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The Lazy Ox looked no different except for the quantity of horses tied out front, much more than they usually saw. Joss and Henrik didn’t think too much of it until they entered and found to their surprise a full tavern filled with applause, all attention on them.
Both stood in the doorway, too used to slipping in undetected that being the center of attention had stunned them. It took Hodgson to come forward, stepping behind and pushing them gently along for both Joss and Henrik to move to the table in the center of the room.
“What’s all this for?” Joss asked, people patting her shoulder and arm as she passed, wishing her well as she moved. She found they were doing the same to Henrik.
“You two,” Hodgson admitted.
“What, for saving the king?” Henrik laughed, knowing half these people didn’t like politics and the other half wouldn’t have been able to point out Callan in a crowd if they were paid to.
“You’ll see,” Hodgson winked, stepping back over to the bar.
At first, they assumed everyone was there to bask in the glory of the two ex-outcasts. They were the only two people who had ever been deemed heroes in a town with more crime than nobility. But as people started coming up to them, the two realized very quickly that this wasn’t a welcome home party or a reunion of any sort.
Each person there came to say the “thank you” they had never come back to say, their courage marred by the fact that they had gone to a deathsman for help. Now, with the title lifted, they had come to right their wrongs, spilling out the gratitude that for some had taken years to say. Some said it with tears, others with drawn out explanations. Despite the fact neither Joss nor Henrik had ever expected to be thanked—even long writing it off—it began to settle in the more people talked, the more they squeezed their shoulders and shook their hands. Some, especially the older ones, spoke of her father, how they admired his professionalism, how often they admired her for following diligently in his skill. These words made her think of Callan’s reasoning for not wanting to pardon her, seeing for the first time how much of what she did had mattered.
In between these friendly exchanges, the first round of ale came from Garrett himself, the tavern keeper who had never given them the warmest welcomes whenever they came around. But for the first time, he squeezed her shoulder, smiling at her in a job well done she never received before. The second round came from Macie, who Joss knew had taken it upon herself to bring it by, given how often she looked at Henrik throughout the evening. It helped that the shirt he wore from Callan was a deep forest green, a shade that lightened his eyes and stood out against his tousled brown hair. There were a couple of other women who had turned a second time to eye him.
Searching Hodgson out, Joss gave him a knowing smile when he caught her gaze, onto his attempts at trying to be a matchmaker. He simply smiled back, raising his frothy mug in a sort of “I did good” salute, causing her to stifle a laugh.
“So, Macie,” Joss asked, pulling the girl’s attention when Henrik started conversing with another local. “What brings you to Galmoor?”
“Well,” Macie said, a pretty smile lighting up her face, “Aunt Clara is a wonderful seamstress, so I was hoping to stay a few weeks so she could teach me how to sew a little bit better. My mother is so busy with our store in Brenton that she said it would be best to learn from my aunt.”
Joss nodded, remembering all the shirts Mrs. Hodgson helped sew for them, little favors that hadn’t seemed so big until they were pointed out. “She is wonderful,” she complimented. “You’ll definitely learn from the best. Is there anything you’re planning on doing with that knowledge?”
“I’m planning to be a dressmaker,” she admitted proudly. That’s when she pulled out a dainty lace handkerchief, so delicately made that Joss was almost afraid to touch it.
“You made this?” Joss asked, surprised by its elegance. It was something she could see adorning a lady in Aselian among all the beauty and finery.
“Yes.” Macie’s face brightened further, which was becoming contagious. “I need to get a little bit better about the edges, but I was hoping to add this kind of design to the dresses. A practical dress can also be elegant,” she reasoned.
Joss agreed, though side-eyed Henrik who was enjoying his ale and not really paying attention now that the local had moved on to other conversations.
“It’s beautiful,” Joss complimented. “Don’t you think, Henrik?”
The lad, in mid swig, nodded in agreement, though he only glanced at it.
A little disheartened by his disinterest, Macie quietly put the handkerchief away. “I should probably go see if my uncle needs anything,” she said, still smiling, though Joss caught the rejection there.
While she took a swig of her ale, Joss’s eyes narrowed on Henrik, and when her foot found its mark and he jumped, she put the mug down like nothing had happened.
“What was that for?” Henrik whispered harshly, rubbing his leg.
“You need to be nice to her,” Joss whispered back. “She’s ambitious, sweet, and smitten with you. At least be nice back.”
Henrik looked down at the table, still rubbing his leg.
“I know it’s because of Elora.”
Henrik’s eyes met her gaze, the guilt flooding into his stare. Given that he was such an inquisitive and thoughtful person, the fact he wouldn’t acknowledge the handkerchief or Macie’s hard work had given him away. He wasn’t being oblivious; he was avoiding.
“Listen,” Joss said gently, “you’re allowed to be mad; you’re allowed to be hurt. You have every right to be. But you’re not allowed to be cruel.”
It was a harsh word to use, but she needed to get the point across, not wanting his heartbreak to ruin him. Joss watched as Henrik sat back in his chair, tapping his finger on the mug. She could see his mind working, but instead of saying anything more, she sat with him in his silence. A song picked up around them, people becoming lost in the melody.
“It was a pretty handkerchief,” she heard Henrik admit before his gaze went to Macie and then back to the table.
“Hey,” Joss spoke up, gaining his attention. “Just go talk to her, introduce yourself properly. It doesn’t have to become anything right now except a friendly conversation.”
Henrik thought it over, and with a nod and his lop-sided smile, he got up from the table and made his way to the bar.
Joss sat back, enjoying the ale as she watched the patrons singing around her, joining in a couple of times to the parts of the song she knew. In between the lyrics, she sneaked looks at Henrik, watching as a very shy introduction unfold into a conversation that had him smiling, even running a hand through his hair as Macie stared up at him with sparkling eyes. As the song shifted to a different one, Joss continued to drink her ale and enjoy the atmosphere.
And then, as another round of ales was being passed, Joss, by accident, caught sight of the Lost Wall. She wasn’t sure why she looked over—perhaps just out of habit—but her stomach knotted in its familiar way, the flyers and parchments sobering her from the fuzzy gaiety surrounding her. Looking at it was like looking at an old memory, a tingle of the pain resurfacing like a muscle ache.
There was one person she didn’t have to look for anymore, and one she was afraid to find.
The days droned slowly on, autumn settling in around them with the turning colors of the leaves and the bouts of rain. A fortnight passed, and still Aric hadn’t come back. There were plenty of knocks, many people wanting to help, but no signs of the man with the different colored eyes.
The hardest part was the waiting; looking out the window throughout the day, wondering if she would see him out there looking in, or making his way down the lane, or knocking on the door in the dead of night. Each day passed and nothing happened, and still she waited.
However, in those passing days, two frequent visitors did show up: Macie, who, with Henrik’s help, had come up with almost every excuse to spend the day with them, which always ended up with her and Henrik in some deep conversation that Joss usually had to see herself out of; and Quinn, who had come up with an idea of his own.
“Expand the cottage,” he said, coming to the table one morning and rolling out the blank parchment.
Joss, who was preparing to go to the stream to do their laundry, sat the basket on a chair. “And why do that?” she asked.
“Look at you: all the money in the world now and you still take your dirty laundry out to the creek when you could build a proper washroom. You can do better.” Quinn pointed his finger up, literally making a point of the fact.
“Winter is coming. Isn’t that the worst time to be building?”
“Not necessarily,” Quinn commented, though it was Henrik who noted the worry in Joss’s face.
The cottage was the last of their old life that was untouched. While there had been a lot of heartache, there had been happiness as well. Joss had helped raise her siblings, and Henrik, within those walls. She had kept the roof over their heads when her father couldn’t. Seeing those walls removed was going to be uncomfortable.
“It’ll take a while to devise a plan,” Henrik gently reminded her. “We can just play with the idea, and if we don’t like it, then we won’t do it.”
Joss nodded in understanding. Grabbing the basket, she proceeded out the door.
“How did you get into building, anyway?” she heard Henrik ask Quinn.
“A man can have hobbies,” the older man rebuked as she shut the door quietly behind her.
Following the path, she trudged through the open field, birds chirping around as her boots crunched through the wet grass. If she allowed herself, she could picture that day, the wildflowers scattered around, a cricket chirping nearby as she and Aric had made their way to the creek.
Remodeling the cottage really wasn’t the problem; it was losing moments like this, retracing steps that had become fond memories. She would be losing the room he had been lying in or the wash closet, where she had seen the full extent of his body before helping him into the bath. Changing the scenery meant he was officially gone.
Reaching the end of the field, she came to the blackberry bushes standing guard underneath the tangling trees. Following the small trail that wound around it, she heard the trickling of water as she carefully side-stepped the thorny vines. Finally, she came to the wide and lazy creek, the smooth rocks still lining the way in random spots. Her eyes automatically went to the way it made a jagged bridge, remembering how Aric had crossed it; how he slipped, how he ended up okay.
Shaking her head, she moved down the dirt embankment and onto one of the rocks. Despite the rains, the creek was still mild in temper, not yet swelling and overtaking her spot. Setting the basket down, she picked up the soap, the scent of lemon and lavender lingering in the air as she grabbed one of her shirts.
As she scrubbed and washed, her eyes occasionally glanced up, checking the embankment across the way. It was a normal routine, being aware of her surroundings just in case, but at that moment, she was reliving things. The way he had stood in the light on the other side of the embankment; the way he stood when he had aimed his crossbow at her; the way he held onto her on that ledge; the way he promised to find her before he turned away in the crowd.
He must be dead, she reasoned. True, there was the dark shadow on the balcony with the perfect aim who struck Eiden down without a second thought. There was also the mysterious archer who had helped the knights win against the barricade at the doors. But there was also the hair, and his absence. Maybe the dark figure was just another rogue, seeking their own vengeance. That was almost a better thought, a better excuse to why Aric hadn’t returned. Eiden had told the truth about a lot of things. Maybe Aric’s death had been one of them.
Joss scrubbed the shirt, her vision blurring. No, death is better, she told herself, wringing the shirt out, trying to hold herself together as she folded the shirt and sat it down next to her before reaching for another one.
Death meant he would have come back if he had been able to.
Death meant he would have kept his promise.
If he wasn’t dead, it meant his absence was a choice, and it was that thought which caused the tears to spill over as she scrubbed. It meant someone else would have removed his stitches in his thigh and shoulder; someone else was enjoying his company over chess or ale or even in bed. It meant that even after being pardoned—after saving a king—she still wasn’t good enough. If, by chance, he was that dark shadow on the balcony who had saved her, that had been his payment for her saving him. That had been his goodbye.
Everyone leaves.
Dunking the shirt in the water, she wiped the tears with the back of her hand, letting the emotions come as she worked. It was better she cried here instead of at home anyway, where no one could see.
It took a while, but eventually the clothes were cleaned and folded, put back in the basket for transporting. As Joss stood up, knees sore from kneeling and the basket heavier in hand, she felt the first few drops of rain. Looking up, she found the grey storm clouds had returned, not realizing the sun had long been blocked out.
Wiping the last of the tears and taking a reassuring breath, Joss made her way back up the embankment and through the blackberry bushes. The wind picked up then, and as the cold chill hit her back, she wished she had remembered to bring her cloak.
Re-entering the open field, she trudged forward, the heaviness of the basket slowing her down.
See? We make a good team.
She swallowed the lump in her throat as she shifted the basket to get a better grip. Aric’s words still hummed in her mind, though, the memory of him helping her carry the basket returning as she walked the same path alone.
As she trudged on, trying to hurry against the rain that was now steadily coming down, she noticed something breaking through the far line of trees and undergrowth: a horse and cloaked rider appearing at a trot. At first, Henrik came to mind, coming to get her from the storm. But then she realized the horse was a chestnut, not a dark brown like Drakon or blue roan like Bluebelle.
Watching the rider catch sight of her, moving the horse down to a brisk walk, she found herself coming to a stop as the world seemed to pause around her. She recognized that horse, and then she saw the crossbow snug against the rider’s back.
Pulling the horse down to a stop a few paces from her, Aric lifted his hood off despite the rain, his long wavy blonde hair spilling over his shoulders in the familiar way it did. A cut swollen under his eye showed he had had a hell of a time getting back, but the way he looked at her was clear: the urgency, the wanting.
Dismounting, Aric walked a few steps before coming to a stop, staring back at the woman who hadn’t moved, her face consumed in shock.
“I’m not too late, am I?” he asked.
The basket slipped from Joss’s hands, landing with a thud in the grass as she ran to him, her arms already around his neck as he caught her. Falling to his knees, he took her with him, holding onto her as the rain came down around.
“You came back,” Joss whispered, her body trembling against the warmth of his embrace.
He buried his face in her hair, breathing her scent in. “Of course I came back,” he whispered in return. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
He wanted to tell her everything: the fiasco at the doors of the Great Hall; the way he hunted them up into the training grounds; how those masked fools hid in the very place they had trained, only to be picked off one by one. It had been hell in its own right, but he saw it through. However, when he pulled back, seeing her face and those tears he caused, he was too busy with her lips to speak, kissing her in the same way he had on the ledge.
The greediness of that kiss spoke for both, keeping them warm as the rain soaked them through. And when their lips finally parted, the lightning and thunder overhead interrupting them, neither could let go; not yet, not when they had both spent so long in wanting this moment.
After another crack of lightning, and the rain drenching every part of them, the two came to their feet, Joss gathering the basket while Aric collected his horse. As they made their way back to the cottage, Aric took the other handle so that the basket hung in between them. They fell into step together, keeping the same pace as the silence became comfortable between them.
Aric would eventually tell her everything, as Joss would, over dinner and then while in bed tangled under sheets. They would fill in the gaps with the missing pieces: how he had killed off the Mask’s men like he vowed; how she and Henrik were pardoned, and spoiled, by Callan; how he had worried about her; how she had missed him.
For now, though, they walked quietly through the field together, both wanting to be there, needing the same type of company.
Because this was their love story.
Neither of them would have wanted it any other way.
