“You can sing, Shion?” she asked, surprised, her eyebrows lifting.
He stared at the locket as if it were a hot coal that could sting him despite his imperviousness. “Perhaps I can,” he said simply. “When I hear the music from that locket, it invokes feelings, as if I recognize the song. As if I’ve sung it before.”
“It is a song of grieving,” Phae said, pinching the locket between her fingers. “When we were in the abandoned homestead that night, when you opened the locket and the music came out, it made me think of suffering and grief. It is how I feel right now. I loved Trasen without realizing what it was. Because I love him, I set him free. Love is painful. I never knew that.” She shook her head, scraping clumps of hair behind her ear.
“Pain is a teacher,” he said quietly, picking at a twig and twirling it between his fingers. “A harsh teacher. I would spare you this lesson, if I could.”
Phae sniffed and wiped her nose. “Thank you for not killing Trasen.”
“The axe gave him confidence he did not truly earn. I promised you I would not. So I did not. Are you hungry?”
She nodded weakly and pulled open her sack. Fishing around inside, she withdrew a pear. It was a bit ripe and bruised, but she sank her teeth into it and relished the taste.
“Do you ever hunger?” she asked.
He shook his head no.
“But you still enjoy the flavors. Let me get one for you then.”
“No, you need the strength more than I. You eat them.” He gave her a nod and waved it away.
She took another bite and then handed the fruit to him. “A bite then? Please?”
He stared at it a moment and then took it, staring at the pale flesh of the pear and then took a respectable bite with his white teeth. He offered it back to her, and she accepted it, feeling a strange sense of intimacy sharing it. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, and she devoured the remaining portion.
Exhaustion stole over Phae’s body. Her clothes were damp and mud-stained. The maze of trees surrounding them brought a canopy shielding them from the glitter of stars. Branches swayed in the light breeze, causing a shushing sound as soothing as a mother’s caress. She blinked, realizing her eyes had been drooping.
“Sleep,” he said. “I’ll watch over you.”
Phae was too weary to argue, especially remembering that he did not require sleep himself. She stretched out in the matting of pine needles and scrub, using her pack as a pillow and huddling inside the cocoon of her cloak. She stared at him, sitting across from her, hands clasped around his knees.
“Back in the mountains, when I ran away from you,” she said, her words beginning to slur. “I finally collapsed. I was so exhausted. You sat near me and watched as I fell unconscious. Do you remember that night?”
“Of course I do.”
“What were you thinking?” She yawned expansively.
“Your very vulnerability brought feelings of protectiveness in me. I can’t explain it, other than your Dryad blood. But I felt almost a…a duty.”
Her eyes had closed again and she tried to keep them open. “A duty to what?”
“A duty to look after you. To keep you safe. I feel it now.” He smiled down at her. “Sleep. I will be watching.”
“Will you sing to me?” she asked. “I love hearing men sing. After the harvest, on the nights we crush grapes into wine, there is always singing. I love the songs of Stonehollow.”
As she shut her eyes, sinking into the cushion of her pack, she heard his voice. It started low, blending in with the deep vastness of the woods. There was power in his voice. She could almost call it magic. The sound wove a blanket around her. There were no words, only a plaintive melody that wrapped around her mind and soothed the pain and the despair. Phae tried to stay awake, savoring each strain. She was used to folk songs and cherished the sound of clapping and dancing around a blazing bonfire. In her mind, she went back to Stonehollow, remembering all the things she loved. The heat of a bonfire, the smell of baked bread, the sweet flavor of mulled wine given to all the children after they turned ten. Memories trailed through her mind, dug up like earth from a spade.
The Kishion’s melody stitched all the memories together, creating a theme that bound them. Stacking wine barrels. Culling the grapes. Walking barefoot on the sandy dirt by the vines. The vibrant green of the grape leaves. Clapping and whistles of the dancers. The large vats full of fresh grapes. She was there with Trasen, gripping the edges to keep from stumbling, pants rolled up to their knees as they squished the grapes with their feet. His hand brushed against hers. She looked up and instead of seeing Trasen’s face, she saw Shion’s. The juice from the grapes, the pulp from the skins sticking between her toes. The sweet honeyed smell. She touched his fingers, gazing into his eyes, not certain who she was seeing in her mind’s eye. The memories transported her far away.
The Kishion’s voice lulled her asleep.