Many looked to him as leader when we first arrived, but after a devastating encounter with a Veriskan left him without the use of his legs, he turned into a hermit, living away from the others.
Most believe he should have chosen an honorable death over continuing as he now is, but Krek lived on, to the consternation of many others who saw him as weak.
Although I have long wondered if he still has a place in the tribe, I saw strength in him, as he works tirelessly and has never once asked for assistance.
He greets me with a grunt before going back to the fletching in his hand, trimming the feathers to give the arrow the desired effect.
When he realizes I am not just passing through, he asks, “Is there something you need from me?”
I have many and more questions I wish to ask, though I wonder if it is even my place to ask anything of him.
He sets down his blade, his head tilting to the side in question. “Never have I seen you look so troubled before.”
“Why do you think I am troubled?”
“You are not one to be indecisive. You are quick with your tongue, always getting to the point of your words before many have even formed an opinion. Yet you stand here, looking lost.”
“That is a lot to assume.”
He returns his gaze to the fletching, turning it in his hand.
As I am about to leave, he asks, “Is it about the women?”
My jaw tightens. “The women?”
He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “What else could it be?”
“Again, you assume.”
“Before your fury rises and you stomp away, let us look at what has been assumed: that you are troubled, and that it concerns the women.”
He is speaking to me as he would a fledgling, which prickles my pride, but stomping off would only lend credibility to Krek’s assumptions.
“Well?” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“It is clarity that I seek,” I finally confess.
“Then pull up a chair.”
I sit across from him, on the other side of the worn barrel his tools are set upon, his small house at our backs. He holds up the arrow he had been working on, his fingers moving deftly over wood and feather.
“It is not often anyone comes out here except to gather the arrows I have crafted.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No, I prefer it that way.”
“I understand. The village has grown loud, as of late, and I seek a clear mind.”
“Those Penticari are not subtle.”
After finishing the fletching, he works the nock, moving fast, with precision.
Since his injury, the quality of the arrows has gone up considerably, and I can only guess that the other men lack the patience that Krek has gained from his accident. Which is a strange unexpected blessing indeed.
“Mind sharing a drink?” He nods over to a cask at the corner of his small hut. The quality of his intoxicants has also gone up over the years. Another blessing.
I fill two glasses and return to the barrel.
