Page 32 of An Arrow to the Heart

“Fucks sake Sylvie, I didn’t mean anything by it. Why are you being so defensive?”

“I’m not being defensive. I’m asking that you mind your own damn business.”

“Right.”

“What? You think because we’re fucking I have to tell you everything about everything?”

“I’m not asking to know everything about everything. I didn’t realise asking about a fucking little scrap of paper equates to asking about all your darkest secrets. Fucks sake Sylvie, I’m just trying to get to know you and help out where I can. And in regard to us fucking as you put it, I may not be as long-lived as you Sylvie, but I am not naive, I’m old enough to know what we have isn’t just sex and I know you feel it too, whether you want to admit that or not. I won’t deny my feelings about this,” he waved at the space between them, “about you. You’re too important to me and I’m done playing games.” he said, a hard edge to his tone.

Because yes, he was pissed that she was being so defensive, putting those damn walls back up and worse acting like what was between them was nothing more than sex or some game. He got up abruptly, dropping the book he was reading on the sofa in his wake and he walked out the back door without looking back at her.

“Come on Phelan, let's go for a walk,” he said, shaking his head, to the dog who had been napping by the front door of the cottage, keeping guard like he liked to do. Sylvie clearly wanted space, and apparently she didn’t feel like confiding in him. So space was what she got.

He just started walking with Phelan at his heel, he aimlessly kicked at the stones on the country path, the heavy grey clouds hanging over him like a bad omen. He began to think that maybe this had in fact been one sided and that she wanted nothing more than a bit of fun from him. Gods, he was an idiot to think someone like her could actually be interested in him.

Afterall what did he have to offer her? He wallowed in his self-pity and before long his feet had carried him to the Alehouse.

“Hey what’s up,” Lonan said as he came walking in from the back when he noticed him seated at the empty bar, half slumped over it.

“Ah nothing much, I’ll have one of your finest please,” he said with a deep sigh. The Alehouse was quiet tonight, no surprise after the last few days of upheaval. Lonan reached for the shelf behind the bar, grabbing two bottles as he began, “didn’t think I’d be seeing you today,” his eyebrows arched.

Ardál let out a chuckle, briefly reminiscing last night and this morning. Oh he’d definitely much rather be there.

“Ahh, yeah, I might have fucked that up.”

“I doubt that. Whatever it is I’m sure if you talk to her it’ll work out,” Lonan said, his lips thinned, offering a sympathetic smile.

“Well, that’s part of the problem. She doesn’t talk to me and she doesn’t want to see me right now. Suppose it really all was too good to be true,” Ardál said, placing his head in his hands against the bar.

Lonan pressed the bottle of mead into Ardál’s hand, taking a seat beside him as he said, “you can’t think like that.”

“I think I pushed too hard, too soon at least. I’m fairly certain I love her, well no, that’s not true. I know I love her…… Gods I am so in love with her but I don’t think she feels the same. I want more than just the sex. Not that the sex isn’t fucking amazing. It is, and then some but I want it all. I want to be selfish and have all of her.”

Lonan brought a comforting hand to his shoulder momentarily, “oh boy, best drink up then.”

So Ardál did.

Hours had passed and they’d both had a few drinks. Lonan had told him the story of how he came to inherit the Alehouse, just a rundown rickety old tavern then. He’d met Ortolf and Valeska not long after, they had been in search of work as they passed through the area. Lonan wasted no time in hiring them to help with the restoration work, the big strong mercenaries they were. And, well, according to Lonan one thing led to another, and after a brief period of denied feelings, vulnerability and lust, Valeska and Ortolf decided that they wanted to stay, not just for him, but the village community too, and with the aid of their coin they were able to extend the tavern to what it was now. And none of them ever looked back. The Alehouse did better now than ever, punters growing by numbers each passing year. He feared they’d soon need to extend again to meet the demand. It seemed the village was a magnet for lost souls.

“So what were you fighting about anyway?” Lonan asked, curiosity clearly getting the better of him. He was sitting relaxed, one leg crossed over the other as though he had no care in the world, nursing his bottle of wildfoam mead. That was another thing they'd discussed, his latest flavour of mead, he had laughed as he’d told him how he toyed with the idea of calling his latest brew poached egg mead, given the little flower’s appearance but alas, he figured folk would mistake the mead for containing actual eggs. Ardál hadn’t seen him so laid back before. He supposed the man felt as comfortable around him as he did him.

“I don’t know,” Ardál shifted slightly in his posture, straightening his back. Despite being drunk, he was aware enough not to want to spill Sylvie’s secrets. He didn’t know if any of the village folk knew about her brother and he didn’t want to betray her like that. She’d said he didn’t socialise so there was every possibility he never visited the village. And he didn’t even know how to process the note thing, that had clearly been a secret.

He wished she’d just tell him.

Just ask her, his subconscious urged. But in the back of his mind he thought the address had to be somehow connected to her brother and just then he had an idea.

Maybe he wouldn’t make the decision sober, but he decided then that he’d go.

He’d go to the meet.

He’d find out what it was all about. He’d be there on the off chance that he’d need her. Once he got home tonight, he’d write down a copy of the note before he forgot the details, and he’d go.

“Well surely then it can’t be that important then,” Lonan said, interrupting his dwindling thoughts.

“But it is that important.”

“If you say so, friend,” Lonan said silently chuckling to himself, no doubt over his friend’s stubbornness as he walked behind the bar to retrieve more bottles of wildfoam mead. Ardál had to admit though, whatever the little flowers' silly appearance, the taste of this mead was a journey he hadn't prepared for. It was initially sweet, unfolding to a merry array of complex undertones until lastly, that wildfoam danced on his tongue leaving him wanting another taste. Quite honestly, he was blown away by the craftsmanship.