Chapter 2: Beginner’s Luck.

  Brokenface had a long memory. He remembered clearly the day in which he had met each and one of his boys, as he liked calling them, and the circumstances of their first encounter. He remembered Axe’s big teary eyes, when that was not his name quite yet, and he begged in the streets; he remembered the disdain in the people’s eyes too: they stared at the ten-year-old child as a rat for asking for a coin, and five seconds later they would go inside the Cathedral to listen to Christmas Mass. “He’s got hands. He should work!”, said the few who deemed the issue even worth mentioning; most would just frown, and Brokenface had grown sick and tired of the sheer irony and had given him some change. It was not until years later, when the skinny kid with sad eyes grew into an intimidating young man, that he made him work for him for the first time; many coins, dinners in the nearest inn, and midnight talks in the nearby alley had turned into history and one cannot give their back to their own history.

  He had made the acquaintance of The Dices when the later was already an adult and in a far more embarrassing situation. He had taken it into himself to remind him more often than not about that event: remembering is a magic potion that puts people promptly in their place, so it kept The Dices humble. Someone had to do it, it was not for his own pleasure, he would tell himself: someone had to deal with the pride of that man.

  He also remembered Friedrich. He could not forget in a hurry how he had met Friedrich. Of him, he remembered many things. About all of them, he remembered more than they could ever imagine. That was why he could say with full propierty that he knew them well; he knew them better than anyone else. They could not lie to him; it was insulting the mere attempt of them doing so.

  The Dices and The Axe slept quietly by the fire, he could hear them snorring. Friedrich was sitting not far from them, twisting that ring of his, fixated in the reflection of the flames in the metal. He would turn it again and again without lifting his head, now the third night in a row. Brokenface was not a dumb man: he knew a wedding band when he saw one, as well as he knew that something was tormenting the lad. And, even though he did not know the reason behind his torment, he could make an educated guess as he watched him turning and turning the ring: the hoe he had married himself to would have something to do for sure. Many reasons came to mind on why someone would need to hurry a wedding – and none of them was quite holy -; but none about why someone would want to carry such a thing in secret. He could expect that from poets, romantics, and other kinds of naive people, who might think that such a thing could work and last; Friedrich was none of them: he had seen the horrors of the world since he was young, sometimes exposed to them by a friendly benefactor who only had his best interests at heart. Whichever reason he might have had for celebrating a wedding in secret, it could not be good and it would not lead to anything good.

  He stood up with a groan from the rock from which he was observing him, the rain from this day and the previous one had ruined his bones. The maze of reddish hairs in Friedrich’s head kept staring at him, it was as if he had not heard the movement, and Brokenface groaned again. “And this is how he stands guard”, he thought. “Good for no one”. It was not until he put his knife between the lad’s ribs and cloak, that the later looked upwards at the same time his hand was flying to retrieve the dagger he carried in the boot.

  - Behold! He has eyes! – Brokenface shouted mockingly, sitting down by a trunk next to him. The humidity was sticking to the fabric of his trousers -. Because the ears are doing a poor job.

  - I knew it was you – Friedrich’s voice sounded lifeless, he lacked even the energy necesary to convince him. He simply did not care.

  - And that is precisely why you tried to pull out that dagger that you carry in your boot – the gaze of the old man penetrated deep enpough in his pupils for him to know that he was not fooling him. The redhead did not even try to protest. Brokenface raised an eyebrow, not missing that detail, and offered him some wine. The warm and fruity liquid was well received during the long nights in the middle of the Black Forest, a cold, dense wood in which the light from neither the sun nor the moon -hence the name- managed to penetrate the foliage of the trees; filled to the brim with wolves and other beasts, and gorges so steep that it was not uncommon to notice them when it was already too late. The young man drank a little. Brokenface was again the one to break the amicable silence lying between them; they both knew that it was not going to last -. Did I ever tell you why I named you “Crow”?

  Friedrich snorted before reciting a phrase he knew by heart: -”Care for crows and they shall maul your eyes”.

  - So I told that stupid thing to you too – Brokenface retrieved the wine boot and drank a bit from it. Friedrich did not even bother telling him that it had always been the only explanation he had ever heard about it even when he was a kid, even though he would have been right.

  - Makes sense though: I was a traitor – Brokenface’s words spilled out of Friedrich’s mouth once more.

  - I did so because you were a loyal kid and a clever one too. So are crows – the old man looked at him in the eye and he had that look he always had when he meant business. Friedrich did not believe him either way:

  - A thief and a traitor – he repeated. Crows were loyal in their very own way, they were loyal just like Brokenface was: a loyalty so fierce as it was ephimerous; it would be over with the slightest threat, turning into pure poison. That was not loyalty, Friedrich told himself; to be loyal when it is convenient, to be a vicious enemy when it is not anymore. He did not know for sure what it was, truth to be told. It was certainly not oportunism; it was a mutual thing, yet lacking of trust. Brokenface would call it being smart, and he had a point, although it did not make it right.

  - You were loyal to yourself, Friedrich – stated the old man. He would rarely call him by his name, so he would want to talk about something serious for sure, and that was intriguing: why this unnecessary pantomime? -. You saw that the hand feeding you would do it no more: it takes courage so reckon that moment.

  The wind grew stronger and the light of the flames caressed Friedrich’s face; with the brightness of the flame and the fire in his hair, he looked like an enchanted spirit born from it. The glare he shot Brokenface was as sly, as it was brief and silent, and he noticed but paid no mind; he gave him a small smirk with his missing teeth, which was somewhat frightening. For a moment he was not seeing him, the man in whom he had turned, but the boy he had been ten years ago, at the Levante during that somber 1271.

  - And you were loyal ever since – the lo man continued, looking at him in the eye and seeing him once more for what he was: a man; innocence had fled his green eyes long ago, so had fear, not leaving a trace in his bonny and long face. In his features, from the frowning brow to the pointy chin, there was just recentment. Friedrich had turned into a man and he had done so under his watchful eye. He had made him a man -. Way too loyal, even when you didn’t have to. Why didn’t you go back to your family?

  Brokenface’s irises dag into him, putting him to trial. Friedrich felt the urge of shrinking his slender limbs in a clumsy mess as a spider about to die would do. He looked away, knowing well enough that the old man would keep staring until he said something.

  - I had nothing there – his voice was a mere raspy whisper when he finally spoke. The raised eyebrows of the frenchman talked loud enough over the crickets: it was not suficient -. What was I supposed to even say?

  Brokenface laughed bitterly, in a way that Friedrich had learned to interpret as “You are drowning in a glass of water”, and which applied for any problem of any of his lads that he could judge as ridiculous, which was often. Friedrich did not see the amusement in it.

  He had left Konstanz when he was barely fifteen years old during the Crussade of 1271. Back in the day, no one knew that it would be the last one. The son of a miller was seemingly out of place amongst knights, men of the cloth, and mercenaries. Although his family was not rich, bread had always been on the table, but he had wanted more. “I’ll be a soldier, father. I’ll make you proud”, he had said the last time they were face to face. His father had hugged him and given him his blessing: “You are a man now; go find your way” had been the last thing he had heard him say. He could have not been any more mistaken: Friedrich was no man, he was a child, impressionable, naive and ignorant to what was to come.

  He had joined the army of the English prince, as many other boys his age. He did not know a single thing about England besides that it was somewhere to the North and the West, and that it was apparently a very important Kingdom. He was sure that sooner or later, someone would see his bravery and his talent, and take him under their wing. As soon as he had join that company, he had convinced himself that his story would be just like the one of the knights in the songs: he would live an adventure, prove his worth and be rewarded.

  And, although he had made it to Tunis famelic and exhausted, he had kept on believing. He had believed too much. Too late had come the day in which he had finally open his eyes and seen his arid, poor and hardened surroundings for what they really were: his reality and, to make it even worse, the one he had chosen for himself. But he had done it: he had realized that no veteran and famous knight woul make him his servant, only to later discover his actual hidden worth and make him his squire; all of those were too busy fleeing back to Europe or plotting against one another.

  He was doomed: just one more boy amongst ranks and ranks, a never ending column of broken lives with no value to themselves. He should have taken his own disappointment as an omen and left, but he did not: he had repeated himself again and again that there was honour in that fight. Now that he was older, he knew that it was not true, he had see what he had wanted to see, so he would not feel the full magnitude of the horror of that truth rooting in his heart: he was alone in foreign land, shipwrecking in a sea of people he did not know and he would drown in those waters before no one home could even know.

  He was no knight. No one would present his parents with his sword and offer them condolences; he was a kid. He would die under the dagger, the arrow or the hooves of the horse of a man he did not even know and who did not hate him, and whom perhaps had no business in that massacre, none that would be worth mentioning anyways. His body would fall and no one would move it from where it had fallen, sand would dance on top of his lifeless form and he would keep on laying there under the sunlight, the wind and the birds; he would do so until he stopped being a smelly, fluid-leaking thing, and he turned into a bunch of nameless bones with no memory nor meaning. He had seen it before, he had seen it many times: the journey from man to dust was no mystery to him, he had witnessed it in those he could still remember talking and smiling at him. His parents would miss him. They would tell themselves at first that he would come soon with the troops that were still lingering in the road, until one day -without even knowing how- they would know without the need of further proof that he was dead. They might hurt or even feel just a deep exhaustion at having purposelessly missed him, and slowly it would shift into relief and they would turn into an elderly couple who, every once in a while, reminisced their son -the one who had left for the Crusade and never came back. All of that while he rotted in a nameless place in the middle of the Levante, while the birds feasted in his flesh, which would sooner or later detach from his bones; he would turn into a mess of bones under the blistering sun, covered in rags that once had been his Sunday best.

  - That it was a disaster. It wouldn’t have been a lie – said Brokenface -. After months of eating poorly and living worse, in a mess like that, who would be the hypocrite to blame you for going home – Friedrich did not believe in his empathy and far were those days in which he tried to do so. He was aware that was no expiation for his sins; he knew it was a lost cause, and if he was to ever start searching for it again, he knew that it would not be through Brokenface -he was the one who had the least of a right to offer it. The day in which he and the old man had met, had been his third without any food after a fight that went awry. Provisions were scarce since a while now, but he knew by this point well enough that they had a name and that it would never be the one of the son of a miller. His boldness had not gone unnoticed and, if Brokenface had not helped him run away from the camp and given him free advice as he did, he would have been hanged before sundown.

  - Greeting either a deserter or a thief – Brokenface must have found that hilarious judging by the brief mocking laughter he released; but Friedrich’s blood would go cold at the mere thought. Then he had also wanted to bury himself out of shame at the mere thought, and he had turned into a self-fulfilled prophecy more than what the old man could even realize: in his attempt of going back home, he did not have more choice than living the life of a street urchin. When he was finally back at Konstanz, in front of his parent’s door, he did not dare knocking. He could not look at his father in the eye. He was finally no boy but a man, yet he was one of whom he would not be proud, and he deserved that. He had spied on him from an alleyway nearby night after night during weeks, whenever he would go back home after talking to some of his clients. He never dared uttering a word. His parents would forever believe that his bones were laying naked under the unyielding sun of the Levante, slowly swallowed by the sand. At least there was some honor in that.

  - And that turned you into one – he could not even deny that; he made no smirk, his face did not talk of disagreement or register insult whatsoever. From then onwards he had been no boy living the life of a street urchin; he had been a man doing all of that and worse to survive: after all, he had no trade and he had learned so far that he was also no knight.

  - He did not deserve that – grief escaped his voice and now there was once and for all a silence that yet needed to be broken by Brokenface’s voice yet again, raising over the cracking noise of the bonfire:

  - You know why I let you stay with us? – Friedrich raised his gaze; he knew the answer: he was useful, but even to that there was some uncharted depth -. You do have a shame. I in your place, would’ve been back; any man we know, would’ve been back. You think that the Dices wouldn’t shoot everything away if his woman let him go back? You and I know that he knows that he doesn’t deserve it, but it wouldn’t matter to him now, would it? But you feel guilty. You do feel guilty.

  It sounded almost like a compliment and Friedrich wanted to believe him; but ten years were long enough to learn that Brokenface’s compliments were rarely compliments indeed. Even if this one had been, it sounded more to mockery, to a cruel joke, to the old man enjoying the destiny’s irony at the expense of his pupil.

  - And that’s why this doesn’t make any sense – he continued, pointing with his chin towards the ring shining bright in Friedrich’s finger, who felt a shiver climb his spine -. What’d you do? How’d you end up having to marry like that, without being able to even tell prey? Hope you didn’t do anything you’ll regret – he opened his mouth to tell again the same lie: he had won that wedding band in a bet -. Don’t you dare insult my intelligence denying it – the eyes of the old man pierced his skin. What would he tell him then? There was no way he would ever guess the truth, not a soul, not even someone as dirty-minded as his mentor. However, he would sooner or later find the false within the lie. He did not even want to know what would happen when that day finally came. His silence was loud enough for Brokenface to realize that he would not prey more truths out of him and his face hardened -. I really do hope so. But you can’t hide something like this forever, and what will you do then huh? I want you to never forget that a problem for you is a problem to we all… and you better remember what I do with problems – Brokenface’s eyes did not only pierce every inch of his body but now burned in his skin.

  - Are you threatening me? – he did not know whether to feel insulted or merely disgusted, and he did not even want to know. Brokenface ignored him and the repulsion he had written all over his face.

  - It’s already killing you: you’ve been useless here. You better have chosen what was best – a shiver trailed his spine again, he knew that the old man was in earnest and that he was right. He had to get a grip of himself and do what he had to do. If he would not do it for himself or those around him, he had to do it for Ben: Brokenface would not have mercy with him just because he wore a cassock and a cross around his neck -. Sleep. Let’s see if you aren’t dead-weight tomorrow.

  He left without crossing a word and laid himself were the flames of the bonfire merged with the darkness. He could not stop listening: the cracking of the fire, the wind whispering now and later not, the clicking of Brokenface’s teeth, the snoring of Dices and Axe, the hooting of an owl far away and the howling of a wolf beyond the steeps, beyond where the river sang through the rocks. He heard also when, one hour later, Ben made it to the camp to talk to the old man and instruct him on the route he was to follow.

  - I will take them to Bats’ Cave – he heard the voice of his husband say. “I’ll take them”, his mind went on again and again. Ben knew what he was doing and how it was going to end, and he seemed absolutely alright with it -. It is only one hour walk north from Schlehdornhecke – the creeking sound of a piece of parchment informed him of the map that he had brought alongside for Brokenface to better orient himself from one point to the another.

  He heard the old man’s grunt of approval and Ben’s steps parting away over the dry leaves. Noise after noise, that night danced through his ears, even when Axe a couple of hours later replaced Brokenface with a yawn and a clumsy hit of leather and fabric against the trunk on which he would be sitting until dawn and the moment of waking everyone up arrived.

  When the birds started singing, he knew that he would not fall asleep again until they settled camp -perhaps an hour or two when they stopped to eat -.

  - I am going hunting – he told Axe as soon as he got up. He felt his body as if it was made of ice and, even though it was a misty morning, he was certain that this cold creeping into his bones was mostly due to the lack of sleep getting worse every passing night. His head was heavy and he felt as if he was observing everything through a silky veil. Axe lifted a hand as a greeting and said nothing.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Soon Friedrich had vanished through the trees and shrubs like a ghost, minding his steps to make no noise and not slapping the branches against one another. He enjoyed the mist prior the sun came up and the water dropping from the leaves, and how it camouflaged the chirping of the birds and the hiss of the animals rushing back to their hideouts; there was an odd yet comforting peace in the stillness of the forest -it was like have fallen into another word where his problems had disappeared and did not matter either as long as he did not find his way back.

  He held the cracked wood of his bow into his hands, it had crevices that had not always been there but now perfectly adjusted to his fingers. Ever since he was a child, he liked hunting. His father had built his life in the city, into four walls and with a market close enough to provide for him all what he could need; but his uncle was different: he still lived in the countryside, under the protection of the monastery of Island Reichenau, and hunted to pay his daily bread. Every now and then he would take the boat that left the island and went up the river all the way to Konstanz to sell his game to the butcher at the market and he would drag Friedrich away for a couple days to the forest. Since then, to have a bow in his hand and the stillness of the forest brought him peace.

  He slid through trunks and stones and narrow courses of water until he found Ben’s camp -and of the two men he had dragged into the heart of the Black Forest-. No one would find them here: they could scream and no one would listen, they could try to run but the maze of trees and the shadows would do the rest; they could finally die, but not a soul of the much too many who ventured themselves there would reach them. The youngest, barely a man at all, was the one keeping watch while the oldest slept and Ben read the Bible. Did reading the Bible have any meaning? Did any of this have any purpose whatsoever? From his hideout, he could observe them with the certainty that he could vanish fast enough if any of them got too close for comfort. Now that he had them at reach, he could not understand though what made them so special: he understood that they had means, but that was not enough of a reason to grant the rage of the Bishop nor four swords for hire in the middle of nowhere.

  Ben closed the Bible at last and excused himself with the lad, who was still keeping watch, saying that he was to go to the river to wash himself. Friedrich followed him until they were at good distance from praying eyes. He crossed in two strides all the way between them both and covered his mouth. Ben’s scream died into his hand.

  - Easy, it’s me – he whispered before letting go. When Ben turned around to face him, he could see the surprise in his eyes, and underneath, relief. He also felt relief, he had spent days and nights asking himself how this journey was treating him and, most importantly, his conscience. But now that he knew that he was safe and sound, his outrage was loud and he had no excuse to ignore it any longer -. So Schlehdornhecke? Would you be so kind to tip me off on what you are on about?

  - On what I must – Ben said sharply. His eyes were hidding from Friedrich’s like a wounded animal’s in a trap. Friedrich sighed heavily.

  - Are you sure of it? – he asked. His gaze, his voice, his face, every fiber of his being seemed to beg and then fall apart once Ben nodded.

  - Why is it good for you and wrong for me? – the question and the indifference with which he asked it, destroyed him even further.

  - Never said it was good for me – he said when the air returned to his lungs -. Nor for anyone else- the words clawed slowly from his stomach, to his chest and reached slowly his mouth, exhaled as a clumsy and worn sigh. Ben had the audacity of huffing as if he did not believe him.

  - You seem quite happy. How many times have I asked you to leave it? – the first instinct was to let his rage get a grip of him, feeling that he had been fooled into the voragine of a game of power. He knew that he had hurt him in the past, he knew that there was no way to repair neither during this life nor the purgatory, the fear he had made him go through in many an occasion. Will he come back? Will he not? Will he live? Will he die? Will he be sent to row in a ship until his arms fall apart from his torso? Those were questions far too big, brief words with an incommensurate weight and, just like medals, Ben had tied them to his neck and never let go of them. This was a guilt that he was to carry with himself until the day when he died and his bones were finally to lay naked under the sun, the rain, the snow and the wind.

  - So this is what it’s all about? – how dared he? – You know I have no choice.

  - But only for years! – Ben hissed. For a moment, the forest fell silent -. The problem is though that there is no easy out…

  - Don’t you dare – he interrupted, talking louder than he would have wished. A rumor of the leaves raised from the soil, too light to be a person. Friedrich’s fingers hugged the wooden bow and, when his hand went without a second thought to grab an arrow, he realized that he had not touched Ben not even by mistake since the first word had been uttered.

  - Then you are the only person in this wide world who has no option – Ben was about to keep going, probably with equally poisonous words when he was interrupted yet again, but this time by Friedrich’s fingers tangling into his and dragging him to the shrubbery.

  - Hush, it’s there – Friedrich whispered. “He is not even listening”, he thought infuriated; it was then when he actually saw it: a hare rushing through the ferns and disappearing as fast as it had showed up, as if it was merging into the branches and the leaves and the stones. His fingers melted into his husband’s and he opted for following him, knowing well enough that there would be no use in attempting to continue the conversation here and now. They slid through the greenery until the hare disappeared once and for all into a burrow before he could shoot. Friedrich giggled: luck does not need to belong to every man every single day. And, whilst he watched him lean nonchalantly against a tree, he knew that none of them wanted to keep arguing.

  - Why are you doing this? – Friedrich asked, looking at him in the eye. Ben buffed annoyedly and he was about to tell repeat that he had no other choice, when he felt his touch in the cheeks -. What is at risk?

  - I cannot tell you – Ben’s eyes were pleading with him to not ask any further. And as he leaned into his hand, they were also pleading for him to not let go. And, even though Friedrich wanted to feel hurt for his lack of trust, he understood how hard shame and fear could get to be and how hard it could be too to put them into words: that would mean to face them. And he got it; God knew, he got it -. Or anyone.

  - Then I won’t make you talk. It’s alright – and he must have said that with such confidence that he felt him relax under his fingertips. And that made him smile: disappointment, frustration and mistrust were gone from his mind. When Ben smiled back, he just knew that none of that really mattered -. I’m worried about you, if you must know. I don’t want you to ever do something you will regret about, my life – Ben let go, but Friedrich’s smile had not faltered yet -. And I’d rather have you hating me for not letting you keep that off-sight, than you being ashamed of yourself every day you have yet to live. The moment when it’s done, it’ll be forever, it’ll be too late.

  Ben turned around and started to walk away, wishing to hide from whatever he had to say. Friedrich took a deep breath and forced himself to keep calm before following him: as soon as he lost patience, this conversation would be futile. None of them uttered a word until the rumor of the water singing between the rocks grew louder and louder. Ben took off his shoes and hissed at the cold water. Friedrich could not resist the impulse of holding him from behind. He leaned his chin against Ben’s shoulder and whispered:

  - I’ve missed you -.

  - Then why have you not come earlier? – if there was resentment in his voice, he could not tell. He had left his arms to take off the cassock and he could not see his face.

  - I don’t know – was the most honest answer he could master. He could see Ben’s resentment now, even if he was still showing him his back, as he sat on a rock to wash his hair. He had a pretty black, shoulder-length mane that contrasted with the gray eyes and the pale complexion. No scar or mark whatsoever perturbed the skin in his entire body. It was a work of art and he could have kept on staring at his gracile movements, the way in which his limbs flexed and relaxed, how the sunlight painted his torso -. I was scared – he said at last, knowing that limiting himself to look at him would not suffice -. I saw you when you left Konstanz. You knew what you were doing.

  - You did not know whether you would like what you were to see – Ben affirmed with such certainty that it was impossible to deny it. He could not even open his mouth to say that he would never stop loving him: his voice froze -. You thought that you would regret it.

  - Never. I would never regret it. Why are you so scared of it? – and perhaps Ben would have been bold enough to say something, but a voice rang from the cliff: “Father Benedikt?”. Before the owner of that voice could see Ben standing there by the stream, Friedrich pulled him by the hand into the greenery.

  - I have missed you too – said Benedikt, pressing Friedrich against a tree, there where the shadows could hide them and help them steal some more instants to time. They crossed a smile, all tension lingering between them now gone by -. Take care of it – his fingers clumsily grasped the leather string tying the cross hanging from his neck, he did not get to take it off: Friedrich’s warm gaze, who was now holding his hand, stopped him.

  - You need it more than I – and perhaps he was right. A dry hit and a rumor of leaves and branches announced the arrival of the trespasser -. Take care of yourself. Please – the splashing of a pair of boots convinced Ben of finally letting go. Their hands were an inch apart but he could still feel as if they were brushing one another. Benedikt did not get to answer, when Friedrich had already vanished in the forest without leaving a trace behind, as if he was one more beast of those it cradled. He swallowed the smile that grew in his lips at the thought of his husband, for when he returned by the stream to find the young lad he was bringing all the way to Trier.

  - My Lord says that it’s time of breaking camp. Have you broken your fast yet? – Friedrich heard him asking, as he was still crawling between the shrubs to spot a piece worth hunting. Within two days that kid would be dead either by Ben’s action or lack of it, but he was now inviting him over to break bread together; the paradox froze his bones as he kept on scanning his surroundings in the search of leaves moving, branches cracking, a clumsy grunt of stones rolling through fungi and undergrowth.

  - I will be there right away – said Ben, going again into the water judging by the splashing sound. The young man nodded in a protocolar manner and disappeared in the cliff, until his steps were impossible to make out from the other many noises of the forest.

  Friedrich slid back to where the little river moved slowly and the birds sung, jumping from tree to tree and going into the water to splash between the stones before flying once again towards another branch. Benedikt had not noticed his presence before a handful of water landed in his back alongside a laughter he knew all too well. He turned around with a pleased smile.

  -Scoundrel – he had not quite yet finished the word, tainted in delight, when water hit Friedrich’s face and chest, making the shirt stick to his skin. The laughter of the young priest filled the stream just as if it had rained too much and the river had grown.

  A handful followed to that one and another and another and another until both were drenched head to toe, laughing and in each other’s arms: the rumble of the water and the chirping of the birds was a song they could allow themselves to stumble to, if they could convince themselves that there was no way on Earth that indiscreet eyes could catch a glimpse. The sunlight waved until getting caught in Benedikt’s hair, who felt lighter and lighter as they kept on spinning, their gaze never adverting each other’s eyes until they finally fell with a loud splash. Ben was the first to raise back to his feet and help him up with a strong pull.

  - I thought you were gone – he said as he lead him to the safety of the greenery. God knew that he was happy to see him. It was as if he had not seen him in years, instead of mere minutes.

  - With no proper goodbye? – Friedrich frowned theatrically and shook his head, pretending to be offended -. Who do you think you are talking to? – he held Benedikt into his arms as if he were the most delicate thing in the world -. You and I have a not-quite-finished conversation, but I won’t hold it over your head: now all I care is for you to know that I love you and that I want you to run to safety as fast as you can.

  His eyes sank in Ben’s chest: his wedding band was shining there with the dimmed light that had made it pass the foliage and reflected colors into the metal. He could not help himself from smiling. Their lips met once again in a caress so slow and tender that, when it was finally over, they did not know if it had indeed happened or not, and why the world seemed to have stopped and only now it was spinning again, as a wheel that had gotten stuck in its own axis.

  When Friedrich returned to his own camp, he had the decency of pretending that he had fallen into the water pursuing a hare. That at least made his comrades laugh and put them in a better disposition for the poor breakfast consisting on some berries and once more, apples. They needed to ration their resources for when it was moment for returning to Konstanz: bread, cheese and wine were precious things now that they could not allow themselves to use recklessly.

  Dusk was creeping in the sky when they found themselves in front of a tall hill crowned with a castle consisting of two towers tied together by a nave so thick that it looked like the keel of one of those ships sailing across the Mediterranean towards Sicily or the Holy Land. An infinity of windows edged in red wooden frames were dug in the towers, the main nave and the walls. In the tallest of the merlons of towers and walls shone a scarlet glow merging with the yellowish stones in the battlements and profiling the shadow of men standing guard, coming and going with their bows, crossbows and the cold that they ought to tolerate tonight. This was the home of the Lords of R?tteln: it laid nowhere to be found, guarded by rivers, cliffs and an impenetrable forest. It was even surprising that its Masters had accomplished to build a name for themselves outside of that nothingness, there in the civilized world and its chaos, its markets, and its cathedrals as tall as those towers.

  Friedrich stared at it in awe: there far away, it looked as minuscule as the doodling of a copist in the margins of a scroll; but it was majestic and overwhelming: it was a gigantic tomb, from which walls not a soul would ever get out without the approval of its Lord. Benedikt and his small fellowship had ventured on top of that hill an hour ago; of course they would spend the night there, whatever they were actually going to do inside those towers. What if they never made it out? What if His Lordship decided that it displeased him the idea of letting them out? “Ridiculous”, he told himself in an attempt of getting it together. It was a stupid thought and he knew it; but he also knew well enough that he had no clue about what Ben was actually on about.

  - And if they stay there? – Axe neared the edge of the forest, after tying the horses to a tree. The Dices was sitting by the fire, carving with a knife into a piece of wood something that looked a lot like a knight with his shield, helmet and armor. He lifted his head, arched an eyebrow and kept on dragging the knife against where he was carving the shield. Brokenface, leaning against some skins, gave Axe a dry look -. Why would the priest help us?

  Friedrich felt the impulse of defending Ben, of punching Axe to make him think twice before doubting his word. But, on the other hand, he wanted to believe him: he wanted to believe that he would return to his senses and betray them. He could not stop thinking of those instants playing in the water of that stream. It was exactly how he wanted to remember him; it was how he would picture him when within one day time, there were two more lives in his count and this time it had been his husband, the purest soul in the world, who had served them to his table in a silver plate. How was he to live on with that? The fog was getting thicker before his eyes and there was no escape. His blood was boiling, it was boiling now and it had boiled back then, spinning around and laughing under the sunlight of dawn. But then he had understood it well that screaming, grunting and arguing had no use; at least nothing that could help him keep his sanity within two dawns, anchor himself to a brief moment and pretend to live in it until the end of time. It would not help Ben either, who was to have an even dirtier conscience and would need even more the illusion of happiness. How he had wanted them to be happy! It was the only thing that he had really wanted in this life.

  - Bishop’s orders. You know these boys of the cloth now, don’t you? – Brokenface’s answer was not particularly more dignifying.

  - We had to catch them before they crawl there – Axe retorted without adverting the old man’s awry gaze -. Long time ago.

  - What would you even know about that? – spatted Brokenface, clearly insulted by his insolence. Before Axe could even think about apologzing and forgetting all about this conversation, Freidrich returned from there, where the dusk’s light caressed the branches and hugged the darkness of the world of the trees.

  - That we have taken days to do something that only needs an hour or two – he intervened.

  - Hans von R?tteln wants them alive and alive he shall get them, right? – said mockingly Brokenface. It was not a question, he never asked: each word coming out from his mouth was an order nesting a threat; under his command, it was forbidden to ever fail -. No one wants Hans von R?tteln to lose his beauty sleep.

  The old man was right in that though. They were not there just because; it was not merely a humble plea for refuge during a cold night -and even if it was, they could not afford the luxury of thinking that it would be just that -. The House R?tteln was powerful and any business that those men -or Benedikt for that matter, because he did not know at this point how much or how little he was involved in this whole mess – had to discuss with them would be important and likely urgent. And the R?ttelns, with their nose buried deep in the Church and the government, where people who could afford their lack of patience and to wreck havoc as much as they deemed necessary. The last thing they needed was their Lord to get tired of waiting and send a search party to turn each and every corner of the Black Forest until reaching those two corpses. None of them was stupid enough to believe that they would be at peace by merely laying them to rest, and the Bishop was paying well enough for his mess - about which Friedrich could not care less – to be buried with those men.

  No one spoke a single word more about the issue: the Dices grunted approvingly before bowing his head once more and going back to his carving, Axe rolled his eyes with a chuckle as saying “Over the top as always”; Brokenface had just turned around to leave the topic for finished, and Friedrich knew that there was nothing smart enough that he could say worth facing his wrath. He grabbed the bow and his arrows, and after grunting an excuse, he disappeared into the foliage; he did not return until hours later, with a hare as pretty as the one he had seen during the morning.

  That night at least he could sleep: a gloomy stupor without colors or shapes or any events he would remember when he woke up; but at least peaceful enough for his mind to feel fresh and his body to not be in pain. It was a gray and cold day, covered in a dense mist, but from their hideout they could still see the three figures on horseback painted against the hillside as they made their way down, covered in thick cloaks, and vanish into the forest. Friedrich’s chest got tight and, when in the afternoon and after an eternity walking, they saw the Abbey of Saint Blas, he felt as if those bells were calling already knowing what was to happen.

  The way from then on was narrow and coiled again and again, in what seemed like a labyrinth of shrubs, branches and thorns. It was so steep that it was impossible to go up in horseback, so they had to dismount and lead the animals by the brides. Once by foot, Friedrich noticed the steps of the hooves before them: Ben had not betrayed them. After a short road, they stopped to wait for nightfall. They would find them when both travelers had gone to sleep under the protection of the cave: they would have no chance to react and, if they tried, they would be trapped between the stonewall, the forest and the precipice. Even if they made it, in the middle of the night they would find nowhere safe to go, and by morning, after roaming for hours in a uniform sea of bark and foliage, it would be too late.

  The sun cast on fire its grayish veil in red and orange flames as it sank into the horizon, and soon everything laid still under the dusk. There where the clouds got brushed out, the stars and the moon rose. When he deemed it appropriate, Brokenface gave the order of departing, leaving the Dices behind to watch over the horses and the provisions. Bat’s Cave was not far away and when it was in sight, they also saw the waving, red glow of a bonfire dancing against the walls in the mouth. Outside stood three horses; however, when they got inside the chamber, there was no sign besides the fire in the middle, that anyone had been there.

  The cavern was abandoned, not a soul was sleeping there that night, and there was no sign indicating that anyone would go back at any point soon: no one had forgotten a flask, or skins or a bag. Brokenface sighed heavily, almost a grunt by knowing himself fooled by a beginner and Friedrich laughed. His laugh was brief though: the horses neighed and soon a metallic rumor closed upon them.