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Traveling with Pietro was not how I expected it to be.

It was a several day's journey to Varaz'khor; as Varaz'khor was in the Far North of Vaagriklund and we were traversing mountainous territory, this was no day trip. Public carriages took us from town to town, all about twelve hours apart, and whenever we arrived in one, we stayed the night there, not wanting to brave the elements at night.

I did my best to eat like a normal person, though I found myself spending more time pretending to eat than actually eating. Nervousness made my fears worse, and they seemed to affect Eva, too. She remained vigilant as ever regarding the safety of what I ingested.

You can get away with just a drink here, if they clean the tap.

I saw a chef wash his hands. This is adequate, but eat slowly.

The kitchen is disgusting. Don't eat anything here. I'll be shocked if Pietro escapes dinner unscathed.

But Pietro was unharmed by the food. He even seemed rather ecstatic about it, writing excitedly about how good the food was, especially a beer-fried chicken he tried.

I was eventually able to ignore my hunger, though I felt weak and uneasy. As I tried not to focus on food, I thought of money.

A part of me had wanted to work during our travels, but I saw very few women, and I was far too exhausted to engage in any sort of labor, let alone work that would take all night, so to speak. This meant that we primarily used Pietro's money, which meant we had to share a room.

This made me incredibly nervous.

The only times I had ever shared rooms with men were during my childhood, which I tried in vain not to think about. A part of me panicked that Pietro would take advantage of the situation, but he never did.

Bathhouses in Orc country were co-ed, and he somehow understood that this was something I couldn't handle despite me never telling him about my childhood. Instead, he paid extra for private baths, and we took turns. He always left the room when I changed or turned around if this wasn't feasible. He never touched me, not even an affectionate, platonic pat. His eyes never wandered, and I was grateful.

One of the rooms we rented--the last one before Varaz'khor--only had one bed, and I felt sick when I discovered it. Pietro returned to the innkeeper to clarify we weren't a couple, only for the innkeeper to laugh and say it was all they had left.

Pietro reported this back to me sadly, then wrote, Let me take a bath and I'll think about what we can do.

If we have to share, it's okay, I said.

He shook his head. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, and I don't really want to snuggle up against you, either.

This made me laugh, and he smiled, seeming happy to alleviate the stress of the situation.

Seriously, though, he continued, this isn't the first time I've traveled with a girl, and that one got the wrong idea.

The wrong idea?

She was very interested and got a little...handsy when we ran into a situation like we are in now. He hesitated for a moment. I did not return her interests. She was the...wrong gender, you could say.

You like men?

Exclusively, yes.

I felt every part of me relax at once. I like women exclusively. I was a sex worker through all of my university years and still am, and partly because of this, my clients have all been women.

I didn't know that! There was a pause. I worried that he would say something condescending, as people often did when they found out how I supported myself, but instead he added, No men?

No. Pleasing men was something I was forced to do as a kid. I wouldn't want to do that again. It wasn't something I intended to tell him, but it felt relevant. I watched his face as he read, and horror made his eyes widen.

I'm so sorry. I had a feeling there was something there in your past, but nothing like that.

How did you know?

He made an unsure hand gesture. I see how nervous you get around men. Nothing obvious, but things I know to look for. Phaedra is very protective of women, and throughout my Priesthood, I've seen a lot of battered wives seek shelter in her Temple. You act similarly, I suppose. But what I didn't assume was that you didn't like men at all.

I really don't. Not because of trauma, but because I've just never felt that way about them. It's not the same.

His smile grew so big that his eyes were barely visible. Well, I suppose we're one in the same, then! I'm a fan of the man.

That is the dorkiest way to tell me you like men.

I am incapable of behaving otherwise. He sighed. I'm honestly relieved.

Why?

Relieved that you're not interested. I guess I've been nervous, too, since that happened. But I wanted to support you and help my mother. Knowing you don't like men makes this a lot easier. I don't need to be afraid.

So we were both afraid at the same time and didn't tell each other until now?

It seems so. He twirled the pen around in thought. I still need to think about what to do about the bed situation.

We could divide the bed with pillows?

I can take the floor.

You don't need to sleep on the floor, Pietro.

Maybe there's enough room to make a hammock in the corner? You can take the bed, and I'll do that.

But what about blankets?

I can see if we can get spares?

The debate went on for a while until Pietro eventually caved and took a bath. I asked the innkeeper for extra blankets, but due to what commodity blankets were this far north and how busy the inn was, they did not have any. Pietro attempted to spin his own, but found he couldn't make it thick enough to protect him from the freezing cold weather. We ended up splitting the bed in half, inching as far away from each other as possible. I slept more soundly than I anticipated, potentially because I now knew there was no reason to be wary of Pietro.

The next morning marked our last day on the road. In about eight hours, we would be in Varaz'khor, and I was terrified. It wasn't necessarily the unfamiliarity of the city or the people that had me skittish.

It was the task itself.

Though I remembered distinctly what the Athenaeum looked like in the dream I had, there was the possibility that I'd never actually see it. Perhaps time had worn it down beyond recognition and repair. Perhaps it was so far off in the wilderness from Varaz'khor that Pietro and I would succumb to the elements. After all, our kind was not built for the cold.

As the snow grew heavier and the temperature continued to drop, the potential of freezing to death seemed all the more likely. I was grateful for the windows on the public carriage, but getting too close to them felt like touching ice. Pietro got one of his hands stuck to it, and an Orc disgruntledly poured hot mead on it to unstick him.

When we finally arrived at the city, the snow was falling so aggressively that it was difficult to see. The Orcs seemed rather unbothered by it, all deciding to go in their own individual directions.

For a moment, we stood there and shivered, unsure of what to do. There were some lights in the distance, and we silently agreed to follow those, as we didn't have a frame of reference anywhere else.

Luckily, the lights were the lanterns outside of a massive inn, though any words aside from "inn" were impossible to read in this weather. We hurried inside, desperate to hide from the incoming storm.

The building appeared to double as a tavern, because we were immediately greeted with the smell of ale, fried food, sweat, and mistakes. It was rather crowded, all the collective shouts and laughter of the Orcs at the tables and at the bar congealing into an incomprehensible vibrational roar.

Pietro and I exchanged looks briefly. Pietro shrugged, then looked around the room, pausing to take off his hat and run his fingers through his messy hair, which only made it look worse. He looked like he had just been thrown in a freezer with how the frost clung to his fur.

The Orcs nearest to the door turned to glare at us. One of them slammed their cards down and shouted something, which I assumed to be, "Shut the damn door!" Tusks made lipreading difficult, but that was easy enough to understand.

I shut the damn door.

Pietro started frantically combing and fluffing his hair with his many hands. Now he looked like a spider boy who had been frozen, then struck by lightning.

I let him continue fussing over his appearance, realizing I probably didn't look any better but feeling far too tired to deal with it. What I did want to figure out, though, was a place to store our stuff and, more importantly, lay down. The cold had utterly exhausted me. I felt as though I was about to teeter forward and pass out on the floor, but I dug my claws into my palms to wake myself up and forced myself to approach the bar. The pitter-patter of little feet behind me told me that Pietro was trailing behind.

We were greeted by a massive Orc man who set two ale before us without us even asking. His beefy arms were covered in scars, and I wondered if they were because of barfights, or if he had another life before this one as a warrior. His hands dwarfed the flagons, making them look like small cups when he handled them, but when I held mine, I realized they were actually rather large and heavy.

Pietro drank like his life depended on it.

I made eye contact with the bartender. He had soft, kind eyes, greatly contrasting with how intimidating the rest of him was. Once it was clear that he was looking at me, I mimed writing, and he nodded and departed, hopefully to grab parchment.

I looked over at Pietro. He looked rather uncomfortable, shifting on the barstool. I wondered if he was simply too short for it, or if it was uncomfortable for his abdomen--I wasn't a fan of barstools for that reason, too. But when the bartender returned and I saw how Pietro's eyes lit up and his cheeks darkened, I realized he was uncomfortable for a far more pleasant reason.

I ignored this for now, figuring I could tease Pietro about it later. I took the parchment and pen and wrote, Hello, we are both deaf and cannot speak. We are visitors from Grauteterria. How do we go about renting a room?

The bartender looked between us briefly.

Pietro attempted to smooth out his hair.

That's fine. You want two rooms or one? Two beds in one room? Don't wanna assume.

Pietro was too busy preening to read what he had written.

Are there two rooms available? How much?

The two of us went over the finer details--there were two rooms available in our price range--and I dealt with the payment, fishing around Pietro's satchel while he sat there mesmerized.

I'll show you to your rooms, the Orc wrote. You can take your drinks with you. They're complimentary.

I nudged Pietro and gestured for him to stand, and Pietro suddenly seemed to realize where he was. I pointed to the writing to get him up to speed, and in response, Pietro simply downed the rest of his ale, hiccupped, and stood.

This got a chuckle out of the Orc. He said something to Pietro, but Pietro simply stared back in confusion.

Sorry, the Orc wrote. Forgot. For a tiny guy, you can sure drink!

Pietro giggled as he read this, shifting around nervously with his hand pressed to his chelicerae. I wasn't sure how an Orc would react to a bashful Phaedrani, but he simply chuckled and ruffled Pietro's messy hair before motioning for us to follow him.

He took me to my room first, but since Pietro's was next door to mine, it hardly made a difference. Part of me wondered if the bartender had noticed Pietro making eyes at him, but if he had scandalous intentions, it was not conveyed to me, nor did I feel any suspicious thumps through the wall.

Once I got settled in, though, it was highly possible that I couldn't have felt them anyway. There was a private bath between our units, and with that much space, it was entirely likely any acts could have been concealed by space alone if they were discreet enough. It wasn't my business regardless, but I did stay out of the joint bathroom at first just in case I saw something I didn't want to.

Instead, I took a nap for a while, which seemed reasonable to me. I never understood why traveling was so exhausting. Travelers didn't physically do much aside from sit in one place for several hours while the carriage driver took them to where they were going. Why was sitting exhausting?

Perhaps it was the alcohol.

When I woke up, I decided to go find Pietro so we could compare plans. Eva made a home in the neck of my sweater, and we left to search for him. I considered opening his door, but I didn't want to see anything scandalous, so I decided to check the bar first.

Unsurprisingly, this was exactly where Pietro was. Pietro exchanged notes with the bartender as he leaned his chin on one of his many hands. Thankfully, Pietro could break his lovestruck gaze long enough to notice me approaching.

Pietro grabbed a parchment and wrote, Our bartender has never heard of the Athenaeum.

The bartender shook his head and wrote underneath, We don't talk about magic stuff around here. People are superstitious. If anything's unnatural, it's usually hidden, because it's seen as bad luck.

I nodded slowly. So if there was a sort of arcane library, then no one would dare speak of it?

Right. You might try some of the old folks. Maybe the old grannies have some stories they aren't scared to tell, but our people tend to think that talking about magic makes bad things happen. It's like the magic can hear you. He paused for a moment, then added, You don't gotta just call me the bartender. My name is Darzhul.

I dipped the quill in the inkwell, then replied, It's lovely to meet you. My name is Esme, and this is Pietro.

Darzhul looked between us. And you're not lovers?

Pietro choked on his ale.

No, we are not, I replied for the both of us.

Darzhul scratched his beard. I noticed a few beads braided into the black strands. Are you siblings, then? You look kinda similar.

I shook my head. We are just fellow travelers.

Pietro snatched the quill from me. We are both devotees of Queen Phaedra in search of her Athenaeum. The road has forged a bond between us. I'd say we're friends.

My chest felt a little warm for reasons not related to my previous ale. I looked at him, wide-eyed, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile.

A lad who can drink and has a warm heart? Darzhul wrote. Good thing this beard hides my blush!

This got some aggressive giggling from Pietro, who hid his face behind many of his hands. I was still busy dwelling on Pietro calling us friends, but now didn't seem like the time to bring it up again. I didn't want to ruin his chances with his crush by being egocentric.

Instead, I wrote, Perhaps we should ask around about the Athenaeum tomorrow so we can relax tonight. I did want to focus on the Athenaeum, but I didn't want to ruin a friend's chances at romance.

Darzhul nodded. Let me get you a dinner menu! Food is the key to relaxation, after all! He looked around the bar for a menu.

I followed his gaze. A nearby Orc collapsed face-first on the bar while his friend beside him laughed. There were no menus in sight.

I'll be right back. Darzhul left the parchment and quill with us and went to the back room, the half-door shutting behind him.

Pietro's shoulders heaved with a dreamy sigh as eyes followed Darzhul. Then he wrote, I would let that man destroy me.

This perplexed me. Destroy you?

I would let him ruin me, then devour me and pick his teeth with the remains of my carapace.

I stared at him for a long while before asking, Are you alright?

He shrugged, then laughed. Perhaps it's just in the nature of the males of our kind to crave being sexually murdered.

This got a laugh out of me that was so forcefully ripped from my chest that I started coughing. This only made Pietro laugh harder, resting his head between his arms on the bar as his shoulders heaved.

Darzhul returned then, eyes fixed on us as a slow grin spread on his bearded face. After setting two leather-bound menus in front of us, he reached for the parchment.

The very parchment Pietro had confessed his sexual feelings for Darzhul on.

Pietro scrambled for the parchment and shoved it in his mouth.

We stared at him for a long while, then back at each other.

Darzhul motioned that he'd return and disappeared to the back room again.

I made an incredulous gesture at Pietro, who simply responded by swallowing the parchment and pretending to cut off his own head. I wasn't exactly sure what this meant, but it made me laugh anyway.

When Darzhul returned with new parchment, he wrote, Is eating parchment a common habit of your little friend here?

I think he's just drunk, I lied.

Pietro gave me a grateful smile.

Food should do the trick, then! Something protein-heavy to make him feel better. Don't gotta be eating parchment, now!

The crisis appeared to be averted. We scanned the menu together in silence, and Pietro wrote his order on the parchment.

A sense of unease broke my prior joy, sucking out the warmth of my heart and replacing it with a tingling cold akin to frostbite. I felt Eva crawl out of my sweater and onto my neck. Darzhul jumped at this, then laughed and waved me off.

I managed a weak laugh as Eva skittered onto the bar.

What are you doing? I asked Eva.

This all seems unsafe, she said. So many ways you could get sick. Do Orcs wash their hands before cooking? Have you washed your hands?

I hadn't. The awareness of my filth settled into my fur, making me feel as though I had been playing in mud. Mildly horrified, I rubbed my hands on my skirt as though that would make the dirty sensation disappear.

I looked over the menu with Eva. Most of it was meat heavy, so I offered, It's difficult to become ill from beef, right?

True. It would be a safer choice than vegetables. They probably came from rather far away, which gives them plenty of opportunity to become unclean. Nothing can grow up here, after all.

This gave me pause. How do you know all this? How can you read?

Queen Phaedra has blessed me with the knowledge necessary to keep you safe, Eva replied. The beef stew will probably be cooked hot enough to kill anything that could harm you. Wouldn't you agree?

I nodded, then noticed both Pietro and Darzhul staring at me.

I apologized on the parchment, then wrote down my order. The worrying tingling sensation hadn't left. What if it wasn't safe enough?

I excused myself to wash my hands in the shared private bath, but no matter how many times I washed, they never felt clean enough. It was as though the alcohol from the bar itself had soaked into my fur.

I decided five was a good number and washed five more times. My hands had begun to hurt, but the tingling had faded to something more ignorable, so I returned to the bar.

Pietro gave me a thumbs-up, eyes wide with worry, and I nodded, assuming he was asking if I was okay. I was not, but I was determined to be tonight.

I would have plenty of opportunities to worry tomorrow, after all.