?"
Silas grinned. "Watch it, stagehand. Just 'cuz you got one of our little roses wrapped around your finger doesn't mean you get their privileges."
Ren rolled his eyes and walked back into the wagon circle as the sun finally sank below the horizon, stars slowly dotting the skies as the fires had begun to dim. Sparrows got about setting up large tents with the artisans, children sleeping in their parents' arms between them. There, on the edge closest to Yona's wagon, was a tent that lay alone, smaller than the rest with its iron poles and ropes. The familiar and unfamiliar sight of a wedge tent.
"Better get to it, stagehand," Silas yawned, walking past him once again, before calling out. "Alright, Sparrows, Cedric's on first watch tonight. Now get some sleep, we're on the road for the next two days before we hit the next town." Stopping at the collapsed tent, Silas gestured to it. "Here you are."
Ren stared at it blankly, then turned to Silas. "What, in the Pillars of Creation, am I supposed to do with this?"
Shrugging, Silas began to walk away. "Set it up, stagehand. Please tell me all that training taught you at least this?"
Biting back his tongue, Ren nodded, "Yes. Of course."
Glancing over his shoulder, Silas grinned. "I'll be with Liss and Evie. Have a good night, Venture. Sparrow exercises begin at dawn."
Ren didn't acknowledge him, instead kneeling before the heap of a tent. Sighing, he looked between the poles and the small twine ropes that were meant to keep the canvas upright. For a moment, he sat there, unsure. But looking at the other tents set up, scattered about the wagon circle, fires burning low between them, Ren's brow furrowed and he began.
The unfortunate truth of the matter was that Ren, in all his years of being the heir of the arbiter House, the heir to justice itself, had never been taught to set up a tent. His life had always been sequestered within city limits, and long travel often meant he stayed within carriages that kept wood-burning stoves for heat. He'd even been fond of the increasing popularity of trains that had begun to wind their way from nearby cities.
Never, in all his years, had Ren ever had to spend a night outside city limits.
Ren grabbed a pole, looking at the other tents for guidance, and attempted to stand it upright and stick it into the ground. Of course, the weight of it forced the pillar to collapse, and Ren had to start over again. He had no idea what he was doing. It was humiliating. He could learn to dance, fine. This was different.
Frustration built in that bloodless embarrassment in his chest and arms, but he kept working, hands struggling to figure out where the ropes needed to be knotted and where they needed to be threaded. Finally, he tossed a stake to the ground and shook his head. Still, he was cold. Perhaps he could bundle himself in the canvas and hope it warmed him enough to make it to the next city.
By the Pillars did he want to take off his mask.
Shaking his head, Ren tried again. And again. And again. Each time, the canvas collapsed. Each time, Ren got back to it. Were the caravaneers laughing at him? He could feel the whispers. He'd always been used to whispers by him. Jealous men and swooning women had always been around him. Whispers from the top, however, felt far different than the humiliation from below.
He could've sworn that the people around him were laughing. Were there people around him? His hands worked faster. He tried harder. Again and again and again.
"Need a hand?"
Ren turned to see the bearded face of Leonidas, who knelt beside him. Wordlessly, he lifted a pole. After only a few minutes, he had the tent standing with Ren's 'help'. Dusting off his hands, Leonidas gestured to the interior of the tent, and Ren complied, ducking into it. About two minutes later, Leonidas returned with a sleeping pad and a blanket, then sat beside him.
Looking down at the pad and blanket, Ren unceremoniously collapsed, allowing himself to sit on it. He stretched, pulling down the flaps to cover the tent, "Why help me?"
"You were struggling."
Ren glanced at Leonidas, studying the man. Shaking his head, he double checked to make sure that the tent was closed, and brushed his fingers across the mask on his face. Finally, he reached behind his head, untying it. It peeled off his skin roughly, his sweat having become an adhesive that wanted to keep the mask to his face. It was odd, and he could feel the strands of his hair fall against his forehead. "I was fine."
Leonidas studied Ren in return, rose-gold eyes meeting Ren's violet. He shook his head, rolled his eyes. "You really are like your father, boy."
Blinking, Ren's jaw dropped. "That's it?"
Leonidas chuckled. "That's it."
"Sir," Ren responded carefully, "Tell me. Why?"
"...You are an insistent one." Leonidas sighed, leaning back before turning to face the tent flaps. "You will learn a lot of things here, boy."
"Ren."
Leonidas smiled. To Ren, it was a shock the man could muster more than an awkward grimace, but he smiled. And while the warmth of it was in question to Ren, there was no denying the amusement. In fact, if it weren't for Ren's exhaustion, the man almost seemed far more jovial than the types that flocked around his father. "Ren. Right. Elren and Erin. Those are your names, yes?"
Hesitating at his sister's name, Ren nodded. Slowly. "...My name is Elren, yes. My sister was called Erin."
"Your mother did love her formal names, didn't she?"
Ren's eyes narrowed, "What of it?"