Mace took a deliberately circuitous path through the forest, as they all did when they brought newcomers to the camp. The forest, as always, was accommodating – the path opened up before his feet, closed again behind them, as if sensing his intentions. He filled everyone in as they walked. Beside him, Guy seemed agitated, and Mace wasn’t sure if it was the trees or some rising dread that he’d signed up for something he wasn’t ready to get lost in. The forest, the cause, the politics of Shaman could sweep a person away like an undertow.
If he didn’t already know that, he was about to get a crash course.
The Captain’s eyes were watchful, even if it was mostly out of his peripherals. He didn’t miss the younger man grasping at the symbols of his faith, but didn’t comment on it, either. Hadn’t Arthur had similar ones? Maybe it would be something Guy and Tristan had in common. Mace could only hope. These days, that seemed to be the brunt of his duty: to hope, and be patient, and encourage the would-be-King to allow other people in.
Besides girls, that is. He seemed to be letting plenty of girls in…to his tent, at least. Josephine chuffed a little disdainfully in his mind.
The trees thinned, not quite into a clearing, revealing the outskirts of the camp. It was ramshackle. Mace didn’t have the heart to discourage these children from decorating the outsides of their tents, even if it did look like some kind of music festival, instead of a rebellion. He told himself he didn’t want to break them – he needed them all strong. But more than that, he didn’t want to hurt them. He’d never had to whip a conscripted army of babies into shape, before, and finding the balance between being their commander and their father-figure was…trying.
He really wasn’t cut out for fatherhood.
But you’d never know it, looking at the faces of these kids. Many brightened when they saw him, nodding or waving, and the one on cooking duty was quick to bring him a bowl as they circled the fire. Mace thanked the boy, and made a gesture toward their guests that indicated they should be fed, as well.
He grunted at Altair’s comment, rolled his eyes, but there was no anger in it.
“Waste of ammunition,” Mace muttered, bending to sit on one of the logs that had drawn up around the fire as seating, and stretching his long legs out in front of him, holding the bowl against his knee. “I’ll show you to a tent after we eat. Hopefully Tristan will make an appearance; if he doesn’t you might have to wait until morning.” There was an edge to his tone, probably just annoyance, that went unexplained. He nodded toward Josephine and she bent her head in acknowledgment, slinking off through the camp to check on their melancholy prince. Mace watched the fire, or rather the middle distance before the fire, and took a few thoughtful bites.
“Not bad, Pete,” he told the boy when he returned with meals for the mysterious visitor. “This is Guy, and Altair. You seen Tristan yet?” A handful of people were coming to join them, mostly young, ranging around the fire or queueing in the dinner line.
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