In Which Tarien Gets a Scarf for His Trouble

November 16, 1170

"You really don't have to mind the fire, you know," Goodwife Fedurin muttered as Tarien continued to prod at the hearth. "You're a guest, after all."

Tarien laughed. From what he could gather, old Hilla had a reputation among her neighbors as something of a shrew, but he found her rather pleasant, in her own snarky sort of way. The other folks must not have taken the time to get to know her--either that or she'd just taken a liking to him. Either way, he supposed he couldn't complain, or at least not in regards to the woman herself. "Oh, it's no trouble. What sort of gentleman would I be if I'd come in here and sat my ass down and barked at you to put on a fire for me?"

Hilla sniffed. "No sort, I suppose--although I do still think you're only doing all this for us so my daughter will start putting out one of these days."

A Hilla-esque thing to say indeed! Arydath had certainly gotten her spunk from somewhere. Nevertheless, it was a little insulting to think that that was the impression he was giving, even if she was only joking. At the same time, however, he'd never been one for serious conversation--and after the tragic loss of his little step-nephew, a little humor might have served well to ease his melancholy for a moment. "Do you think it's working?" He turned his head and winked at her.

She shrugged. "Hell, we have a floor; if she won't crawl into your bed, then don't be surprised to find me in it one of these days."

Really, there was never any way of telling whether or not Hilla was kidding; in this case, Tarien figured it would be better for both of them if he assumed that she was. "Your appreciation does flatter me, Goodwife."

She opened her mouth to respond--something about his playing hard to get, no doubt--but couldn't get a word out before Arydath had emerged from the other room, taken one look at Tarien, and groaned.

"You're here again?" She didn't even bother trying to hide her annoyance--and yet, by some youthful logic, that lent a greater thrill to her presence. "Remind me again how you even found my house?"

She crossed her arms and stepped toward him. Her mother stood, then hurried off to the other room. "I'll just go see what the children are up to."

Regardless of her occasional insinuations, Hilla was quite possibly Tarien's only ally in his pursuit of Arydath--and really, why wouldn't she be? What old peasant woman in her right mind would have a second thought if her equally underprivileged daughter suddenly caught the eye a knight? Hilla probably went to bed every night to dream about castles and tapestries and green-eyed grandchildren in fancy cribs. He felt a little bad about getting her hopes up; even if he had known Arydath for more than a couple months, she'd yet to express any interest.

Not that that was enough to stop a man from trying. "You sure you aren't cold in just that old dress, love? I could warm you up if you like."

Her brows arched and her eyes narrowed to dark slits, Arydath sighed. "I'm fine. Now, why the hell are you here?"

He shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood--thought it might be nice to catch a little visit with a friend while I was in the area."

"Since when are we friends?" She placed her hand on her hip and stared at him, an intense wave of taunting challenge streaming from her dark eyes. Damn--he had a thing for dark eyes.

"We can be whatever you want us to be."

She didn't look impressed--and yet, that only made him want to try harder. "You don't understand the meaning of the word 'no', do you?"

"Funny--forty years ago, my mother came to the same conclusion," he chuckled. "You know, if she could get past the fact that you're a peasant, I don't doubt that my mother would love you."

"But I am, so she wouldn't." The stark reality of her words stung, but he had to note that he'd never seen her so calm. Every time he'd seen her before, it had only been a matter of minutes before she exploded into some sort of terrifying and beautiful ball of vitriol, but now... not so much. He wondered why that was.

He placed his hand to the back of his neck and frowned. "Ah, just as well! My father probably wouldn't like you even if you were a princess."

Arydath raised an eyebrow. "Is he a misogynist?"

"No, just a run-of-the-mill misanthrope." Feeling the need to fidget, Tarien ran a quick, desperate scan over his own person; he found a stray thread on his sleeve and began to play with it. There was a persistent ache that came with talking about his father, and he wanted nothing more than to ignore it. "You shouldn't be offended if he doesn't like you. He doesn't like most people--hardly anyone, really, other than my sisters and my mother and my nieces and nephews. Hell, he doesn't even like me all that much."

He realized a second too late that he should not have said that. He could already hear her inevitable response of 'I can't imagine why' or 'That makes two of us, then'. He braced himself and waited; shockingly enough, it never came.

Indeed, all he'd brought upon himself was a silence, which he had never been one to suffer. He tossed back his head and forced himself to smile. "Ah, but enough with my bothersome self-pity! Care for a filthy limerick? I have the most extensive repertoire of filthy limericks."

"No thank you; I've probably heard all you have and more." She grabbed one of the tails of her green scarf and tugged, allowing that lovely cinnamon hair to cascade to her shoulders. She then took him by the hand and pressed it into his palm; if the quality of the fabric had surprised him before, it was certainly a shock now that he held the whole thing. "Now, I'm sure you have better things to do than wasting my time."

She wanted him to leave, but his boots had turned to lead; all he could do was stand and gape at her. This made no sense. "Why did you just give me your scarf?"

She stared at him blankly, as if he couldn't have asked a dumber question if he'd tried. Then, she flashed him a slight curve of the mouth that might have been the foundation of a smile. "You need it more than I do."

This made even less sense. "What? You mean this is some sort of... magic scarf?"

Arydath rolled her eyes, that curious expression now a thing of the past as her usual sneer took its place. "Yes, Tarien--it's a magic scarf. Now get the hell out of my house, you numbskull."

And with that, she turned around and returned to room from whence she came, closing the door with a quiet, yet firm thud!

What a strange, strange woman.

And yet, he didn't think he would have come had she been anything else.

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