Gareth’s eyes narrowed. Then widened, just slightly, as she lifted her own hands and began to move them.
Hello, she signed, in the American Sign Language Jennifer had taught her years ago at university. It wouldn’t be the same—centuries of evolution, cultural differences, the basic fact that this language didn’t properly exist yet—but the concept was universal. Gestures to bridge the gap where words couldn’t reach.
My name is E-L-O-D-I-E.She fingerspelled slowly, pointing to herself after each letter.
Gareth went very still.
The yard had gone quiet again. Miles took a step forward, his hand definitely on his sword now, but Gareth stopped him with a sharp gesture.
His eyes never left Elodie’s hands.
You, she signed, pointing at him with a questioning look.Name?
For a long moment, he didn’t respond. The silence stretched between them like a held breath. Then, slowly—so slowly it was almost painful to watch—he raised his own hands.
He placed a fist against his chest. Met her eyes with something that might have been hope, or fear, or something she couldn’t fathom at all.
It wasn’t a word. Not exactly. But it was communication. And something in his expression shifted—a crack in the ice, a fissure in the wall he’d built around himself.
More, he signed. The gesture was rough, unpractised, but recognisable.Show me more.
Elodie felt her own face doing something embarrassing—smiling, probably. Beaming like an absolute fool in front of a dangerous medieval lord and his equally dangerous soldiers.
“Yes,” she said, forgetting to sign, too overwhelmed by the sudden bright spark of connection. “Yes, I can show you more. I can teach you if you like. A whole language, made for hands and faces and the spaces between sounds. My friend Jennifer—she’s deaf, she’s been deaf since she was small—she taught me when we were at university together. Years and years of practice, all stored up here—” she tapped her temple “—waiting for someone who might actually want it.”
She caught herself. Took a breath.
“Sorry. Rambling again. But—yes. If you want to learn, I can teach you.”
Gareth stared at her for another long moment. The men had stopped even pretending to train, watching their exchange with expressions that ranged from confusion to fascination to something almost like hope.
Then Gareth nodded. Once. Definitive.
He gestured for her to follow him toward a stone bench at the edge of the yard, away from the mud and the watching eyes. His movements were deliberate, unhurried—giving her time to refuse, to change her mind, to remember that he was the Silent Reaper and she should probably be afraid.
Elodie wasn’t afraid. She’d spent her whole life talking to people who didn’t really listen, explaining things to colleagues who’d already decided she wasn’t worth hearing. She’d learned to fill the silence with words because silence felt like erasure, like disappearing, like being nothing at all.
But this silence was different. This was a man who’d chosen to stop speaking or couldn’t speak, who communicated in gestures and glances and the careful economy of his body. Who’d just watched her babble for five solid minutes and somehow, impossibly, wanted more.
He’s listening, she realised with a jolt.He’s actually listening.
She followed him to the bench and began the first lesson.
Yes, she signed, showing him the simple motion.
No.
Thank you.
Please.
He copied each gesture with the focused intensity he’d brought to the sword work, his large hands surprisingly nimble as they shaped the unfamiliar movements. When he made amistake, he didn’t grow frustrated—just paused, watched her demonstrate again, and tried once more until he got it right.
Behind them, Miles snarled something at the gawping soldiers, and training resumed with a clatter of practice swords and muttered oaths. But Elodie noticed several of the men glancing over, their faces caught between suspicion and something that looked almost like wonder.
Their lord was talking. Not with his voice—but talking, nonetheless.
She taught him friend and enemy. Safe and danger. Hungry and tired and water.
