It was true that Aica was not going to harm the forest, beyond breaking off branches maybe for the fire or pulling mushrooms and roots out of the ground. He simply did not have the energy, or the means, to even cut down a tree. “Are you mocking me, wife?” Aica inquired in a dangerous, cranky tone when Vesta began to compliment him on his handiwork and craftsmanship. He took the helmet from her and inspected the insides, judging it was as clean and free of disease as it could be, before setting it aside. “Take a knife and cut the onions.” He simply ordered, musing over how he could arrange this. Then he cast an evil look over his shoulder towards the tree.<br/><br/>After a moment of glaring, he shrugged and got some idea in his mind. The helmet had two holes near the front where cheek-guards would dangle, though those were long gone. The holes remained though, just big enough to thrust a small nail through, which they didn’t possess. He tried with wooden splinters but they always broke. After much work and determination, he managed instead to create a small loop and handle with the rope, the ends tied through and around these holes, with a modest handle that allowed it to be carried like a basket. He then wound together another spit, two small triangular towers on either side of the fire, built to support one long stick placed across, from which this helmet-turned-bucket could dangle off of, over the fire. And hopefully not burn the rope and sticks themselves.<br/><br/>“It works. Now go and fill it with water. I’ll prepare the meat and onions.” Aica then instructed, removing the helmet from his testing. Despite its clever workmanship, Aica hated doing it. It was beneath him, a Prince, who once had others do this for him. Of course, having watched them was the only reason he even conceived of the idea in the first place. There was a lot in the past few weeks he had learned to do that he never imagined himself doing, work fit for servants and soldiers. All the more reason to feel spiteful about their situation.<br/><br/>Soon enough, the cut onions and meat were in the helmet, the water simmering as it was set over the fire. Aica laid out the spare cloak for him and Vesta to sit on, as they watched their first good meal in a long time prepare right before their eyes. Their growling stomachs at the prospect of a decent meal added to the music of nighttime breeze and the sounds of nocturnal creatures hooting, crying, or buzzing around. “And I just realized.” Aica said suddenly, looking at Vesta. “How are we supposed to eat stew without a spoon?” It was too dark to search the surrounding premises and there was no possibility of making a wooden spoon out of timber around. That was beyond Aica. In the end, they settled for removing the helmet when the stew seemed done, waiting for it and the helmet to cool, then slurping from it, taking turns passing it back and forth.<br/><br/>Regardless, it tasted amazing, despite its simple recipe. Their bellies would feel warm and reenergized. The broth was tasty to say the least. Aica then thrust more wood into the fire to build it up again, before taking the spare cloak and laying it against a tree. Not the tree the sprite had flown up into, whoever she was, but across from it. Aica as usually laid down first, his back and head against the tree, allowing Vesta to snuggle against his side or atop of him. Even when they were fighting, they had to do this. Sleeping alone would be a freezing ordeal.<br/><br/>Once they were settled, everything seemed quiet, even the forest song about. Aica didn’t take his eyes off the oak tree across. “Vesta,” Aica said, using the same tone she had used with him when she requested he make something to hold the helmet up, “you’re so clever about things, so good at…reading books all day and doing nothing else. What was that…thing? I thought they only existed in fairy tales, to ensnare men and lead them away to be used as spell practice.” He inquired, grey eyes ever fixated upon the tree across. Yet even with the keen eye of a trained marksman, he could see nothing of the little creature. A pang of guilt was also drumming at him.<i>A king should be gracious.</i>That's what his father always said. Looking around, for the fire, the site, the peace of mind after a warm meal...perhaps...