The memories rush back—his wounds, his aching laughter as I clung to the bed’s edge, my headstrong vow to keep to myself. Yet here I am, drawn against him in sleep as though my body has chosen what my mind refused.
Shock washes through me, colliding with the undeniable peace of his hold. I should not be here. By virtue alone, I should have risen before dawn and set distance between us. And still… I have never felt so safe.
Before I can move, before apology or retreat can form, his voice rumbles softly beneath my ear. “Good morning.”
No accusation. No jest. Only calm assurance—like sunlight breaking the horizon.
I sit up slowly, not fully pulling away, reluctant to lose the peace. “Good morning,” I echo, a soft smile betraying my hesitation. “How are you feeling?” My hands hover where bandages are no longer needed—over the smaller wounds that have mended.
He groans, shifting. I slip a pillow behind him to ease the effort. “Still healing,” he admits, pride bruised as much as his body.
I pull a linen shirt from the basket tucked beneath the chair—a simple garment left by the cottage’s last keeper. My fingers linger in the weave. “If you’re strong enough,” I say, letting the pause linger, “I suspect Eryndor would prefer you take this rather than stay in that tattered, bloody mess.” I set it beside him with care. “I’ll bring you something to eat?—”
“You don’t need to fuss over me so,” he interrupts.
“Bit used to being the mighty warrior?” I tease gently. “That may be true, but I doubt you’re often healing from injuries such as these.”
He gives a weary shake of his head. “I’ve fought battles, led men in war… and nothing has felled me like this.” His hand rests over the gravest lesion, clutching as much at memory as at the moment. My mind drifts to what he may have endured before arriving here.
“Porridge or broth?” I ask, breaking the silence before it grows too heavy. “Do you think you can stomach more today?”
His laugh fills the small room. “Icould eat a horse.”
The sound startles a laugh from me too, hand flying to my mouth. “Speaking of—your horse outside doesn’t look intended as a meal…”
“Bracken.” His spirit lifts. “He’s outside?”
I nod.
“That horse has carried me through more than I can name, and still he stayed.” His smile dazzles despite the weariness. “He’s more fit for knighthood than the spit.”
Our laughter meets and mingles, light spilling into the small space like morning sun through the shutters.
I move into the rhythm of morning—coaxing the fire to warm porridge, returning with a tray and fruit gathered days before. Buckets fetched from the cistern. An armful of hay laid in the trough. I bow with a smile to the waiting stallion. “Something better this afternoon, Sir Bracken—an apple, perhaps. The least you deserve.”
The day feels lighter for it. Fruit tastes sweeter, the sun warmer, the air scented as though in celebration.
When I check midmorning, Vale has returned to sleep—a welcome sight. But by afternoon, his voice meets me as I rustle about. “Do you ever slow down?”
“I suppose not.”
“Please. Stay. I’ll go mad if all I hear is you fussing with chores.”
I claim a leather-bound book from the shelf and settle in the chair beside the bed, sunlight spilling across the page, my thumb brushing the cover in quiet anticipation—pages upon pages in my grasp.
“What do you have there?”
“It was Eryndor’s.” It’s not the more intimate journals, which have remained untouched, but rather a more practical ledger of the cottage’s keepings. An almanac of wisdom that has served me well. “Most of it in his hand, but the margins…” I turn the book toward him, showing the delicate script beside the firm calligraphy.
“Awynn,” Vale says, reverence threading through his voice. “His wife.”
“He spoke of her,” I whisper. “A mortal. The grief when he…” The memory of his words draws a deep ache—to have loved so deeply and lost so much. I trail my fingers across the mingled hands preserved in ink.
“It was rare,” Vale says quietly. “A love so true. He left it all for her—the safety of court, the eternity of his kind—all for a mortal lifetime.”
His words pierce. How small I must seem beside centuries.
He must sense the shift in me. “It isn’t unheard of,” he adds. “Immortal and mortal finding one another. But as the lines between our worlds grew sharper, most found there was no place for them in either.”
