Victor didn't like being thanked. For anything. Thanks were but empty words, an acknowledgement that you had done something for someone. Verbal gratitude held no more value to him than the small pile of medals and awards he'd been granted for bravery and action upon the field of battle, than any of the citations and praises of his commanders who then took home that credit for themselves to parade before their peers. He still recalled how expressive Captain Messer had been many years ago when Victor had lead the remnant of the Forlorn Hope to capture a calvary unit's standard. To think of it! Light infantry in skirmish formation taking on heavy cavalry and winning! Not only winning, but shaming the foe by claiming their flag. Yes, Captain Messer had been very thankful. And Victor had discovered why many months later while on leave in Verrun: Captain Messer was being hailed as a hero for a feat that he hadn't even been present for. Captain Messer's name was in all the broadsheets, he had received quite the honors and prize money from the city and was in line for a promotion. What had Victor gotten? A pat on the back. That was life in the army. Thanks were short lived words that should die stillborn upon their owners' tongues as far as he was concerned.

Only looking at Kijani, Victor couldn't find it within himself to sneer at her gratitude. Looking into those soft eyes, he felt his heart skip a beat as though in sudden recognition. She was no soldier, of that he was sure. But in that instant he was just as sure that she had seen something of struggle in her life, some horror whose memory would never be truly expunged away but only lessened with time. He didn't question what might have happened to her. After all, in Verrun anything could happen, it just happened to the poor far more often than to the rich. Instead, for the first time in years he found his mind following a different track altogether: What if he had met her under some other circumstances? Would he be attracted to the richness of her skin and brightness of her eyes if he met her at some country dance or festival? Would he feel the urge to attempt courting if he didn't know she was some wealthy lady from the city, with her fine gowns and golden rings? The cynic within him warning him off such thoughts. She was a city woman, for all her beauty, and Victor could not see what use she would have for a lame ex-soldier who dirtied his hands with honest labour. 

"You're welcome," he finally grunted much to Feather's surprise. The maid servant's eyebrows shot up at hearing him utter the words no one thought he could ever say, and if that were not enough what followed caused her jaw to gape. "Just remember to help the next fellow out," he added, "There's always a next fellow, of course. Trick is figuring out which ones are picking your pocket and which are actually in a pickle barrel."

A final mouthful of food and he rose stiffly to his feet. His plate remained half full, as though he had suddenly lost appetite. "Time to be getting on with the other chores," he grumped, "I'll be back by the woodshed sharpening the ax heads if you need anything." 

A sharp nod, and Victor stumped out with his cane thumping heavily on the floor.

Feather continued to stare after him as though she had never seen the man before at all, then turned to her mistress to exclaim, "He LIKES you!"