The Hunter's Tale

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Light trembled through the leaves, little flickers of sun and shade playing across Hugh’s closed eyes where he sat with his head leaned back against the oak’s deep-barked trunk, his face turned upward to the canopy of leaves and dark oak branches between him and the summer sky, listening to the whisper and sigh of leaves away into green distances, the soft sough of branches moving, the busy rustle of a squirrel passing through treetops so high the two wolfhounds-Bane’s large, bony head resting on his chest and Brigand’s against his hip-did not even flick an ear at it. With summer warmth all through him, Hugh let the quiet sink into him, too. Here, for a while, with manor, fields, and family-most especially family-left behind him, there was only the quiet and himself and the two hounds, with no need to speak when he’d rather be silent or feel anything when he’d rather feel nothing.

He wondered if the yelling at home had stopped yet.

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