Work Text
Summer nights had a way of lingering. Dewy threads tethered me to the waking world, despite my body's weary slide toward sleep. After a long evening of hunting, setting camp, and cooking our spoils, I would have normally dropped into slumber like a stone, but on a night like tonight, with the stars winking through a stand of fragrant fir trees, apricot brandy drowsying my thoughts, I wanted to prolong my contentment. It had been long since I could rest without the pull of the Skill-hunger, and live in the moment like the wolf.
A wolf sleeps when he is tired.
I ignored the comment from Nighteyes, who was himself resting with his eyes closed across the fire from me. Lying back into my bedroll, I let my eyes slip closed. The night insects flourished at this time of year, surrounding us with a resounding chorus of chirps and quiet shrieking. The campfire crackled and popped intermittently. And adding a steady tempo to it all, like a minstrel's scuffling foot setting time to a ballad, was a steady schick…schick.The Fool was seated on the log he'd spied on our trek through the woods. When he'd seen it, he declared that the small clearing it bordered was the perfect campsite. I had been inclined to agree. We'd set out from my cabin for a rugged overnight, a bit of nostalgia driving our feet away from my domesticated hearth. Long ago, the three of us had spent many a night together in the wild like this, but it had always been under duress. Now we could enjoy it with leisure, and I intended to do so while we could. The tales I'd shared of my travels with Nighteyes in the many years since we'd last seen each other had awakened the Fool’s desire to join us on the hunt, or so he had said.I opened my eyes, determined to shake off sleep just a little longer, and propped myself up on my side to check on the Fool’s progress. A pile of small shavings was accumulating at his feet as he whittled away at a piece of wood he picked up along a game trail earlier that day. He'd spent all day hefting it, turning it over in his long fingers, and palming it in his pocket. I stared at the oblong shape appearing in his hands, trying to make sense of what he meant for it to become. A glint of silver on the Fool’s fingertips reflected the orange firelight, disconcerting me.“Fool,” I said, reluctantly breaking the silence between us, “Are you using the skill to carve?”He didn't take his eyes off of the piece, which was taking on an L-shape slightly larger than his hand. “What do you think?” The corner of his smile flickered in the low light.I watched a little longer. His silvered fingertips danced across the grain, sometimes dragging, sometimes tapping gently, sometimes pressing into the wood, before he notched his knife against it, shearing off a curl that shone bright and pale in the dim light.“I'm not putting my memories into it, if that's what you're asking.”“No, it's not. It's only the way you were…nevermind.” I settled back onto my sleeping pad. It was never worth pressing him to give me a straight answer, and who was I to judge an artisan’s craft, anyway? Hap was the one who wanted to become a woodworker. Creating beautiful, practical things. What skills could I offer to teach him beyond the basics of survival?
You’ve given him all he needs.
If he were a wolf, perhaps. To provide for himself in the world, Hap needed a trade. Moreover, he wanted one. And to learn a trade, he needed an apprenticeship. I would have done well to secure him one with the cabinetmaker he admired years ago. But if I couldn’t give him a head start…I abruptly sat up and turned to the Fool again. “Would you teach Hap the basics of woodwork? He’ll return by winter. Surely there must be some commonalities between your craft and furniture making…”Immediately, I knew I had erred. The question stiffened his shoulders. He set his knife and carving aside. “You know I can't stay that long, Fitz,” he said quietly, ignoring my pleading glance.But before I could keep pressing him, he turned to face me, a hint of his old mischief in his eyes. “Why don't I teach you? Then you can show the boy when he returns.”My mouth dropped open in shock. “Don't be ridiculous, Fool.”“Oh, but I am a ridiculous Fool!” A wicked grin, that of the Fool when we had been boys at Buckkeep, danced across his face.I would not take his bait. “I don't have the talent for such things.” Beauty and creation were never within my domain, and the Fool knew it.“No? Have you no skill with a knife? The fine movements of a quill on vellum? Sewing secret pockets in your trousers? Not to mention your skill with an axe.”I glared at him. It wasn't right for him to bring up my past, not here, where I'd managed to build a tenuous wall between myself and the shadows that stalked my nightmares. I turned away, to my wolf. His eyes were still closed, but his ears were perked up, listening.A now-gloved hand on my shoulder. “It's a part of you,” he said quietly, his voice blending in with the chirruping insects. “A part I accept. You shouldn’t feel shame, or apologize for what you’ve done for the Farseer crown.”His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or for me.” His hand slid away.“I won’t apologize.” I said, careful of how the words left my lips. “But I won’t go back either. I’m a different man now, Fool.” What I had done for the Farseers, what I had done for him, what I had done for myself, whether for survival or selfishness…I knew the Fool believed it was all in service of putting time on a better path. Either way, it was behind me now.I pondered while he stood and added more fuel to the fire, then unpacked his bedroll. He had set the carving on the ground within my view. The bark was completely stripped, leaving the pale interior exposed.He laid down at an angle from me, such that he, myself, and Nighteyes formed a triangular shape around the fire. He turned onto his stomach to look at me. The unfinished carving stood between us, and he touched it lightly with his ungloved, un-skilled fingertips.“What do you think it is?” he whispered, as if tempting me with a lurid bit of gossip. His face was close enough to mine that I could smell the apricot brandy on his breath.I decided to play along. I stared at the shape, tried to read the riddle of the knife-marks. He had oriented the piece such that the long part of the “L” shape was parallel to the ground, and the short piece rising perpendicular to the bottom, with a rounded top.“Is it…a wash basin handle?”He laughed, as a pocket of sap in the fire burst and collapsed one of the logs. “FitzChivalry Farseer, always so practical.”So I was wrong, of course, but I knew he wouldn't give away the answer until it amused him to do so. Rather than irritation, the thought made me smile. Why not let him have his fun over such an inconsequential thing? When it had been so many years since he had teased me about one thing or another? In the past, I would have become embarrassed. Now it almost felt like home.I yawned. My eyelids were heavy. The Fool sat up. “I'll take first watch. You should rest.”“Are you sure?”
The scentless one is right.
I thought you were asleep.
“Alright,” I said with another yawn. “Goodnight, Fool.”The sounds of the woods grew to fill the empty space left by our conversation. I listened with a wolf’s ears: field mice rustled last year's dead leaves, an owl called out to claim its territory to the south. A rabbit, nearby, foraging, crunching…
Tomorrow, little brother.
My senses drifted back to my human awareness. The sounds of prey animals faded. Joining the night chorus was the steady scrape of knife on wood again. I matched my breathing to its pulse. I was almost asleep, when I heard what could have been the wind whispering through the branches above:“Goodnight, Beloved.”--It was raining the next time he brought up the idea of teaching me how to carve. The steady dregs of a passing thunderstorm thudded on my cabin roof, which had only sprung two leaks, currently contained in cooking pots. The drips added their own irregular tune to the cacophony. Candles were lit against the evening’s premature dimness. A fire burned low in the hearth, and the Fool walked over to the kitchen table with a rectangular block of wood.He stood it up on end between us. I looked up from the herbs I was tying with string, a soothing activity that at times helped to keep the Skill hunger at bay, to study the object, and then his face. From his eager smile, I knew he was plotting something.I set aside my rosemary sprigs. “Did you get this from my firewood supply?”“Yes.”With trepidation, I decided to pick it up. It was about as tall as the length of my hand from heel to fingertips, and slightly narrower than my palm. He had clearly borrowed my saw to cut the irregular log into a rectangular shape with flat, smooth edges, though I had no idea when or how he had done it without my knowledge.He wanted me to ask. “What is this for?”His grin grew broader. “I'm going to teach you.”“Teach me what?”“The art of transformation.”I could have protested. I could have resisted. On any other day, there would have been something else more important to do. Chores to complete, scrolls to read, words to write. But as a distant rumble of thunder echoed in Nighteyes’ soft snoring by the fire reminded me, we weren't going anywhere or doing anything for a while. Maybe the rest of the evening.So, I relented. I sat back in my chair, which was already growing creeping vines up its legs, planted by his carving knife. “Very well then. Show me.”Delight is the only way I could describe his reaction. He jumped up from the chair, nearly sprang across the room, and liberated his carving tools from his travel bag. When he returned to the table, he unrolled the leather case. I set the piece of wood back down on the table to peer at his tools. I'd seen them before, of course, but I had never observed them closely. There were several small, smooth wooden handles hiding sharp blades in soft leather pockets. Another handle was attached to a long, solid block covered by hard, worn leather - a strop. This he pulled out first, followed by one of the carving knives.The scene was eerily familiar.“Sharpen this, please,” he said, handing me the knife and the strop. I took the strop in my left hand, and the knife in my right.And for a moment, I was frozen. It was Chade’s voice I heard in my head, drilling me on the care and keeping of daggers, while the unctuous smell of various compounds mixed into my nostrils. A dagger, he had told me, had to be sharp though to cut through--“Fitz? Are you alright?”The Fool’s voice snapped me back, and I blinked a few times to clear the vision that had appeared in my mind. I wasn't a scared child who needed instruction in poisons, blood, and bones. I was here, in my cabin. A mug of tea steamed beside me. Fragrant herbs mingled with the scent of warm rain. The Fool was holding the block of wood and looking at me with concern. Nighteyes was sitting up now next to the fire, watching me. I took a breath, and relaxed my shoulders.“I'm fine,” I said, and it was almost sincere.The Fool stared for a moment longer. He must have guessed my difficulty. But he said nothing, and returned to his tasks, while I turned to mine.The small blade was not much more than half the length of its wooden handle. It fit neatly against the leather of the strop, and the scrape of it against the leather was soothing. Steadying. No matter how I had come by this skill, it was something I could do. Something tangible.After inspecting the blade and ensuring it was to my satisfaction, I looked up to see the Fool with a charcoal pencil in his hand. He was drawing horizontal and vertical lines on the pale block, parallel and perpendicular to its edges, at specific distances along the centerline of each face. Then, delicate, symmetrical curves, wider at one end than the other…When he placed the block on its side, the design was clear: a bird.“Now you see.” His smile was conspiratorial with the secret we shared.“But…why a bird? Why not something more--”“Practical?” He raised an eyebrow at me, and I didn't hide my annoyance that he had both interrupted me and guessed exactly what I was going to say.He pulled the chair from his side of the table over to mine, the marked-up wood block in hand.
“Fitz.” He was close to me now, and his amber eyes held mine. “I'm not just trying to teach you how to carve a piece of wood. I'm trying to teach you the value of bringing beauty into the world.”I averted my eyes. “That's not what I do.”“Yes, it is.”I turned back to him. His eyes were shining so earnestly in the candlelight, his voice so strong with conviction, I wanted to believe it.“Here,” he said. “We'll start small.”He took the blade from my hand, and proceeded to explain how we would carve away the excess wood outside the charcoal lines on each of the four long sides of the block. He showed me how to hold the knife, how to press the dull edge with my left thumb blade-first into the soft wood in the direction of the grain, with the handle in my right. The first pale curl fell to the floor.Once I fell into a rhythm, the motions were hypnotic. The scrape of the knife on the wooden surface vibrated pleasantly in my palm. My motions were much more stiff, unpracticed, than the Fool’s. But in time, I was rounding the corners and creating the hills and valleys that would form the creature’s shape. All other thoughts, even the Skill hunger, faded as I carved the wood, bit by bit.I startled when the Fool set a fresh mug of tea in front of me, and looked up for the first time since I had begun. The single wood chip had grown to a small pile at my feet. The beating of the rain on the roof had ceased, as had the dripping in the pots. The Fool had emptied them, built up the fire in the hearth, and put on a pot of stew. The aroma was unusual. Another one of his foreign spice blends that spoke of his far-off travels that he had had yet to reveal to me. For now, the flavors would suffice.“Let's see how you're coming along,” he said, and took the object out of my hands. My rough cuts had only started to approximate the shape that the Fool had drawn on the block, but a look of pride grew on his face while he appraised it.“Excellent work, Fitz!” he exclaimed. I shouldn't have felt as pleased as I did with his praise, as if I were a child. “Here, I'll show you another way.”I handed him the knife, and I watched as he pressed the blade into the space between the head and the body of the bird, then angled it upwards, so that it scooped rather than chipped the excess wood. His glove was off, and his silvered fingertips were pressed into the grain.“Try it.” He handed it back to me with a teacher's confidence in his student.With some trepidation, I took the knife and set it against the bird’s neck. But this wasn't entirely how the Fool had done it. He must have been using the Skill, in his own way. What would I feel if I pressed my own awareness into the immaculate block?I closed my eyes. I sought.And there was nothing. Nothing bird-like at least. There was only the yawning void that opened up in my heart every time I reached out into the dark of the ocean from my cliffside bench. A comforting, welcoming hand pulling me deeper into dreams and nightmares.I could control it. I had to. I held on to the half-formed bird like driftwood in a storm. I pressed. I curved. And the blade went right into my left thumb.Many things happened at once. I dropped the knife, I cried out, the Fool’s hands gripped mine, his silvered fingers touched the wood block, and a drop of my blood seeped into the bird's beak.It hit me like a plunge into a hot bath. It was a bird, yes, of course, but only because that was the shape that he had wanted it to take, it could have been anything, but a bird was what he chose to bear his warmth, his care, his longing for something, no, someone. They weren't memories, like a stone dragon would take in a permanent transaction, these were the ever-renewing feelings that flowed like a perpetual river from the soul.As quickly as our grip had come together on the bird, we pulled apart, dropping the object to the ground. I blinked. I was sweating. Nighteyes had come to my side, laid his head in my lap, and I hadn't even noticed
You were gone again.
I don't know what happened, I didn't mean to…
Didn't you?
“Oh, Fitz!” exclaimed the Fool. “Let me get you a bandage.” He rummaged through his bag with more urgency than a minor cut necessitated. Hiding his face.I gripped Nighteyes’ ruff with my uninjured hand. Felt his steadying influence. I lifted my stinging finger, and while a thin trickle of blood trailed down my palm, the bleeding had already stopped. Strange.The Fool was at my side again, a length of gauze in tow. He took my hand carefully in his and started wrapping the fabric around my fingertip. His hands were warm, even his skill-hand, which was now gloved.“I’m so sorry, Fitz,” he said. “I shouldn't have let you try this without a glove.”“Fool, I’m fine,” I said. And I was. I wasn't bleeding. My voice only shook a little.For a moment, he was enveloping my hand in both of his. My hand was on Nighteyes. We were together. Complete, as Nighteyes had said. And now I understood.The Fool took a steadying breath, then broke our contact. He reached down to the floor, picked the half-born bird up carefully, and dusted it off with his now-gloved hand. Only then did he meet my eyes with an inscrutable expression on his face. The quiet in the cabin filled my ears as I noticed for the first time that the rain had stopped.He waits like a hunted deer, observed Nighteyes.
For what? I'm no predator.
He waits for you.
But I didn't know what to do. What did he want me to say?The moment passed. He smiled, as if we shared a private joke. “I suppose I should finish it for us.”The rest of the evening passed peacefully. I watched from my chair by the fire as the Fool sat at the table and put the finishing touches on the carving. His intense focus had returned, each curl of wood precisely turned from the block to make a smooth head, neck, and tail. He had kept the leather glove on his Skill hand.I set down my empty bowl of stew. It was my second. The beginnings of a Skill headache were clutching at my temples, but I refused to reach for the elfbark. I didn't want the inevitable dark mood that followed. I was content to sit and watch the Fool while Nighteyes dozed at my feet.After a time of comfortable silence between us, the Fool set down his carving knife. “It’s done. The carving, at least.” He stood, pulled another object out of his tool kit, and walked over to me. “Hold out your hands.”I looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, but complied. In my right hand, he placed the bird. In my left, a rough, round stone slightly smaller than my palm. The creature had been freed from the wood now, with a fully realized tail, round body, head, and beak. The cuts were rough, like a chick molting its down.“Smooth the wood with the stone. You won’t be able to injure yourself with that.”His tone was only lightly mocking, so I let the barb pass, and set myself to work while he helped himself to the stew. Night had settled into the cabin. A cool, wet breeze drifted in from the windows the Fool had opened. Along with it, the aroma of fresh rain, the creaking of crickets, and the occasional owl call. I gripped the stone lightly, with my finger still wrapped in gauze held apart. I ground the wood ridges and valleys into smoothness, a light coating of wood dust gathering on my hands.As before, the work was absorbing. I only looked up from my small world of wooden topography when Nighteyes roused himself to where the Fool had been sitting at the table. He was offering the wolf a piece of meat from his bowl. I smiled, and continued, until the surface of the carving had been fully transformed. I set it on the table beside my chair, stood, and stretched my cramped hands and shoulders. When I looked over, the Fool was watching me with a contented smile on his face. Likely to do with the unstoppered bottle of brandy in front of him, no doubt a generous helping poured into the cup in front of him.“I’ve finished it,” I said, breaking the silence.“It’s lovely to watch you work.”The comment surprised me. “What do you mean?”“There’s a strong focus that you bring to nearly everything you do. It's admirable. If Hap has picked up any of your sense of workmanship at all, he'll do just fine as an apprentice.”I wasn't sure what to say to that, so instead I picked the bird back up again and crossed the room to hand it to him for his inspection. “Are we finished?”He turned the object in his hand, nodding with satisfaction. At some point, he had removed the glove. “Excellent work. But not quite,” he said, and lifted yet another item from his toolkit: a small ceramic pot. He opened it, and dipped two of his bare fingertips in the waxy substance, releasing a sharp aroma.“This is the last step,” he said, and began to rub in the substance, starting at the tail. I sat, helped myself to the brandy, and watched him work. His skill-covered fingers supported the bird gently from the bottom as he worked the wax into a shine.“You are using the Skill to carve,” I stated.His smoothing motions stopped, and he looked up at me with eyes that were nearly the color of the brandy that was already softening my senses. “It certainly doesn’t hurt,” he said, after a pause, and went back to work. “I’m not sure how it works. I wouldn’t even be able to teach you if you asked.”It was odd to hear him speak so plainly about it. “I wasn’t going to ask. It’s not something I’d be able to do.”A moment of silence passed. He was working on the bird’s body now. I thought of his puppets. The carvings he’d started to make in my furniture. The warmth and longing I felt when my blood had touch the bird’s wood. I spoke again. “You create beautiful things, Fool. I’m glad you’ve found a way to use the Skill this way.”He looked at me again. His smile was full of warmth. “That’s very kind, Fitz.”He rounded out the last of the polish on the tip of the bird’s beak, produced a soft cloth from his carving kit, and rubbed it all over the carving, generous and gentle. Then, he handed it to me across the table. “Now it’s finished.”The bird nestled perfectly into my cupped palm. I didn't push into it with my Skill, but I didn't need to. The object held the warmth of my hands. The wings were just suggestions, a curve and a round ridge with a series of small, narrow lines for feathers. The wood was remarkably smooth, and patterns of the grain were now apparent in curved, striated lines across the bird’s body. Tree rings. This bird had once been a tree, after all. Judging by the dryness of the starting block, I had likely gathered this piece in the dead of winter. Perhaps it was from the stand of trees I had discovered with Nighteyes that had blown down in a long-ago summer storm. It had taken us multiple trips to harvest the wood.A winter harvest, a spring planting in my woodshed, and a summer rebirth in my home. Its weight was a comfort.“You did a wonderful job, for a beginner.”“Please, I barely did--”He reached across the table, and placed his hand on the bird, next to mine. I noted with mild alarm that it was his Skill hand, but he was delicately, purposely holding the two silvered fingers away from mine. His other fingers intertwined with mine underneath its body, like vines in a nest.“You brought forth its creation just as much as I did.”Perhaps the Fool was right. He was looking at me so intently across the table, with such conviction, he nearly convinced me.Soft, clawed footfalls alerted me to Nighteyes's presence. All this for a bit of wood?
It's a bird, Nighteyes.
He huffed, and turned away. Birds are lean and crunch with bones. And have feathers that get stuck in my teeth.I couldn't suppress a chuckle.“What does he think?” asked the Fool, still cradling our creation.“He doesn't understand,” I said.He pulled his hand away, and reached for the brandy bottle. “Well, it's a good thing you have me in your life to teach you about the finer things.” His mischievous smile gleamed in the low candlelight.“Yes,” I said. “It is a good thing.”--And before long, the Fool had gone. Without me. I had responsibilities here, or so I had told myself, over and over to justify why I had stayed behind. Each day stretched on a little bit longer than the last. There were always chores to be done, of course, and I endeavoured to fill the hours with busywork. Then, a day that would forever stand out as a whirlwind in my mind: Hap returned, earlier than had been expected. Then, the silent messenger, bearing an urgent missive from Chade.I was returning to Buck.I had mere hours to pack. The messenger sat at my table, gratefully eating the meal that I had instructed Hap to prepare for him. Hap himself had barely unpacked from his own travels, and was repacking what little he had fruitlessly removed from his bag. His back was to the messenger, but the wolf was keeping watch, just in case, which was for the best. I didn't have time to monitor everyone else in the house.I had to travel light. Should I pack my most passable clothes? My most drab? Both would mark me as an outsider, which was just as well. Better to not be recognized. I swept through the cabin, scooping up a travel cloak, boots, and food items that would travel well. I thought to bring some of my homemade inks for barter, and slipped into my study.I went straight to my desk, and not bothering to tidy up the scrolls, opened the drawers where I kept my latest formulations. Then, a foreign object nearly jumped at me with how out of place it was in the drawer.There it was: the carving he'd started on the night of our hunting trip, nestled amongst my ink bottles. The L-shaped object was still as unfinished as it had been that night. My heart rate was already elevated from the shock. I picked it up, and with less hesitation than was likely warranted, I sent a tiny thread of Skill questing into the wood.The carving’s intention flowed back to me, a whisper as soft as the brush of Skill I'd pushed into it. He’d intended for it to be a man standing behind a wolf. And not just any man, a man with a clean-shaven face and warrior’s tail. An echo of warmth and pride, wrapped up in deep affection echoed in my palm.Frustration flared in my chest. Why had the Fool left this thing behind? He knew I didn't have the tools or the talent to complete it. Had he meant for me to find it like this, after his departure? He was never straightforward with me, ever, and even in this moment, when I expected to be leaving my home within the hour, he had given me another puzzle to solve.I sighed, and set the object down on top of an unfurled scroll. A headache was building, but I wasn't sure if it was only related to the Skill I’d so recklessly indulged in. Before this summer, my life had been so peaceful, so settled. I was content. And then, beyond all my hopes, he had returned. To have him with me through days and nights had been a joy. A joy that wasn’t up to me to prolong. He’d made space for himself in my small life again, and when he had gone, a new emptiness remained.How could an absence feel so heavy?I didn't know what to do with the thing. But the thought of leaving it here, for some trespasser to use as kindling, filled me with revulsion.It was a tale left unfinished, a potential unfulfilled.Gently, I placed it in my bag. A new resolve filled me from the well-worn soles of my boots. I would go to Buckkeep. See to what Chade required of me, find an apprenticeship for Hap. Ensure that Nighteyes was safe. And then? I would find the Fool.We would finish the carving together.