A Spring whisper made the wheat stalks dance a slow, sombre sway in the honey-silk sunlight. Sol scrambled atop a tall, pointed boulder, looking out over the rolling fields and creek that snaked round the foot of the hills and lonely oaks spotted around the fields where the occasional dogs rested in their cool shade.
“You’re kinda short for a lord, milord,” Egg said flatly, squinting his eyes at the sun as he climbed the boulder with ease and sat with his back to Sol’s. Sol considered shoving him off for a split second, but decided that he needed a fellow adventurer to brave the woodland that beckoned a few acres away.
“I’m not a lord, my father is. The only eight-year-old lord I’ve heard of was in the Yellow Tongue Serpent. A story,” Sol explained in an obviously tone.
“A story?” Egg asked, resting his head on the back of Sol’s as he squinted up at the clear sky.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t wanna tell me-?” Egg began.
“-I’m not that good at telling stories,” Sol quickly mumbled, gripping his arm in a nervous habit. He casually slid off the boulder, and began hopping the small rocks like stepping stones, leaving Egg to watch his back curiously.
“What kind of stories do you like?” Sol asked. He crouched on a stone behind a curtain of swaying stalks as he watched Egg with an arm propped on his knee to lean his head on. Egg wrung his hands, and seemed to ponder this for a moment.
“The ones with the happy endings.”
~ ~ ~
Over the months of Spring, the strange, yellow-eyed farm boy and adventurous, watery-eyed boy became good friends. They braved the dark woods, exploring every grove, pond and cavern, and tried to track a pack of wild dogs to no avail, as Sol’s father quickly banned him from the forest at hearing his first attempt at hunting. After calming down, his father had also felt inclined to mention, as if an afterthought, that he should refrain from harming canines, as the greyhound was on the family crest.
Without the forest for expeditions, they instead made up a hundred and one scenarios they played out in the fields and farming lands, whether it be cops and robbers, or monsters and knights, Sol usually playing the part of knight due to his use of ‘proper’ speech, or what Egg referred to as fancy smanchy talk. On the especially hot days, they’d swim in the creek and attempt to catch the tiny, wriggling silver fish that darted around their feet, with Egg’s pregnant mother watching them cautiously on the riverbanks.
On one particularly nice day, the two floating on their backs in the creek, when Egg was talking about his mother and her unborn child, Sol blurted out a question he’d been keeping to himself for quite some time over the many weeks.
“You don’t know how to read, do you?” Sol immediately felt aghast, mad at himself for saying something that might hurt his friend. But, as always, Egg took a split second to consider Sol’s randomly poised question, and smiled, his yellow eyes laughing assuredly.
“No, I don’t. My ma or pa would always read my favourite stories or fairy tales to me, but with my ma pregnant and my pa busy with all the housework...”
“…Then it’s my fault!” Sol blurted again without thinking about what he was going to say, flailing in the water for a second and smacking a palm into the water.
Before Egg could ask why, Sol said, “ It’s my family being here that has your father so busy, caretaking n’ stuff.”
His own slight lilt took him aback a little, as it seemed Egg way of speech was starting to rub off on his own. After a moment of silence, listening to the faint water’s ripple and gentle lap against their bodies and the shore, Sol spoke up in a almost quiet, shy manner.
“I’ll read to you. Whatever story you want, your favourite, I promise.” Sol made his childish, selfish oath staring up at the cloudy sky, not daring to look Egg in the eye.
Instead of accepting or thanking him, Egg simply asked, “What’s your favourite story, Sol?”
Without really thinking about it, or really needing to, Sol replied, “Little Red Riding Hood.”
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