Merlin returned to the hollow with a small bundle of fruit tied carefully in Riya's handkerchief. The cloth sagged slightly under the weight of plums and dark berries, the corners knotted together so they formed a crude pouch he could carry in one hand.
The forest was brighter now the first slivers of sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting long, golden fingers across the moss and leaves.
He untied the cloth and set the fruit down on a flat stone near the hollow, smoothing the handkerchief absentmindedly before folding it again.
For a moment, he just stood there, listening to the soft rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of the river.
The itch returned, sharper now, reminding him that he hadn't washed in days. Merlin glanced toward the river, then back at the fruit, and made a decision. The forest could wait. He needed to be clean.
Stripping off his clothes, Merlin waded into the shallow water. The cold bit at him initially, but the river soon enveloped him in a soothing rush. He scrubbed at his arms and chest, washing off the grime of travel and the lingering stickiness of sweat.
Before bathing properly, he pulled out the handkerchief tied over his injury — the one Riya had given him — and rinsed it carefully in the flowing water. The fabric came away clean, and he tied it back over his wound, snug but not tight. A small comfort, a thread connecting him to something familiar.
He looked down into the clear river and saw tiny fish darting between the stones, silver flashes beneath the surface. Merlin imagined catching one — simple, fresh, a proper meal. But then he shook his head. No net. No line. No hook. Nothing but the knife at his belt. He'd need proper equipment for that, and he'd have to plan carefully if he wanted to try.
Finally, he let himself sink fully into the water. Arms and legs moving slowly, he washed every inch of himself. The water felt alive, brushing against his skin and carrying away the sweat and grime of the past days. Sunlight glimmered on the ripples, casting moving patterns across his body.
When he finally emerged, dripping and clean, he wrapped a large leaf loosely around his hips for modesty while he gathered the washed clothes. Merlin laid them out over a broad rock to dry, feeling lighter, sharper, almost like himself again.
He looked at the pile of fruit and realized the next step... a container. He needed a bag, something to carry all the food he could find if he was going to survive — if he was going to explore more and follow the road the fox had led him to.
The morning sun climbed higher, glinting off the stones of his river-side hollow and making the forest glow. Merlin picked up the first few pieces of fruit, testing their weight and texture in his hands. The sun was climbing, but the air was still cool, and a shiver ran down his spine. He realized, with a small pang of practicality, that he needed fire.
Not just for warmth. For cooking. For signaling. For a sense of permanence.
He glanced around the hollow. Fallen branches, dry leaves, and small twigs lay scattered across the forest floor. Some were damp, but others had dried in the patches of sunlight filtering through the canopy.
Merlin knelt and began gathering the driest pieces, arranging them carefully in a small pile on a flat stone. He tested a few with his dagger, breaking them into smaller bits. Sparks from the blade could ignite the smallest shreds if he was careful.
As he worked, his mind moved through possibilities — friction, flint, sparks from stones he'd seen near the riverbed. He didn't have matches, didn't have a lighter, but he did have patience, skill, and a sharp knife. That had been enough for the rabbit it could be enough for fire.
With a pile of tinder assembled, Merlin stepped back. The forest smelled faintly of wet earth and sun-warmed leaves, and for a moment he just breathed it in, letting himself feel a small, sharp edge of contentment.
A fire, he realized, would mark the hollow as his. It would make this place less temporary.
And maybe, he thought, it would help him think.
Merlin looked at the small pile of wood he had gathered.
It didn't look like much.
Just a loose collection of twigs, bark strips, and brittle leaves he had found beneath fallen branches. Still, he crouched beside it and began arranging them carefully.
The thinnest pieces first.
Then slightly thicker twigs above them.
He had never built a fire alone before, but the idea felt simple enough in his mind. Small things burned first. Larger things later.
That much seemed obvious.
Merlin reached for the dagger resting beside him.
For a moment he simply held it, staring at the blade as sunlight slowly filtered through the canopy above. The metal caught the light faintly.
Sharp.
Reliable.
He glanced toward the river.
Some of the stones there had looked different from the others. Harder. Smoother.
Maybe they could spark.
Merlin stood and walked toward the water again, the cool air brushing against his skin as he moved through the trees. Without his clothes the forest felt different—every breeze sharper, every shadow cooler.
The river greeted him with the same quiet sound as before.
He crouched and began turning stones over with his hands.
Most were dull.
Wet.
Useless.
Then one struck the edge of his dagger with a small, sharp sound.
Merlin paused.
He picked up the stone and tapped it again against the blade.
Tick.
A tiny spark flickered.
His eyes widened slightly.
He stood quickly and carried the stone back toward the hollow.
The small pile of tinder waited where he had left it. Merlin knelt beside it again and leaned closer, holding the stone in one hand and the dagger in the other.
He struck them together.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
The third strike sent a faint spark falling into the dry leaves.
It vanished instantly.
Merlin frowned and adjusted the pile, breaking the driest leaves into smaller fragments. He added thin curls of bark he shaved carefully with the dagger.
Then he tried again.
He struck the stone.
A spark fell.
Another followed.
One landed deep in the pile of shredded bark.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then the faintest thread of smoke began to rise.
Merlin froze.
He leaned closer and blew gently.
The smoke thickened.
A tiny orange glow appeared beneath the bark.
Then—
A small flame flickered to life.
Merlin's breath caught in his throat.
He quickly fed the flame with the thinnest twigs, careful not to smother it. The fire wavered uncertainly, shrinking for a moment before catching again.
Another twig.
Then another.
Soon the little flame steadied itself, licking softly at the wood.
Warm light flickered against the hollow tree.
Merlin leaned back slightly, watching it.
For a long moment he said nothing.
The fire crackled quietly, sending thin threads of smoke upward through the leaves.
It wasn't large.
Barely more than a handful of flame.
But it was alive.
Merlin stretched his hands toward it, feeling the warmth against his skin.
A small, quiet smile appeared on his face.
In the endless forest…
He had made fire.