As the day wore on, they fell into an easier rhythm. The shared revelations—partial though they were—had created a foundation of tentative trust. They still didn't know each other's names or exact circumstances, but they understood each other's pain. And in that understanding, something like companionship began to bloom.
"Tell me something about your mother," Reloua said as they navigated around a massive root system. "Something good. Not about her death, but about... her life."
Teleu was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then:
"She used to sing. Every morning before dawn, she'd go to the highest tower and sing to greet the sun. Said it was an old tradition from her homeland." His voice softened with memory. "The palace guards used to set their watches by it. When mother's song began, you knew dawn was moments away."
"What did she sing?"
"Prayer songs. Calling on the ancestors to guide the day, to watch over the kingdom, to keep the people safe from harm and the crops abundant." He paused. "After she died, no one continued the tradition. The tower stands silent now."
"That's... incredibly sad."
"That's what happens when people die. The traditions they kept die with them, unless someone else takes them up." He glanced at her. "What about yours? Your mother. What do you remember?"
Reloua smiled despite herself. "She laughed. All the time. Even when things were difficult or serious, she'd find something to laugh about. She used to say that laughter was rebellion against despair, and despair was the only enemy that could never be defeated by force."
"Wise woman."
"She was. Is. Was." Reloua's voice caught. "It's strange how the tense shifts. How someone who was so present, so vital, becomes past tense in an instant."
"The body becomes past tense," Teleu said quietly. "But the person... maybe they're more present tense than we realize. Maybe that's what those singing trees were trying to tell you."
They walked in silence for a while after that, each lost in memories of mothers who'd loved them and left them and, perhaps, were still watching from whatever lay beyond the veil.
As evening approached and they began searching for a suitable campsite, Reloua found herself watching Teleu with new eyes. He was still guarded, still maintaining his emotional distance with careful deliberation. But now she could see the cracks in that armor—the places where grief and rage and desperate loneliness bled through despite his best efforts.
He's so alone, she realized. Even more alone than I am.
And perhaps because misery did love company, or perhaps because something deeper was stirring in her heart, Reloua found herself wanting to reach across that distance. To offer not just companionship of convenience, but something more genuine.
But how did you reach someone who'd built walls so high even they couldn't see over them?
"Here," Teleu announced, stopping in a small clearing where a rock overhang provided natural shelter. "We'll camp here tonight. There's water nearby, and the overhang will hide our fire from aerial observation."
As he began the familiar routine of making camp, Reloua gathered firewood and found herself studying the economical grace of his movements. Everything he did served a purpose. Nothing was wasted—not motion, not words, not emotion.
It must be exhausting, she thought, living like that. Never letting your guard down. Never trusting.
"Stop staring," Teleu said without looking up from the fire he was building.
"I wasn't—" Reloua began, then stopped. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just... don't." He struck flint against steel, coaxing sparks into the tinder. "People who stare are usually trying to figure out how to use you. Or how to survive you."
"I'm not trying to do either."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"Understand you, maybe?" Reloua settled across from him as the fire caught and began to grow. "You're... complicated. You save my life but claim it's just self-interest. You share your grief but maintain distance. You give me water and food and protection, but insist you're not a hero. I'm just trying to figure out which version is real."
Teleu looked up at her then, firelight dancing in his dark eyes.
"They're all real," he said. "I saved you because it served my interests, but that doesn't mean I felt nothing when those men tried to kill you. I share my grief because silence was eating me alive, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to lower my defenses. I help you survive because..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "Because maybe helping you survive helps me remember what it feels like to be something other than a weapon aimed at my enemies."
The raw honesty of the admission hung in the air between them.
"Thank you," Reloua said softly. "For telling me that."
"Don't thank me. I'm still going to leave you at the border."
"I know."
"And you're still not going to tell me your real name or your real status."
"I know that too."
"Then what are we doing?" The question came out almost frustrated. "What is this?"
Reloua considered carefully before answering. "Maybe we're just... two people who understand each other's pain. Two people who don't have to pretend to be anything other than what we are right now, in this moment. No past, no future. Just... here."
Teleu stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he nodded.
"Just here," he repeated. "For now."
It wasn't a declaration of friendship. It wasn't a promise of anything beyond practical alliance. But somehow, in the warm glow of the firelight with the forest breathing around them, it felt like more than either of them had dared hope for.
They prepared their simple meal in comfortable silence, and as the stars began to appear through the canopy above, Reloua realized something that both frightened and thrilled her:
She was starting to care about this broken, guarded man. Not as a protector or a means to an end, but as a person. A person worth knowing. Worth trusting. Worth...
No, she told herself firmly. Don't go there. He's made it clear this is temporary. Don't make it more complicated by catching feelings for someone who's already made it clear he's leaving.
But the heart, she was learning, rarely listened to such sensible advice.
She could not help but make a proposition