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Chapter 25: The Weight of Hunger, The Shadow of Stars
The first spoonful of the rabbit stew was a revelation. It was not just food, not just sustenance. It was salvation. The tender meat unraveled on his tongue, soaked in a broth so rich with herbs and roots that his salivary glands ached with delight. His stomach, which had shriveled into a pit of unrest over days of thin meals and harsher nights, answered with a greedy clench. Each swallow sent a warm tide coursing through him, as though life itself had returned to his limbs.
He devoured the stew with a ferocity that startled even himself. In that moment, the world ceased to exist. There was no room for table manners, no need for awareness of Tiffany's gaze across the table, nor the creak of Old Matt's chair. There was only him, the food, and the relentless demand of his body. His spoon scraped the bowl with impatient rhythm, and when the broth was gone, he seized a chunk of bread, tore it savagely, and shoved it between his teeth.
The bread was coarse, dense with grain, but the broth had softened it, and his jaws worked with desperate resolve. He swallowed too soon, forcing the mass down his throat with a gulp of water. The cool liquid chased the food down his gullet, leaving a refreshing chill in its wake. He groaned in quiet relief. Yes, this was what his body had cried for. This was what no donkey's carrot could ever replace--real food, warm and generous, not some mocking sliver of sweetness that only sharpened the ache of hunger.
"Calm down, lad," Old Matt said at last, chuckling as he lifted a mug of his own. "The meal moves nowhere. You may take your time."
Xiall barely glanced up, lips slick with broth. The old man sipped from that same cup he always seemed to cradle, the greenish liquid sending a flush of comfort into his weathered face. Was it tea? Something rarer? Xiall's eyes lingered with envy. Whatever it was, it left the old man's expression softened, soothed, as though the world's burdens melted away with each draught. He swore then and there, he would steal a sip when the chance came.
But first--the food.
"Aye, sir," Xiall muttered half-heartedly, eyes fixed upon his bowl as though the meal might vanish if he dared look away. Tiffany came to mind—her sharp tongue, her impossible glare--he almost chuckled. She would have mocked him for the glutton he was, and yet, when his eyes flicked across the table, the amusement died in his throat.
Tiffany was staring.
Her auburn hair caught the lamplight like strands of flame, her face an unmoving mask of calm. But her eyes--those sharp green eyes--were locked on him, studying his reckless devouring with the detachment of someone watching a beast rather than a man. Heat rushed to his cheeks. His mouth was still full when he realized how he must look, hunched over his food like some wild animal, half-chewing, half-swallowing.
He panicked. He tried to gulp it all down in one go.
The bolus of half-chewed bread lodged in his throat. His airway shut like a locked gate. His chest flared with panic. He clawed at the mug, splashing water into his mouth, gulping with desperate, ragged force. The liquid burned as it forced the mass downward, tearing its way into his stomach. His eyes watered. His face burned red. For one terrible moment he thought, with sick certainty, I am dying. I am choking to death on bread like a fool.
Then, at last, the blockage slid down. He coughed violently, chest heaving as air rushed back into his lungs. The sound echoed sharp against the wooden walls.
Old Matt burst into laughter, slamming his mug upon the table with such force that its contents sloshed over the rim. "Told you so, lad! Told you so!" he roared, his voice booming with mirth.
Xiall wiped his mouth with his sleeve, humiliation scorching hotter than the stew had warmed him. His face burned crimson. The old man had never laughed before--
not like this. For a moment Xiall felt something strange, almost ecstatic, to see that rare joy. But it was drowned beneath the suffocating weight of embarrassment.
He dared not look up. Instead he prayed--fervently, desperately--that Tiffany would not forge a new name for him out of this disaster. "Glutton" was the one he feared most.
Slowly, against every instinct, he turned his gaze toward her.
The lantern flame swayed between them, throwing fluttering light across her face. She was still watching him, lips moving faintly. He squinted. No sound escaped her, yet her mouth shaped the same word again and again. His eyes tracked the curve of her lips, the shimmer upon them as they parted. A word formed, a single one.
"Glu…tton," he realized, mouthing it to himself.
Her eyes confirmed it. She gave the faintest nod, her expression still unreadable, though a subtle twitch tugged at the corner of her lips. Not mockery, not warmth--something between.
He sighed inwardly. Of course. Glutton. He should have expected it. Yet it was not anger he felt, only a restless irritation at her effortless indifference. She wielded her barbs with such poise, such calm detachment, that they landed sharper than outright insults. He told himself he was used to it. He told himself it no longer stung. But it always did.
He dropped his gaze, forcing down another spoonful as though the food might distract him from his own thoughts.
Not long after, Tiffany rose. She gathered the dishes, washed them briskly, dried her hands, and made for the door. It opened with a long, soft creak, letting in the smell of grain and barley from the shop beyond. She paused in the doorway, auburn hair glowing faintly in the lantern light.
Then she turned.
"Goodbye, Xiall," she said.
The words were plain, her tone steady, but to him they struck like something rare and fragile. His heart kicked hard against his chest. She had spoken his name-- his name,not "glutton," not "reeking man," not one of the barbs she usually tossed with ease. Just Xiall.
For a heartbeat, he froze. His mind whispered, Calm down, it's just a farewell, nothing more. But the thought rang weak, for he wanted to hold onto it, keep the sound of her voice saying his name locked in memory.
He should have answered. He should have returned the word. Instead, he only stared like a fool, lips parted, useless, while she stood there. By the time the door shut with a soft snap, the moment was gone, leaving him with the hollow ache of regret.
"You're a fool, Xiall," his inner voice muttered. "You could have said it back. You just stood gawking like an idiot."
Still, the sound of her voice lingered in him, warm and stubborn, refusing to leave.
"You and Tiffany are hitting it off," Old Matt's voice rumbled suddenly.
Xiall flinched. The old man sat back in his chair, that weathered book in hand, though his eyes were cast out the window where the stars burned bright. His voice carried an echo, gentle and strange.
Hitting it off. With Tiffany. The thought was absurd, yet not unpleasant. If "hitting it off" meant surviving her mood swings and sharp tongue while catching the rare glimpse of softness--like her farewell tonight--then perhaps they were. But he said nothing of that. Instead he muttered, "Yeah. I guess."
The old man nodded faintly, still watching the night. A sigh slipped through his lips, edged with something near regret. "Sorry for not telling you about her, lad."
Xiall frowned. There was no need for apology. The old man had given him food, shelter, work far easier than any other laborer might endure. What need had he to account for trivial secrets?
"Don't swear it, old man. You've done plenty already," he replied. For once, his words were honest.
A small smile touched Matt's lips. "She normally does not talk much with folk. When she worked for me, I feared she was too lonely. I am glad to see the two of ye share words." His voice softened into something near fatherly, and Xiall caught it. Concern, tender and deep. It startled him, that such care existed in this man's tone--for Tiffany, and perhaps, for him as well.
Envy stabbed him. Tiffany had someone who cared, someone who watched over her. He had no such anchor. For a moment the thought weighed heavy, but he crushed it before it could linger.
Still, curiosity gnawed. This house was too large for one man, built for family. The old man's stargazing, his silences, his grief-lined eyes--all of it painted a truth Xiall could not ignore. Before he could restrain himself, the question slipped out.
"Old man…did you once have a family?"
The silence that followed felt eternal.
The old man's smile faltered. His features shifted, slow as stone eroding under storm, softening into something hollow, haunted. His eyes glistened faintly, as though the firelight itself blurred them. Xiall cursed himself inwardly. He had been audacious, cruel even, to press so deep. But now he knew--he had been right.
Old Matt turned his gaze upward. The stars glimmered silver across the night, the odd blue moon casting its pale light. His lips parted.
"Aye, lad," he said at last, voice low, quivering with age and something deeper. "I once had folk I held dear. People I loved. But they no longer dwell with me."
Xiall's breath hitched. He watched as the man's fingers, bent with years, lifted toward the heavens.
"They dwell yonder," Matt whispered, pointing at the endless sky. "They live among the stars now."
His voice broke at the edges, though he forced it steady. The lamplight caught the sheen of his eyes, turning them to wells of sorrow. His hand lingered midair, trembling faintly, before falling back to his lap.
Xiall's chest tightened. The words sank into him heavier than stone. He had faced horrors before--the towering Soul Tree, the hand crowned with seven stars, the many-eyed abomination that haunted his memory. Yet none of those visions matched the quiet terror of grief, the way it hollowed a man yet left him breathing.
This, he realized, was more terrible than death itself.
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