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The amount of time it took Aric to get out of bed was an embarrassment, in his own opinion. He didn’t land on the floor again, which was at least a small victory, given how long he allowed himself to be doted over. Normally, he would have been on his feet a day later, always a man who needed to be on the move. However, he had to admit that this beating was the worst he had endured, and healing was taking longer than expected. It also didn’t help that one of his caretakers was cute.
Limping his way past the doorframe of his room, he made his way back to the table, thinking it a good distance to practice with. His ribs still ached, though not so terribly, and while the pain seemed inevitable, he realized that part of him could still function through it. What helped was that he had a goal now: to make it to the table for the second time that day before returning to the bedroom. Focusing on trying to get his stamina up helped, as well as the memory of the Mask and how easily he found the cottage.
Reaching the table, he leaned against it like he’d done before, breathing through the aches and pains. Trying to focus on anything else, he looked around the room, noting again the fireplace and cauldron in the kitchen, drying herbs suspended upside down, and the jars upon jars of only God knew what on the rows of shelves and possibly behind those cupboard doors. He could see the large risen basin with its curved facet just right of the smaller hearth.
Next to the kitchen was the staircase, and a door hidden underneath which he assumed was the pantry. He noticed that the staircase created a hallway on the other side with two more rooms positioned next to his. Admittedly, he had already hobbled over to see them. The farthest door led into a bare bedroom similar to his. The middle door led to a water closet with a standard toilet, sink, and mirror, along with a wood-burning furnace in the corner that heated water which fed into the porcelain bathtub by way of the pipes. This was just another oddity that dated the cottage, next to the lack of electricity.
He looked to his left then, seeing the two worn plush chairs facing the cold hearth, more shelves lining the wall, these ones filled with books. A roll top desk sat under the window next to the front door, and Aric found himself drawn to it.
Past experiences told him that people often kept their livelihood in desks, their expenses and corresponding letters telling a story that would often reveal the character of the owner. He rummaged through desks like this before, mainly to get a sense of his target so he could do his job more efficiently. Places they traveled, people they spoke to, money they spent—everyone seemed to build their lives into schedules, little maps that showed Aric when to strike.
Shuffling towards this particular desk, he panted as he drew up its top and slid it back, revealing the desktop and the compartments hidden underneath. Everything was clean and in its place, almost bare besides the ledger, which he opened and fingered through to find nothing but common expenses. However, he noticed the number of coins being brought in, impressed that healers could make so much, given the town they were in. Closing the ledger, he pulled at one of the compartment drawers, finding various used pens and ink bottles staining their chamber. Closing it and opening another, he found old bills, so old the ink had started fading. A man’s name graced the signatures, and Aric could only assume it was Jocelyn’s father’s name.
He continued to the next drawer. This one was different from the others, stuffed full of folded parchments. Suddenly, his head began to swim, and briefly he closed his eyes. Settling his mind down, he focused again on the drawer, pulling out a stack of parchments. Laying them out on the desk, he gazed down at the broken seals, realizing he’d seen that type of seal before. Lifting one closer, he folded the letter so that the seal fit back together, and his eyes widened.
It was the seal of Aselian, coming directly from the royal court.
Opening the parchment, he found the scrolled lettering from court, the King’s own title taking up most of the space. Underneath, he read the entirety of the letter.
To Master Gerold Brevyn:
Per His Majesty’s decision, the request to be pardoned from the duties of Executioner of Galmoor has been denied. Continue your duties as expected.
Slowly looking up, Aric rotated to take in the room again, seeing the place much differently than before.
An executioner’s house, he thought, glancing over the drying herbs and the jars. It didn’t look like the home of a deathsman, but then again, he didn’t know much about the lives of executioners, only that he would eventually meet one if he was ever properly caught. The only thing that did bring him relief was that Jocelyn’s father had died a while ago.
Maybe that’s why she’s a healer, becoming what her father couldn’t be, he thought, putting the letter down and picking up another one.
The next parchment was the exact same. Same words; different date.
Aric went through the pile, finding each letter was a denied plea. Coming to the end, he placed the parchments back into the drawer the same way he found them. Pulling the next drawer open, he found more of them. He didn’t look through every parchment, but a few of them proved her father hadn’t stopped pleading for the pardon, seemingly to send one right after each received response.
Putting them away, he went to the final drawer, finding it wasn’t as full as the other two. The same types of parchments were there, the broken Aselian seal telling him what they were, but he found it curious that these parchments looked less crinkled. A couple of them were almost fresh in appearance, as if they were newly received compared to the rest.
Opening the top one, his eyes immediately went to the name.
To Master Joss Brevyn—
Joss, he thought, mulling the word over. And then he stopped, his mind bowing to the only name he had thought of all those days.
“Jocelyn,” he thought out loud. “Joss—”
The parchment slipped out of his fingers as he found himself staring out the window, concentrating only on the swarm of thoughts invading him. He remembered how she helped carry him, how capable she was in doing so, how well she understood the human anatomy.
“A woman executioner?” he mumbled out loud.
Was that even possible, even legal? his thoughts finished for him.
A bird suddenly called in the distance, snapping him awake. As if he were about to be caught, Aric quickly slipped the parchments back into the drawer, shutting it before rolling the wooden top down. Hobbling back to his room, he drew himself to the bed which he sat on. Listening, he heard nothing else except the soft echoes of the wildlife.
Trying to slow his breathing, he remembered the crossbow still underneath the bed. Part of him felt comforted to have his weapon nearby; part of him was repulsed that he would even think that way.
She’s been nothing but kind to you, he growled at himself, his fists gripping the edge of the mattress. Executioner or not, he knew deep down she wasn’t a threat to him.
But then he remembered how he had obtained the crossbow, who had crept into the cottage to find him. That’s when he closed his eyes, heart sinking.
Don’t make yourself too comfortable here. You may find yourself complicating things.
The Mask knew all along.
The pain in his chest became more pronounced with each deep breath. Aric opened his eyes, coming to terms with the fact that he couldn’t be there, he had to leave. Unbeknownst to her, Joss was in the middle of this. He liked her, and the fact she and Henrik had both gone out of their way to help him only made him question things more.
However, there was one small hope: as long as the execution went forward and the prisoner was killed, the threat would be gone.
There was also the probability that if she failed, and Aric wasn’t there to intervene, someone else would. Even the Mask had threatened it, making sure the job would be done with or without the help of the assassin. If Joss killed the prisoner, they’d all be free; if she failed, she would be killed, either by Aric or an accomplice, if Aric wasn’t finally killed in the process.
The thought made his stomach turn, which only added to his anxiety. He never felt this way about a deal, never had a reaction or opinion about who was to die in the process. But this one was different, and he knew it. He couldn’t place exactly why, but it was there, nestled underneath his rib cage, a new feeling that he didn’t quite want to give up on.
With teeth gritted, Aric stood back up, teetering a bit before resuming his slow shuffle to the doorway. Upon reaching the frame, he eyed the front door before continuing towards the table, resigning himself to staying. He had to; she saved him, and this would be his way of repaying the debt.
He’d stay, they’d survive, and it would all be over.
He just needed to make sure that she would do her job and do it well.
