Barry's eyes flickered open to see a stew bubbling atop a little fire ,casting a circle of light in this absolutely dark night . He tried to sit up, but the whole world spun and his stomach almost came undone.

"Rest a little, kid, you took some baitin'"

Barry looked at her with anger in her eyes, but he heeded her advice and sank his head back down. The sky was made of night, and no stars, or moon, or even a glimmer of light. The only light that lit for miles and miles was there little tiny patch of flame. It flickered along the woman's oiled gun, her bag, her bandoleer, and cooking instruments. She stirred the stew with a languid hand, and Barry swallowed and licked his lips as he saw the carrots, and meat floating in that thick sauce.

She raised a spoon to her lips and blew on it. Those bright blue eyes watched Barry with an effervescent light through the thin stream of steam. She took a sip, swirled it around her mouth, and swallowed, all the while looking at Barry with a furrowed brow. "It'll be done soon", she said and paused before emptying the last of a sachet of white powder into the stew with a sigh.

Barry's hungry lip turned horrid as his lip curled, "Do you expect me to-"

"Yes, I expect you to eat. We will talk of what was done after dinner."

"But, you-"

"After. Dinner."

Their eyes met over the bubbling stew, with all the darkness for miles and miles, and Barry's eyes were the first to drop. His mouth twisted, his shoulders hunched, but the former stayed shut. The only sound seemed to be the stew's bubbling. She took another sip, and Barry's mouth twisted as she put it back in the pot. She tipped-tap the side in a ding that rang through his noggin. The clatter as she set the spoon to dishing out the gruel was almost too much too take. He levered himself up, she handed him the bowl, and he stared at it for a moment. But she held it, and, as his stomach rumbled, he accepted it.

Trepidation filled his face as he raised the spoon to his mouth, but as that warm soupy stew slipped down his throat, pleasure replaced it. But he hid it from her glimerin' eyes.

"You slept more than I expected", she said and stirred her soup.

"I was hit by your boot…"

"Don't expect less from someone you're attacking."

He set his bowl down, "You killed-"

"You know your caravan left you", she watched his widened eyes, "Something you being cursed and your…father, betraying them."

"Those liars. My father never betrayed-"

"Do you happen to know what was in that box?"

"The…that shiny box the bandits took?"

"They never took it."

The smell of blood and broken bone filled Barry's nose. Bile burned the back of his throat, and the image of Gaz's spurting neck floated before him. The press of his palms into his eyes stopped his tears and he pressed his nails into his scalp.

"Kid…fuck. Kid, stop, come back to me."

The sight of blood soaked pores, body bits, and the gun smoking from the woman's palm burst through his mind. Crackling, burning, tearing at his sanity, they sought to overwhelm him with their writhing ache all along his body. The woman's voice calling his name came from afar. The night seemed far, the stew was sick, and the blood filling beneath his nails chalked against his solid skull.

"Kid, I've got the box here."

Box, box rhymes with torn up fox…what?

He slid his bloody nails down along his face. The firelight flickered along that blood, and for a moment it appeared as though he had torn rivers in his face. But he wiped it away with his thumb, and it travelled like thick sweat.

"That Box…my father had it?"

"Yes, it was very important to him."

"Good enough for him to die for…"

"That's not what he died for, but I'd say it was good enough to kill for."

Barry digested in silence. His eyes watched the flames swirl and curl in the cold wind, but their flicker was reflected off his opaque pupils. When he dragged them away from that fire, they appeared no different, but lacked the frenzied flame, "Can I have it."

The woman nodded with the slow trepidation of a convict with a noosed neck, "Yeah, I reckon I can give you that. If you let me check your scalp?"

"Oh…", he raised his hand to his scalp, "That"

"Can I do it now?"

"If you want."

She came over with soft steps. The rustle of her coat and clink of her gun formed a symphony with the wind. Kneeling beside him, those eyes remained watchful, those arms ready, and those legs not quite fully on the floor. But for all that, the touch of her fingers on his scalp was gentle. They brushed his hair back and lightly pressed into his scalp. The pain needles into him, but his face registered nothing and his eyes even less.

"That hurt?"

He nodded and watched her sharp face. The firelight played across her tin lips, soft lashes. Prominent cheekbones, smooth skin, and drew back from her eyes. She reached for a bag and, never taking her eyes off his, opened it to take out a slim bottle of yellow fluid.

"May I?"

He nodded and she gently poured it on his hair. Relief flitted along her face and in her eyes as a wince of pain crinkled his own, but it disappeared before he could ascertain the reason. Firm fingers kneaded along his hair and he closed his eyes, the tension easing all along his body. When he opened his eyes, they were filled with tears. He wanted to raise his arms and clasp at the closest person, but the image of her smoking gun stopped him. She finished her medicine and eased back on her side of the fire. She avoided his eyes drummed her fingers on her knees, stirred her soup, coughed into her palm and fiddled with the fire embers.

"Look, I'm sorry your father died", she drew a breath, "But I'm not sorry I killed him."

All Barry could do was look as the tears turned crimson by the flame and dripped down his trembling lip.

"Your Father. He, hurt, people to get that box, and deserved to die. But, you, deserved nothing of the sort."

The box floated in his eyes. Its glimmer the twinkle of his father's eye, its firmness the safety as he tucked him into bed, and that barely audible hum was the soft sound of his father's breathing as their wagon trundled down the road. "Can I have it?"

She looked long and deep at him as she stirred the fire with languid movements. But after a moment her eyes went to the side and she shrugged, "Yeah, I reckon if you want it, you can have it. You sure you want it?"

He nodded and held out his hand. She placed atop his palm and the sizzle and snap ran outside his numbness. The thank you froze in Barry's throat as he remembered his father lying broken. She watched him for a moment, brow furrowed, but then went back to her food, "You should eat before it gets cold. We've a long day tomorrow."

Curiosity, fear and dread hovered outside of his numbness. They pinged and scratched and burned at his lassitude, but he liked the hollow pit of despair. It surrounded him like his father's arms, and kept the memory of him alive.

They sat the rest of the meal in silence. Sometimes, a growl or snarl would come out from that night, sometimes a far off light, and other times, the screams of distant fights, or a stink of sulphur, flame, ash, and once the subtle ping of a cello string. The woman did not stiffen each time these visitations arrived. Neither did Barry, and at first this drew a nod and a look anew. But by the fifth, as the ash and flame went along with booming lights, the woman looked at him with a brow more furrowed.

They sat in silence as the fire died. She kicked the dust that lay heavy on this land atop the smouldering ember. Barry picked up his pot and put it atop the other pot, and she handed him a blanket, keeping her distance all the time. The ground chilled his flesh with dampness, and soon a shiver wracked his body.

"Here, kid. You'll need my coat", she tossed her coat at him and something solid smacked into his middle.

He paused and shifted it atop to feel the outline of a blade in the pocket. Blade meant blood, and anew the image of his father slain popped into his mind as he stared at his woman's back. But the night was dark, and the woman was strong.

The sound of her body lying across from him came to him, but the time was not nigh. As the night went on, and the sounds increased, the aching sorrow in his soul set roots and grew. Images of blood and death throbbed in his mind, so quick it whirled and spun. As the heavens opened a chill rain fell atop him, it mixed with his tears and caused him to bite his tongue to feel the blood.

Grounding his teeth atop that slab of flesh, he slipped from underneath that coat, so warm and smelling of sweat, and crept across the ground with the blade in his palm. His hand in front of his face would have been a mystery, but the woman's smooth breathing was loud and clear. Her warmth was within reach in two steps, her smell in one, and the presence of her invisible body in four. Gaz's death popped through his mind. Blood gushing from a cut throat, pieces scattered to the wind, and nothing to make a burial of.

The thrum of her throat seemed at his fingertips as he bent down beside and held the blade. His arms trembled, his teeth gritted, he tasted blood, and sought to drive that blade deep.

But…why couldn't he? Though his arms trembled he could not push himself to kill. This woman killed his father in cold blood. And yet, he, the son, could not kill? Kneading fingertips brushed across his memory, the concern for him, a nobody that she knew, and the sight of her hard eyes easing brushed across his memories. The warmth of her coat as it sheltered him from the rain, the taste of stew as it filled his belly, the brush of her fingertips across his hair, and the sense that somebody cared. All of this, stopped him from driving that blade deep, and the thunk as his nerveless fingers let the dagger fall to the floor was loud in this night.

When he crept back into his sleeping bag, the damn within his mind broke. The blessed emptiness rocked back and broke with memories and grief. His tears fell fast until his throat dried, his eyes ached, and nothing but dust would have fallen from those swollen pits. Yet, by the miracle of a human body, his face convulsed as not tears fell, and his throat was s wracked he thought blood would come out. He howled and beat atop the floor, and seemed to drive away those sounds of demon's in the dark. But that numbness leaked out of him, though it's going was like a needle pulled from his flesh. Throughout it all, the woman did not say a word and left him to his grief.

When the morning came, with the clouds turning from black to grey, the woman picked up the dagger without surprise. She accepted back her coat, and pretended not to notice his swollen face, and left him alone as they worked to tidy away the camp.

That day was his first day with Anabelle.