Vaughn sat near a cluster of small boulders, cleaning his daggers as he watched his companions finish setting up camp. Dusk had come much earlier than they had hoped, the mass of dark clouds in the sky making the light fade faster than usual, and forced them to camp rather than push through to the next town.
"Do we have enough wood?" Ralan asked, helping Alana with the fire.
"Bren is out gathering the last of what we need," she answered. "Once he returns he can start preparing the meal."
Ralan glanced down at her right arm, wrapped in a stained bandage, and frowned slightly.
"I know what you're about to say," she said firmly, "and you can forget it. I'm not so severely injured that I'm unable to help set camp. Now, if you would be so kind as to get the fire going, I can get the ingredients ready for Bren."
Ralan reluctantly turned his attention to the firepit and Alana began to dig through the rucksacks in search of vegetables and preserved meats. All should have been well.
Vaughn set his daggers down and glared at the bandages on Alana's arm. When had things changed so much? Had it been one year ago, when he and Ralan were tasked with finding the source of the magic that had been poisoning the land? Or perhaps later, when Alana and Bren joined them on their journey?
Caring was new to him. Vaughn had always worked alone as one of the King's Blades and he had always felt that it was the better way to work. After all, working alone meant that others wouldn't get into his way. But after joining with Ralan, and Alana and Bren later, he found that he appreciated the company of his companions. And he was discovering that their companionship was important to him.
He had never given much thought to what was important, truly important, in his life. After all, his life belonged to his King and could be forfeit at any moment. Yet as he stared at her wound and recalled the soldiers she had fought—soldiers drenched in dark magicks and mad with power—he found himself wishing he could slaughter them all again.
Vaughn turned his attention back to his daggers, cleaning the blades more vigorously as he worked off his anger. It was true that having something, or someone, important made him vulnerable. His foolish desire to slay the soldiers a second time was proof enough of that. However, he found it provided something else as well. It provided the drive to overcome, to protect, to improve. And that, perhaps, would prove most important of all.
This prompt was provided by @mariannewest and can be found here.
Image sourced from Pixabay.
