Ballad Of The Forgotten: Chapter 5: Part 3:

“No, really”, he said between bites, “what does it all matter anyway?”

He was calm. The existential crisis had passed. They had managed to walk all the way to a small gathering of houses near the hillock, too small to be even called a hamlet. For the majority of their journey, he had been silent and thoughtful. She had let him be, occasionally rousing him from his thoughts to ask him if he wanted food or water. 

At present, they were eating at an inn. The owner knew her, and let them eat for some light labour.

“You are not going to stop thinking about it, are you?”

“I can’t help it.”

“Why are you so obsessed with this?”

“Why aren’t you obsessed with this?”, he countered, irate, although he knew the answer. 

“Because it’s wasteful of my time and energy.”

She had a way of eating. She took small, almost equal-sized bites from her food, and then suddenly decided to take larger bites. He could tell how habitual it was.

She caught him staring and gulped. “What?”

“Please stop doing that. It’s getting on my nerves.”

She looked at him for a while, confused. Then realising gradually, she gave him a look. And then she reached out for another piece of bread and recommenced eating in that same manner, all the while looking deep into his eyes.

He pressed his lips together, determined not to laugh.

Their jobs were simple: she would carry bags of grain from an outhouse the owner had and he had to stay put in the kitchen where she would be bringing those over, to watch them and keep count.

“There should be seventeen of these.”

“Sure, though, what will you do with all this grain in here anyway?”, she said glancing around the small place.

“I’ll sell the flour. Didn’t I tell you once that we sell flour?”

“You did?”

“I told you each of the seventeen times you passed through.”

“Alright then, I’ll get to work.”

She took off her shirt and laid it next to him. He watched the innkeeper warily, but he was looking elsewhere vacantly. Even when he looked at her, his expression didn’t change.

Maybe, the Prince surmised, whatever it was, was due to his own involvement that he was on edge. The feeling passed and he hobbled about the ramshackle, looking for a place to sit. He found a spot and sat down, ready to commence the work.

By noon she was glistening with sweat and there was a dark line in the back of her shirt. She put the last bag down near his feet and sat beside him on her haunches. He passed her some water, which she took gratefully, drinking a large glass in one gulp. 

“This is nice.” She said suddenly.

“What is?”

“Talking to you. I don’t bother speaking to people, so I’m surprised to know that I missed speaking to anyone.”

He blushed a little bit. “What is it about me that’s special?”

“Nothing.” He deflated immediately, “But it’s…nice.”

He looked at her, “You’re little mean sometimes.”

She looked a little taken aback at that. Taking in his question, she asked, “How so?”

“Everyone likes to think they are special. Don’t be so blunt. Some days at least.”

She laughed. “Why would it matter what I think? If you think you’re special, then, you’re special.”

He looked at her. Just one of her moments of impeccable logic and clarity and he loved the way she thought and made him think. 

And certainly, the way she left him questioning a lot more than he was before.