There was typically a low chance of finding anything worth buying at the merchant's wagon, let alone something Bigby could afford with his measly salary left over after basic costs of living, but it did not stop him from occasionally browsing the nomad’s wares on a whim or out of boredom. The mysterious woman running the shop at least tolerated him where most did not. But on another predictably dreary day, he was surprised to see something that genuinely interested him. It was a meager-looking book, its binding faded and somewhat fragile, but piquing his curiosity enough to flip through its pages.

After a moment of investigation, he was even more intrigued to discover it was a volume of poems, more specifically an anthology themed around nature by various authors. Each entry he stumbled upon fascinated him; it had been so long since he had been able to read leisurely, or any proper book whatsoever, though he had not expected such a rush at the prospect.

Hearing a not-so-subtle cough, he looks up to see the merchant peering curiously at him.

"Interested?" she asks, sounding somewhat pleased with herself.

Of course, Bigby was short on the gold required to meet her lofty demands, though that was because he kept what few savings he had stashed away for practicality's sake, as carrying them on his person would just be begging to be robbed. So he quickly ran to his quarters, and after double and triple-checking his money, he discovered he did in fact have enough! While buying the volume would leave him strapped for cash for a time, he knew it would be absolutely worthwhile.

Despite the swiftness with which he thought he had returned, his ambitions were halted by the sight he returned to. It was Baldwin, the leper warrior among the mercenary ranks whom Bigby was fairly familiar with. The man’s presence was not the problem per se, but rather that he was handing the merchant a palmful of coins in exchange for the poetry book.

Counting his losses, Bigby immediately attempts to turn back, but is unfortunate enough to make eye contact with Baldwin at the worst possible instant, and he recognizes Bigby with a polite smile. “Greetings, Bigby,” he says, speaking in his baritone, subdued voice that Bigby had grown accustomed to. They had recently returned from an expedition only a few days ago, but he had not seen Baldwin again until now as his comrade had been immediately ushered to the infirmary for some disease he had contracted. Even if Bigby had to endure an uncomfortable interaction, it was at least a relief to see that he was doing better, especially since he was one of the few mercenaries who were more amicable with the shapeshifter past merely putting up with him.

“Hello, Baldwin,” Bigby replies, failing to mask his underlying disappointment. “You’re certainly up and around.”

“Indeed. Though I appreciate your concern, the infection was not nearly as dire as it first appeared.”

“Ah. Of course…” He had forgotten about that, or at least wanted to, given the near hysterical panic he had been sent into when Baldwin was whisked away. “... maybe our fears would have been assuaged had Paracelsus accompanied us.”

His quip manages to get a soft yet hardy laugh out of Baldwin. “Perhaps so!” He looks between Bigby’s face and the book in his own grasp– he must have caught Bigby staring at it– and, wise as he is, connects the dots quickly. “Oh, were you intending to purchase this? Had I known, I would have–”

“No, no, it’s alright! It’s fair pickings as far as I’m concerned. It’s not like I had my name down or anything.”

“While that is true, tomes such as this rarely make their way around here, which is the reason I immediately purchased it.” He holds out the book to Bigby. “If you would like to borrow it, I would happily oblige.”

"What? No, I couldn't," Bigby says. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of your own book."

“Please, I insist.” Baldwin's eyes flash cleverly behind his mask as an idea forms. "Why don’t we share it, instead? I could meet with you tomorrow, and we could read it together."

Rendered in a stupor, Bigby stutters as his words fall apart, numbly taking the book as Baldwin nudges it into his hands. Bigby had never imagined that anyone in the entire hamlet would actively seek out his company, let alone one of the bravest and noblest men he's ever had the privilege of venturing with! Shocked as he is, the idea of sharing his idle hours with someone he admires did have a tantalizing appeal.

Baldwin waits patiently as Bigby processes the invitation, eventually giving a shy response: “I suppose that would be nice…” It was not like he had anything better to do, anyways, and the way Baldwin’s expression lights up at the confirmation sends a strange giddiness rushing through him.

As promised, they reconvene the next day and set out to find somewhere more private away from the hustle and bustle of town at mid-morning. As Bigby leads the way, the gravel pavement eventually dissolves into soft earth under their feet, with spare tufts of grass increasing in density the further they tread. The clearing they eventually enter is far from scenic, but the gaps between the treetops opens up the sky to far more breathable air than the suffocating haze of the hamlet.

“This is where I usually go when I need a moment to myself,” Bigby says, already feeling a bit better to stretch at his full height.

Having to duck slightly to be offered passage, Baldwin towers over him, and his mostly concealed expression takes everything in with subdued amazement. "I can scarcely believe such a place exists so close to the estate," he says almost wistfully.

There’s a lightness to his tone that puts Bigby at ease. "Neither can I," he says, guiding Baldwin towards a large tree with a sturdy trunk, the ground around it riddled with wildflowers sprouting between buried roots, and he gestures with an inviting hand. "I find this spot to be the most comfortable, if you’d like."

He lets Baldwin sit first, and the larger man settles himself somewhat awkwardly, making sure Bigby has enough room to join him. Bigby hesitates at first, but Baldwin's open demeanor makes him swallow his anxiety as the leper takes out their reading material. The scarce room left has their shoulders connecting, and Bigby still has to lean into him to be able to read the book set between their laps.

The close contact is unnerving enough, but it is also traced with guilt as Bigby knows it is completely unnecessary. His excitement had gotten the better of him the night before, so he had decided to take a glimpse at the poems, and once he was engrossed, he found himself awake into the early morning reading the entire book cover-to-cover. He had not intended to spoil what was supposed to be a unique experience for them to share, but he again underestimated how excited he was to finally have some proper literature back in his hands.

After spending some time this way, Baldwin soon takes notice of how severely Bigby has to hunch over for a proper view, so he eventually speaks up: "... What if I read out loud for you? You may be more comfortable that way."

Startling upwards, Bigby is snapped out of his concentration as he is rereading the poems to make sure his mind does not wander. "Oh…?” he says, meeting Baldwin’s eyes nervously. “If it doesn't bother you, I would appreciate that." Passing a hint of confusion, Baldwin gives a short nod.

Inelegantly collapsing on the ground, Bigby lets the uneven dirt cradle him as he basks in the spare daylight filtering through the trees. Baldwin's warm, low voice begins to filter through the air, carefully cradling each word. He illuminated them in a way Bigby could have never imagined on his own, sounding gentle enough that it could lull him to sleep.

As a matter of fact, he nearly was as his eyes grew heavier while Baldwin continued to read. He does not think much of it when the leper pauses for a touch longer than usual before starting up a new poem, but Bigby’s head perks up as soon as he realizes that he does not recognize the line Baldwin is reciting. Sitting up, Bigby cannot immediately tell where his companion’s eyes are focused, but Baldin greets his puzzled stare with a teasing grin.

“That poem…” Bigby says, realizing his blunder is now exposed. “That’s not in the book, is it?”

“You have a good memory, my friend,” Baldwin says, his tone lighthearted where Bigby expects annoyance. “It’s just something I made on a whim, though I don’t blame you for reading ahead.

Had I been in your position, I likely would have also failed to resist opening such a wonderfully rare find.”

The way he speaks continues to leave Bigby at a loss! “Those lines were beautiful. Do you have experience as a poet?”

“... In a sense, I suppose. One could say my time within the court has given me an ear for it.”

“I certainly would!” Bigby always found Baldwin to be a well-worded man, even from his passing comments, so he could only imagine what kind of eloquent speeches he had given in the past.

“You should write them down.”

“I would, but alas…” Baldwin looks down at his hands, bandaged and guarded by weathered gauntlets, and frowns briefly. “... I lost my ability for fine penmanship long ago.”

Right. Bigby should have known better. Still, he is compelled to push further: “I could transcribe them for you. They ought to be preserved.”

Baldwin makes a perplexed face. “Really? I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you–”

“Not at all! I was well practiced as an academic. Granted, it’s been awhile, so it may not be the neatest, but it’s still functional, if you would allow me to help you.”

Baldwin looks away distantly for a moment, internally debating until he eventually turns back with a humble smile. “Alright, I concede. It wouldn’t hurt to humor your wish.”

Bigby beams and gets back on his feet, emboldened by his own excitement. “That’s wonderful!

We should start as soon as we can. I’ll procure the materials, but you should hold on to the book for now to serve as inspiration!”

“... Right, then,” Baldwin responds, taking a knee to hoist himself off the ground, brushing away the loose dirt on his legs. “In that regard, I would not mind returning to this place. It certainly lets the words flow easier… but we should take our leave for now, the others may be wondering of our whereabouts.”

And so, whenever their routines allowed for it, Bigby and Baldwin would return to what quickly became their usual hiding spot, where Baldwin gradually unveiled a large swath of poems from his subconscious inventories. Committing each of them within an old leather journal he had barely managed to scrape up enough coin for, Bigby soon understood how Baldwin was able to make the insightful comments he frequently did at the most opportune moments, whether it was in the aftermath of a tense battle or a mundane silence waiting to be filled. It made Bigby wonder about how long Baldwin might have been sitting on some of the aphorisms he had shared before.

Baldwin’s lyrics gave a brief window into the serene man’s view of the world, one that held no slim share of cruelty, but also tenderness and beauty. Perhaps it came from the wisdom of his years, or maybe the condition of his mortality. His words sounded as if he had already made peace with his end, even as trace anxieties slid their way through to the noticing ear now and then.

The exposure made Bigby more thoughtful, in a way, or at least more thoughtful when concerning Baldwin. His lacking contemplation of their interactions beforehand made him feel as if he had taken all of their prior time together for granted, especially when it appeared all the more fleeting considering the dangers the estate continued to unveil. But as their shared moments allowed them both to unwind, Bigby began to notice more.

Since Bigby lived his life in constant insecurity, Baldwin’s presence alone became something of a balm for it, an assured kindness that afforded a moment to let his guard down. Though never explicitly said, they were kindred in their ostracization, their identities formulated entirely by their conditions, and they both understood the wariness of it. At Baldwin’s side, Bigby felt removed from the persistent need to remain kept together, assured that his friend did not see him as just a mindless animal; Baldwin too displayed a unique ease when it was just the two of them, knowing that he could remove his mask without being shunned. His scarred visage had never occurred to Bigby as something wretched, a sentiment Bigby was certain the warrior would softly chuckle at if he ever dared to speak it out loud.

That, and many other things, too: the slow timbre of his voice that Bigby had grown so fond of having an excuse to listen to for entire afternoons on end, the courage he exhibited in the direst moments, the genuine care and camaraderie he held for his allies, the power behind his near statuesque physique in spite of the persistent aches and wounds his disease ailed him with, or the kind words he used when he spoke of Bigby with such profound and assured honesty. Far too many things to count, as Bigby would realize.

However, these burgeoning thoughts overtook Bigby in a way that made them impossible to express. He had managed to stomach the mortification that came once he acknowledged that his fascination with Baldwin exceeded a platonic realm, but his imaginings of his dear friend’s possible response only heightened his fears. As much as he would rather usher away such sentiments altogether, he soon understood that he was doomed to their persistence as long as they remained unresolved, and any further inaction would utterly destroy him.

Ridiculous as his idea was, it had struck Bigby when he noticed how close he was to finishing the journal– he would occasionally update Baldwin on their progress at the end of the day, and Bigby could never forget when Baldwin had warmly praised his ability to naturally identify the line breaks where Baldwin had intended through his delivery– and thought that he could gift it to Baldwin once it was complete. In addition, he also remembered the times where Baldwin had encouraged Bigby to try writing some of his own, but he was always far too bashful to proceed, knowing his talents could not even begin to match Baldwin’s. Though now that an opportunity had fallen into his lap, what was truly stopping him from making an attempt aside from his fears?

Spending a rainy evening by candlelight, Bigby meticulously rereads the strings of phrases he had scratched out on a spare piece of parchment as he tries to pick which lines feel the most right to him, or at least the most right according to Baldwin’s tastes. Bigby knows he likes seasonal imagery– especially flowers– but he stumps himself trying to think of a way to capture the language of their kinship naturally; though it is Baldwin’s inner likeness to a vibrant blossom that Bigby wants to memorialize the most as his mind returns to it throughout the night.

After extensive concentration, Bigby comes up with something relatively presentable and carefully pens it down on the final page. He cringes at how shaky his hand is from his nerves, but he doubts that he could have done much better otherwise. His heart races as he closes the book to retire for the night, reality sinking in that he was truly going to go for it. He resolves to steel himself overnight and present the gift as soon as he meets Baldwin tomorrow, and attempts to reassure himself that he would rather risk the chance of rejection than remain silent for much longer.

The unassuming leper had always been an early riser, and he had grown to appreciate the cool tranquility of the waking period just before sunrise, as it was a time where he could remain unbothered and avoid curious stares. So on the next morning, after taking a moment for his morning prayers, Baldwin toils himself with various miscellaneous chores in the hope that he could still offer some assistance while not on an expedition.

During a short break in between unloading rations for the inn, he was befuddled to see Bigby approaching him, knowing that his reclusive friend often slept in until the early afternoon at the latest. Either way, it lifts his heart to see him considering how close they had grown as of late.

But because of that, he notices how peculiarly anxious Bigby appears, or at least more so than he commonly is, so Baldwin approaches him calmly to see if he can coax out what is troubling his companion:

“It’s good to see you, Bigby,” he says. “How are you far–”

Before he can finish asking, Bigby thrusts what Baldwin immediately recognizes as the journal the shapeshifter has been sporting on their personal outings into his hands. Baldwin does not have a chance to question this, either, as Bigby hurriedly blurts out: “I-I wanted to give this to you. They are your words, so it's only right that you should keep them….” His weary eyes dart around nervously as he fidgets with his now empty hands. “I… have some errands I need to take care of, unfortunately. I must go.” He does some strange combination between a bow and a nod before immediately scampering away with barely a chance for Baldwin to begin forming a good-bye of his own.

His behavior was certainly strange, Baldwin thinks as he watches Bigby leave with rising concern. And why would he insist upon relinquishing his manuscript? It was his work that allowed Baldwin’s words to be put to paper! At first, he had not understood why Bigby had identified such value within what Baldwin had only considered to be ambient musings, but he gradually came to appreciate Bigby’s dedication to making sure his words would not be forgotten so easily. Bigby had already written down so many poems, so why would he decide to stop now without explanation?

His questions remaining, Baldwin thumbs through the journal, soon slowing down as he starts to take in the finer details of his friend’s careful work. Towards the beginning of the volume, his handwriting is somewhat hesitant, but his marks gain more confidence the further Baldwin reads, fondly remembering the lines he gazes upon. Somehow, he finds the memories have more to do with their time together rather than whatever had originally sparked his imagination.

It saddens him to think that this era of their friendship might be coming to an end. He contemplates this as he reaches the end of the book, but his attention is drawn by something he does not recognize upon the final page:

Still scribed by Bigby, there is an original poem he presumably wrote that catches Baldwin off-guard. As he reads it, he becomes all the more certain that it is indeed a love ballad addressed directly to him! The placement of the line breaks and the word choice could use some revision, but it is genuine enough to send a subtle heat to Baldwin’s cheeks as he fully comprehends the extent of Bigby’s feelings laid before him in written form.

After the wave of shock passes, Baldwin smiles as his racing pulse is replaced with soothing relief. Riding off his newfound energy, he stows away the book and sets himself back to work, reminding himself to give Bigby his wholehearted thanks and express his reciprocation the next time their paths cross.