CHAPTER THREE
Felix wakes with a clearer head, to his relief. He can reach for the bowl and finish off the rest of the soup, then drain the waterskin Cassandra left behind. Afterwards he spends a while lying on his back, staring at the thatched roof above, coming to terms with the fact that he’s still alive. It’s quite a surprise. If Cassandra hadn’t thought to pay him a visit, he would have died on the floor of this shack, alone and unremarked. The world is a colder, duller place without Samuel at his side, but Felix finds he’s grateful not to have left it.
He fishes in the bag that holds his cloth and pulls out a beautiful bow woven in golden thread. It gleams in the slanted sunshine. He sits up and places it on the waterskin for Cassandra to find. A paltry reward for saving him, but it’s the best he can do. Since the movement hasn’t left his head spinning, he scrapes together the will to stand. Though his legs tremble and he clutches his staff, he doesn’t fall. Cautious steps carry him out of the shack and over to the shrine.
It’s nature-stained and ancient. Sun and weather have bleached the statues and eroded them to vaguely human shapes. It’s difficult to even tell which is a god and which is a goddess. Felix’s staff thunks against something on the ground- he finds a stone slab roughly the shape of a large log. There are two furrows worn into it, the right size for a man’s knees and shins. The last evidence of Theodore, his predecessor. Felix gingerly lowers himself into the dead man’s place. It’s more or less comfortable. His bad ankle isn’t much bothered by the position. His eyes rove over the statues, whose featureless faces are all pointed at him.
Felix scratches under his jaw where short hairs poke at his skin. He has next to no experience with acts of spiritual devotion. In his Riverwood village, any festival for this god or that was mostly in truth an excuse to drink and dance- anyone who tried to interrupt with a sermon risked having something thrown at them. These gods are complete strangers to him, as he is to them and to the people who he prays for. He’s having trouble understanding what Lady Meridan believes his prayers will achieve.
Regardless, he decides the shrine is a holy place. A way for him to communicate, whether he knows who he’s communicating with or not. Lady Meridan may decide his prayers are worthless, but she will not be able to say he didn’t send them. So he sets down his staff, clasps his hands and bows his head, and tries to empty his mind of anything that isn’t wordless hope that good fortune will find all members of the Meridan household.
It’s surprisingly difficult. Several times his thoughts stray to Samuel and he has to rein them in again. Worse is when his focus narrows to only Cassandra, which is surely not appropriate at all. Soon he finds his thoughts separating into two distinct strings- one that maintains the ongoing prayer, and one that notices wind in the trees or an itch on his leg or fresh hollowness in his stomach. Cassandra said someone would come with food and water. She gave her word. But really, he can only guess at the value of that. If she broke it, what consequences would she face? He could pray to these gods to avenge him, but why would they care for him any more than she does? Gods listen to the rich and the powerful. People they recognize.
Felix notices something else in his second stream of thoughts. He has to piss. He might have thought his empty body would have sucked up every drop of the water and soup, but apparently not. When growing pressure interrupts the prayer in his first thought stream, he lifts his head and looks around, wondering where Theodore chose to do “what needs must,” as Lady Meridan put it. The shack has no chamber pot, and nature has certainly long since reclaimed any privy hole Theodore dug.
He’ll have to worry about that later. For now, he climbs to his feet and limps to the thick brambles that still claim the backside of the shack. He moves his clothes out of the way and permits a relieved sigh through his nose as piss patters into the leaves.
“There you are!”
He almost injures himself startling at Cassandra’s cheery words. He shoots an automatic glare at the lady, who stands with heavily laden arms and wide eyes as she takes in his obvious activity.
“Oh, um, right, yes, excuse me,” she babbles, and darts out of sight.
Felix smacks a hand over his hot face, then rights his clothing. His instinct is to follow Cassandra and find out what she’s brought, but he hesitates. From dawn to dusk unless unavoidably occupied, he must be praying. That was the deal. He returns to the shrine and tries to pray away his embarrassment.
He’s beginning to wonder if Cassandra fled the hermitage entirely upon witnessing him taking a piss when he hears soft footfalls and the swish of silk over grass. He hunches over his folded hands and shuts his eyes.
“Ah, hard at work already. That’s good. I’m so glad you’re doing better. There should be enough soup for the rest of the day, and you can get more water from the river. Just walk east of here for a minute or two and you’ll find it. I left some blankets inside, and candles. And I built up the fire. And, um, here’s this.”
She steps closer, and Felix’s shoulders twitch as something heavy is draped over them. His eyes open to find a hooded cloak lined with fur.
“You’ll need it, if you’re out here all the time. It will rain. Winter is mild, but it comes on quickly. I think you’ll need gloves, and maybe a quilted vest. And boots.”
He wants to stop her. A lady shouldn’t be lavishing a hermit with fine gifts. He couldn’t have bought a cloak like this with every coin he ever made. He can already feel it trapping sweet warmth against his body. However, she has a point. He’ll have to wear something if it rains. His old wool cloak would have soaked through after a while, even if it hadn’t been lost in the attack.
“So, you should be a bit more comfortable now,” Cassandra continues as Felix negotiates his guilt, “If not, just say so- or don’t, um... Anyway, I think you dropped this.”
The golden bow appears before him held up by her dainty fingers. Felix’s stomach plummets. She can’t give back the only thing he can possibly offer her. He unclasps his hands and wraps them around hers to push the bow into her palm.
“Oh, you want me to... Well, thank you, that’s very kind.”
He sags a bit in relief as she withdraws her hand and doesn’t drop the bow. Not in front of him, at least. He folds his hands again and bends over them, trying to bury the memory of her soft skin under a mountain of prayers.
“Right, I’ll leave you to it then. Take care, um, sir.”
Again, she touches his arm before leaving, though this time it’s blunted by the cloak. Once he’s alone Felix shakes off the sensation and focuses on his prayers until the sun falls behind the trees. Then he takes his staff and levers himself up even more gingerly than when he kneeled down, joints cracking and muscles twinging the whole way. He’ll have to get used to that he supposes while shuffling into the shack and taking note of a nest of blankets that now covers the mat. He’ll need a chest for them, to keep away homeless mice or hungry moths. After stirring embers in the hearth and scooping up another helping of soup, Felix sits and ponders how he might wordlessly ask Cassandra to bring a chest. He shakes his head, reminding himself not to give her a reason to run to Lady Meridan and have him dismissed.
Once he’s finished supper, Felix lies down with his back to the fire. In the flickering shadows, he notices six books lined up against the wall that weren’t there before.