Til does his best to listen to her, to understand what she was telling him, but his gaze kept catching on the redness of her eyes, on the stutter of her breath when she looks at the babe too long, at how her hands lift, again and again, towards the child, as if she plans to take him from his arms.

  She doesn’t, though.

  Eventually, the woman deems Til taught enough to let him leave, not without a few supplies for the baby, but she warned him that it wasn’t enough, and he’d need more sooner rather than later.

  But that was a problem for later; for now, Til was just glad that the children had gotten off his cloak. Though that didn’t stop them from following him, and the woman, who apparently still had more instructions she was thinking of along the way. A part of him felt it was actually so she could keep the babe in her line of sight, at least as long as she could before sending it off with two men she’d never met, likely never being able to see it again.

  Outside, Noan paces around, his behavior making Til think he’s done checking if there are more Touched children in this hamlet. Particularly jerky movements in his pacing around outside the building make Til think that he’s waiting less than patiently. His gaze slides from Til to the woman and back again, huffs escaping him only barely audible.

  In spite of his apparent need to get a move on, he manages to avoid leaving his arms open for Til to hand the baby off again.

  Giving up on getting Noan, or anyone else really, to take the baby, Til instead looks at the kids who are still enthralled by his cloak, following it—and therefore him—outside towards the horses.

  It's really not much, simply made, but warm and thick. He could, and might have left it for them, these kids who had so little. He is without a way to replace it at the moment, though, not without backtracking on what little progress they’d already made. As much as he’s sure it would help them, he knows he can’t leave it with them, at least not now.

  Maybe when this is all over, he can send them some gifts, clothes, or blankets, something to help them. To give a little more in this world, and give them a better chance in the future.

  After this, he’ll give them all a better chance in the future.

  The woman shudders out a breath, and when Til looks at her, she seems to run out of steam, her slight frame—just as much skin and bones as the children—deflating as she sighs, her gaze fixed on his chest.

  She isn’t looking at Til, though; instead, her teary gaze seeks out any bit of the babe bundled in his arms she might look at. Memorise. A softness in her gaze that stole his breath.

  How can he take this babe away from her?

  Before he can say anything, do anything, or apologise even, she shakes her head and shoos the children back inside.

  “Come on then, let’s wash up for supper.” She shoots him a last look; steel in her gaze echoes in the color of her red-rimmed eyes. “Be careful with him, and good luck.”

  Til can’t manage a word, but he nods, hoping it gets across all the words stuck in his throat.

  The woman follows the children, shaking her head, and Til can’t tell the emotion behind it, nor can he ask before she and the children disappear once again.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Leaving til and Noan

  And Til’s got a baby and the bag that comes with it, and no idea how he’s going to get on his horse.

  As much as he’d prefer to give Noan the baby, the other man doesn’t seem up to sharing, well, anything. Nor does he seem to notice the plight that Til faces, apparently lost in thought. Or doing whatever it was he needed to do to find more of the Touched.

  What were they going to do with a baby?

  Til readjusted his grip, looking over the saddle, saddlebags, and the horse. He was out at least one hand, but realistically, he was out both hands, and needed both to at least get on if not ride. He couldn’t just set the baby on the horse or on the ground; both could have disastrous results.

  “You know, if you need help, you can ask me,” Noan’s voice startles him, the man having appeared behind him without his notice, a wry smile fluttering over his mouth, “That’s part of why two people were sent on this quest.”

  Fortunately, Til’s been training since even before he was an Honored, and it's the only thing keeping him from jumping much or scaring the baby. “Ah. Yes. I’m, having an issue mounting my horse with the child.”

  “Oh, Til. Why didn’t you just say so? Here, give me the babe,” Til pauses, both at the offer and at the use of his name without any honorifics, like, like they’re friends. Like they were more than- “Oh come on, I won’t drop them in the moment it takes you to get on your horse. Hand ‘em over.”

  With a slight shrug, Til hands the baby to Noan, preoccupied as he thinks of how his name sounds coming from Noan. It doesn’t help the somewhat awkward affair, as it would seem neither actually knows how to hand or receive a baby safely.

  Turning to his horse, he’s only just grabbed on when he hears a small noise, followed by Noan’s noise of disgust and a small gag.

  Turning back, Til sees that what would appear to be the entire front of Noan’s formerly dark robes are covered in what seems to be a small waterfall of sickly orange-green baby vomit.

  It’s all Til can do to keep himself from laughing at the others’ misfortune, though the matching looks of disgust and upset from both the baby and Noan nearly do him in. Noan holds the babe as far from himself as he can, his grimace comical, stretching his cheeks in a way that must hurt with disgust as obvious as the unfortunately strong-smelling baby goo covering him.

  Instead of taking the baby immediately, Til swings himself onto his horse first, sure that it won’t do much to just have to repeat this all again once Noan is clean.

  The baby is mercifully free of vomit when he’s handed to Til again, though—if possible—seems nearly as upset as the Wizard.

  The Wizard in question, in disgusted outrage, is pulling off his cloak and gagging, trying to wipe the vomit from the layers that weren’t spared.

  “Oh gods, it’s all over me. How is there so much? How did it have that much vomit inside it? Is it hollow? Til? Check if it’s hollow.” Retching all the while, Noan’s complaints still manage to be understandable, “It smells so bad. Oh gods, why?”

  Til struggles not to laugh; he’d only been a few seconds either way from a similar fate, and his armor would have been much harder to clean all of the slimy vomit off of. The baby doesn’t have the same qualms, though, and laughs loudly, evidently feeling much better, or just finding Noan’s disgust a balm for the upset.

  After watching Noan struggle for a small spell, Til tells him, “I don’t think you’re going to be able to wipe it off, you’re really just spreading it around at this point. It’s all over you.”

  “What do you think I should do then, all mighty Honored Tanner, the baby vomit expert?” Noan asks between gags.

  Gagging himself between shivers of squashed laughter, Til says, “You’re going to have to wear the clothes, or just strip to the layer that isn’t covered. When we stop for the day, you can wash it out, or we’ll hire someone to do it. I don’t think it’s going to come out without a soak or something harsher.”

  “This is so disgusting, Gods-” Noan retches again, “This is gross, I’m gross. You’re right, we should have come back later for this terrible, hollow, disgusting, little thing.”

  Til can’t help the snort that escapes him, but manages, as diplomatically as he’s able. “Well, I’m afraid that option is out the window. Let’s go, the faster we go, the less we have to smell you.”

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