The two thanked the man and left the tavern once their cups were empty.  The sun loomed at the edge of the trees, casting the town and the surrounding foothills into dusky shadow.

“Think the old barkeep is telling the truth?” asked the smiling man, as he ran a tired, shaking hand through sweaty, red hair.

“…I don’t know.”

The cloaked man—Roderick of Endshire—huddled back into his hood.

Mediums and magicians alike had come forward and claimed they could break Roderick’s curse, but to no avail.  After months of traveling and searching, his reserves of hope were abysmally low.  He’d never heard of a ‘noxie,’ not even once in all his journey.  No matter how sure the barkeep was, Roderick struggled with a pervasive sense of doubt over his prospects.

At his side, the cheerful Henry stumbled tiredly.  He covered it by pretending to kick pebbles in the road, and whistled idly to keep himself awake.

“Did you find the jail?” Roderick asked.  Henry laughed dryly.

“When I asked for a room, they said talk to the inn.  And I quote, ‘This town ain’t got resources for layabouts what can’t even afford t’ get a room.’  Though, since you went ahead and talked to the barkeep about your problem, maybe the jailer would see reason, too?”

Roderick rubbed his belly, though the action hardly eased his tossing, empty stomach.

“…I think it best we camp again.”

“When we break this curse, you’re going to treat me to a full-course meal, right?  After all the hours of sleep I’ve sacrificed?”

Henry’s light-hearted teasing eased Roderick’s tension just as it had on the battlefield.  Even so, the deep, dark circles under his companion’s eyes were impossible to ignore, and his tottering gait was worrisome.  Roderick pressed his shoulder against Henry’s to steady him as he wobbled.

“I might end up spoiling you for the rest of your life to make up for this.”

“Don’t.  That’s going to be my job.  I swear, we get through this?  And I’m immediately going back to the castle and starting my apprenticeship under Sir Denholm.”

“Haven’t you had enough of being an apprentice?”

“Being an apprentice soldier was great.  I’m sure being an apprentice steward is even better.”

“How long will it take you to work your way up from footman?”

“Mm…maybe a year, if I’m bad at it.”

Henry was never bad at anything.  Roderick smiled, heart eased despite everything.

“I believe in you.”

“Give me a fortnight, then I’ll start making prognostications.”

They trudged east.  Stopped at a closing market stand, bought a few bruised pears and withered sweet potatoes, continued walking.  The town itself consumed the whole of a modest clearing on a wide plateau, such that once one passed the last house, one would be immediately plunged into dark expanses of forested foothills.  The canopy was impenetrably thick, and the groundcover was likewise ominously overgrown.  A single path left the east side of town—down into the deepest parts of an expansive valley by the look—and while it might have possibly accommodated a horse, no carriage could possibly traverse it.  Roderick and Henry hurried along in the twilight, eager to put the town as far behind them as possible.

Henry stumbled onward.  Over a pebble.  Over his own feet.

Roderick’s stomach churned.

The rustle of leaves roared in his ears, but there was no wind.

His heartbeat sped up.  Thump-thump-thump, th-thump-th-thump—

Roaring.

Not from the leaves, but from his own torturously dry throat.