Trouble in the Caravan

The fire crackled softly, sending sparks dancing upward into the night sky. Leona pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, more from discomfort than cold. Orin sat beside her on the fallen log, his weathered hands busy with a piece of wood and his whittling knife. The rhythmic scraping sound provided a counterpoint to the fire’s pops and hisses.

Around them, the camp lay silent except for the occasional snore or rustling of canvas. The moon hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows through the trees.

“I’ve been thinking,” Leona said, her voice barely above a whisper. The words felt heavy in her mouth, weighted with responsibility. “About Estaria.”

Orin’s knife paused mid-stroke. He didn’t look up, but she knew he was listening.

“When I first met him in my bakery, he reminded me so much of…” She trailed off, picking at a loose thread on her shawl. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. But I wonder if I let that cloud my judgment.”

The knife resumed its steady motion, shaving thin curls of wood that fell to the dirt between Orin’s boots. He remained silent, giving her space to continue.

A log shifted in the fire, sending up a fresh spray of sparks. Leona watched them fade into the darkness before continuing. “He’s carrying so much pain, Orin. The loss of Angel, his unborn child, everything that happened in Appledale…” She shook her head. “I thought I was helping him by bringing him with us, but now I’m not so sure.”

Leona felt Orin’s hands still, the whittling knife and half-carved piece of wood settling onto the log beside him. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close against his side. The familiar scent of wood shavings and leather that always clung to him brought a measure of comfort.

The fire’s warmth touched her face as she leaned into him, grateful for his solid presence. His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh that she felt more than heard.

“You’re not the only one wrestling with this,” Orin said, his gruff voice softened by the night air. “Been watching that boy work on the wagons, listening to him talk with Keely and Brenda.” He paused, and Leona felt him shift slightly. “Reminds me of Marcus, sometimes. That same eagerness to learn, to prove himself useful.”

Leona’s heart ached at the mention of Orin’s son. She reached up and squeezed his hand where it rested on her shoulder.

“I didn’t expect to…” Orin cleared his throat. “Well, didn’t expect to care what happened to him. Thought I was past letting myself get attached to anyone new in the caravan. Especially not someone we’re supposed to…” He trailed off, leaving the unsaid words hanging in the darkness.

A night bird called somewhere in the distance, its cry echoing through the trees. Leona watched the flames dance, their orange light painting shifting shadows across the ground.

“I know,” she whispered. “Every time I see him helping in camp, or hear him laughing with the others, I feel this weight in my chest. Like I’m betraying him somehow.”

Orin’s fingers absently traced patterns on her shoulder. “Leading him to Streacresh…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t sit right anymore. Not after seeing who he really is. Not after watching him become part of our family here.”

The word ‘family’ caught in Leona’s throat. That’s what had happened, whether they’d meant it to or not. The caravan had embraced Estaria, drawn him into their circle of trust and companionship. She’d watched it happen day by day, meal by meal, shared story by shared story.

“What do we do?” she asked, voicing the question that had been haunting her for days.

Orin’s arm tightened around her. “Don’t know,” he admitted. “First time I’ve questioned our path. Always thought we were doing what needed to be done, serving a greater purpose.” He picked up a stick with his free hand and poked at the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Leona watched the embers spiral upward, each one a tiny star that winked out in the darkness. The crackling of the fire filled the silence between them, a comfortable sound that couldn’t quite mask the discomfort of their situation.

A sharp rustle from the bushes behind them made Orin stiffen. Leona felt his arm slide from her shoulders as he rose to his feet, turning to face the sound. Silas emerged from the treeline, his face twisted with anger in the firelight.

“I heard you both,” Silas spat, his usually controlled demeanor cracking. “Sitting here, plotting to betray everything we stand for.”

The fire popped, sending another shower of sparks into the night air. Leona’s fingers clutched her shawl tighter, her knuckles white with tension.

“You know this one’s different, Silas.” Orin’s voice carried a weight Leona had rarely heard. “You’ve seen it yourself.”

Silas stepped closer, his boots crushing the dried leaves beneath them. The firelight caught the edge of the knife at his belt. “Different?” His laugh held no humor. “It doesn’t matter if he’s different. It doesn’t matter if he helps with the wagons or tells good stories. We have a job to do.”

“A job?” Orin’s calm facade cracked. “Is that all this is to you? Just another task to complete?”

“It’s what we are,” Silas hissed. “It’s what we’ve always been. The Creshers have a purpose, a sacred duty to Streacresh. Or have you forgotten that while playing family with this boy?”

The muscles in Orin’s jaw clenched. Leona saw his hands ball into fists at his sides. The fire cast deep shadows across his face, making him look older, harder.

“Sacred duty?” Orin’s voice rose, echoing through the quiet camp. “You talk about duty while taking someone who’s trusted us, worked beside us, to Streacresh?”

“Trust?” Silas sneered. “We’re Creshers. We don’t earn trust, we use it. That’s how we’ve survived, how we’ve served our purpose for generations.”

Something snapped in Orin. The calm, steady man Leona knew vanished in an instant. He lunged forward, grabbing Silas by the front of his shirt and shoving him backward. “You’re wrong,” he growled. “Times change. We change. And I will protect him.”

Silas stumbled but caught his balance, his hand instinctively moving to his knife. His eyes, reflecting the firelight, held a dangerous gleam. “If you won’t see it done,” he said, his voice cold and sharp as steel, “then I will.”

He turned on his heel and stalked back into the darkness, leaving only the sound of crackling wood and Orin’s heavy breathing. The shadows swallowed him whole, but his words lingered in the air like smoke.

Leona stood, her legs shaky. She reached for Orin’s arm, feeling the tension still coursing through him. His chest heaved with each breath, his anger slowly giving way to something deeper, more uncertain.

The fire continued to burn, indifferent to the confrontation it had witnessed. Around them, the camp remained quiet, though Leona wondered how many had heard the argument. How many others might be wrestling with the same doubts that plagued her and Orin?

She watched the spot where Silas had disappeared into the darkness, the treeline now still and silent. Orin’s breathing gradually steadied beside her, but she could still feel the rigidity in his muscles under her hand.

Estaria’s knife slid smoothly through another potato, the peel falling in a lazy curl onto the pile at his feet. The rhythm grounded him: peel, rotate, slice. The air in the cooking tent was thick with the scent of rosemary and simmering onions, and Keely’s laughter—until a moment ago—had been bouncing off the canvas like sunlight through leaves.

“And then,” she said, nudging a stubborn root with her knife, “the merchant actually tried to convince me his turnips were medicinal. Said they could cure melancholy, foot rot, and—what was it—oh, right, unfaithfulness.”

Estaria chuckled, the sound easy and familiar. “Did you buy any?”

“Tempting. Would’ve liked to test the foot rot theory on Silas.”

They grinned at each other, the moment light and ordinary—until a shout snapped through the evening air.

Both of them froze. From outside, firelight shifted erratically, casting dancing shadows across the flap of the tent. Orin and Silas stood near the main firepit—faces strained, posture sharp. Estaria couldn’t hear the words, but the tension in their bodies told the story. Orin’s arm lashed out, shoving Silas hard enough to make the younger man stumble.

Keely leaned forward, her expression tightening. “What in Streacresh’s name…”

Silas spun on his heel and stormed off into the dark.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the moment before a storm.

Estaria cleared his throat. “Maybe they’re fighting over who likes me more,” he said, forcing a crooked smile.

Keely didn’t laugh at first—just looked at him, brows knit. Then she gave a half-snort and bumped his arm with her shoulder. “You wish.” Her smile came, but it was thinner than usual. “Though you have grown on everyone. Like mold. Or moss.”

“I’ll take moss.”

It hadn’t been long since Angel. Not really. Some days he still woke expecting to hear her voice. Some nights he still reached for her in the dark before remembering she wasn’t there. He’d buried so much—her, the child they never got to meet, the version of himself who believed love could outrun death.

But Keely was here. And for the first time since that night in the orchard, Estaria didn’t feel hollow. Just… bruised. Healing.

“Suppose I like being moss,” he said. “So… what about you?” His voice was low, almost testing the weight of the words. “You want to throw your hat in the ring?”

She didn’t look up.

For a long moment, she didn’t move at all.

Then, slowly, she set the potato down. She turned toward him, and when their eyes met, something inside him shifted. Her face wasn’t sad, exactly—but there was a stillness there. A held breath. Like she was balancing on the edge of something sharp.

“Estaria…” she began. Her voice was quiet. Careful.

He waited.

Her eyes searched his, as if trying to decide how much he could bear. Then she glanced down, as though the right words might be hiding in the mess of peels between them.

“I like you,” she said finally. “I think you know that.”

He nodded.

“If we were just two people, passing through the same town, on the same road…” She smiled faintly. “Maybe I’d let you buy me a drink. Maybe you’d bring me apples and I’d pretend not to know they were from you.”

“I’d bring you the good ones,” he said, trying to smile.

Her smile held, but barely.

“But that’s not what this is,” she said, her voice thinning like thread pulled too tight. “You’re going… somewhere I can’t follow. And I have people to look after. A life I have to go back to.”

Something shifted behind her eyes—something he couldn’t name. And for the first time, Estaria felt the sharp edge of distance between them.

“Keely…” he started, unsure even what he meant to ask.

She reached out suddenly, fingers brushing the back of his hand. Then, as if on impulse, she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. No swelling music. Just the warmth of her lips and the trembling breath between them. She lingered just long enough to mean it. Just short enough to regret it. Then pulled away.

Her voice barely carried above the stew’s simmer. “If things were different… my hat would be yours.”

She stood, gathered the peeled potatoes into her apron, and turned back toward the cook pot.

Estaria sat still. The next potato rested in his palm, untouched. His hands hadn’t moved. His heart had.

He watched her for a moment—watched how she didn’t look back.

The tent canvas rustled softly as Estaria ducked inside. His fingers still tingled where Keely had touched them, and the ghost of her kiss lingered on his lips. The familiar scent of oiled leather and woodsmoke filled the small space as he sank onto his cot, the worn canvas creaking beneath his weight.

His chest felt tight, a mess of emotions he couldn’t quite untangle. Part of him wanted to smile, to hold onto that moment of warmth in the cooking tent. Another part felt like he was betraying Angel’s memory by even considering such feelings.

The metal was cool against his fingers as he reached down and drew Angel’s dagger from its sheath. Moonlight filtering through the canvas caught the blade’s edge, and the familiar wave of grief crashed over him. His throat constricted as memories flooded back—Angel’s laugh, the way she’d roll her eyes at his jokes, how she’d clean this very blade while telling him about her day.

The pain came, sharp and raw as ever, but something was different this time. He didn’t fight it. Instead, he let the memories wash through him, each one bringing its own particular ache. Angel teaching Clara to braid hair. Angel rubbing her growing belly, dreaming aloud about their child.

His fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt until his knuckles turned white. Still, he didn’t break. The grief didn’t tear him apart as it had so many times before. It hurt—gods, how it hurt—but he remained whole.

Time slipped by, marked only by his breathing and the occasional night sounds from outside. The moon crept across the tent’s canvas, casting shifting shadows that danced across the blade in his hands.

When his grip finally loosened on the dagger, his palm ached from holding it so tightly. He let himself fall back onto the cot, his body heavy with emotional exhaustion. The rough blanket scratched against his neck, grounding him in the present moment.

Keely’s face drifted back into his thoughts. This time, the memory didn’t feel like a betrayal. It was just… there. Like a leaf floating on a stream, neither good nor bad, just existing alongside everything else.

He could almost hear Angel’s voice, clear as spring water: “Life is an adventure, my love. Never shy away from adventure.”

A tired smile tugged at his lips. She would have said that, wouldn’t she? Would have pushed him forward, refused to let him wallow. That was her way—always moving, always growing, always embracing whatever life brought next.

No, he wasn’t ready. The wound was still too fresh, the loss too near. But for the first time since that terrible night in Appledale, he could imagine a future where he might be. Not today, not tomorrow, but someday.

The thought settled over him like a familiar blanket, neither pushing nor pulling, just resting there with its own quiet truth. His eyes grew heavy as the emotional tide receded, leaving behind an exhausted sort of peace.