Sydney sat with the fire, but not in its company.
Cross-legged, back against a stone, sword laying by his side - he reclined - but did not rest. His head leaned forward slightly. Mouth tight, eyes furrowed, he stared at the fire - as though accusing it of collusion.
Riven lay under a willow tree, exhausted. Sydney had found him barely able to sit straight, eyes closed, when he had come to relieve him of his watch. Next to him lay Aelfric. Treasure was scattered between them, both having emptied their bags to use as pillows. Enough gold to buy several sets of armor lay at Aelfric’s feet as he slept in a worn, oversized, hooded cloak. He had not moved from that position since he lay down. Twice, Sydney had gone over to make sure he still drew air, his breaths slow and deep.
They had both deceived him.
This entire time - ever since the battle in the barn - they had both acted as though it had been Riven who was the fire mage, when it had been Aelfric all along. It showed not only a lack of trust but a sense of recklessness. What if he could not adequately protect the king when this information had been kept from him?
Perhaps it was because they could also sense what Sydney knew - that he was a poor excuse of a protector, a defective shield feebly displaying glory it had never earned.
The memories rose, each one a testament to his inadequacy. He could not stop the captain from killing Steffon. In his dreams, Murdoch still gazed at him, his sword buried in the young lieutenant’s heart as Sydney stood there, frozen in time like a statue meant to represent protection, but offering none. And, back in the pirate cave, the skeletons had been completely unfazed by him. No matter what tactics he employed, no prior training had prepared him to kill that which was already dead.
They were alive because of magic - a child’s magic, at that.
His fingers were drawn to the scar on his face. That thin but irremovable line served as both a boundary and a reminder. Silent but unremitting, it not only testified to his failure in his responsibilities as a man but also to the limits that kept him confined to an image he wasn’t sure he could uphold - burdened by expectations he could neither escape nor wholly embrace.
From under a nearby willow tree, She stirred. She had lain with her back resting against the bark, arms and legs crossed, the trace of a smile on her face.
Her backpack was nestled by her side, her share of the treasure put away and secure.
She made her way over to the fire where Sydney sat. Hair in disarray, sauntering in a gait neither refined nor feminine, she settled onto a rock near him. Elbows on her knees, hands folded, and the hint of a smirk on her face, she was ready for another adventure at the hour of the wolf.
“How is it that you are so confident?” The words tumbled from Sydney’s lips unbidden, heavy with meaning he hadn’t intended to reveal.
She looked at him, palms open, shoulders shrugging, genuinely perplexed.
“What I mean is…” he tried to buy himself some time. He searched his mind for a way to rephrase the question, to gain insight without being vulnerable.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked, smiling broadly, swaying slightly with an ease that spoke of complete self-possession. “What am I not good at?”
“Being a lady.”
The words escaped unchecked, and horror bloomed in his chest. He darted a furtive glance her way, regretful of making such a blunt, shameful accusation.
“Because I’m not a lady.” The statement fell between them, simple and unadorned.
Sydney’s gaze met hers briefly. His mouth pursed, eyes narrowed, he tried to think of a response.
“When I turned thirteen years old,” she continued, “My father held a ball to commemorate my “choosing” - he called it. How typical of him to celebrate something that did not exist. All of the lordlings of the Free Dales were there. Of course, only a handful were strategically allowed to interact with me - ask me to dance…”
Her voice drifted, her eyes distant as she attended her memory.
“At the high table, sitting amongst the other lords, my father brokered a deal with the patriarch of one of the other families.”
The fire cracked. She took a deep breath, the flames shining in her eyes.
“I haven’t been a lady since I spited my father. He would have traded my future for political advantage. ‘As long as you are part of this family, you shall do as you’re bidden.’” A corner of her mouth tucked in, remembering. “Well…”
She had gathered some nearby twigs as she had talked. Absentmindedly, she snapped them and tossed them into the fire.
“On my own, I found myself in a world I’d never been allowed to know existed. I had to become tough, independent…”
“Then what about your name?” Sydney ventured.
“My name! She?” Laughter burst forth, genuine and free. “I hate that name.”
“Then why…”
“Because we often don’t get to choose how others see us.” Her voice grew gentle. “But we can decide if we let it define us.”
Sydney sat quietly, unsure of himself or what he should say next.
“I don’t let other people decide how I should act, or what I should do,” she continued. “If I did, I’d be married to some lord right now, and the world would accept me for what I’m not.”
She paused, standing. “Instead, I accept myself for who I am.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” he said, almost to himself.
She came closer, moonlight and shadows playing across her features. A knowing smile curved her lips as she settled beside him, calloused fingers gathering his hair with unexpected gentleness.
“You have nice hair, for a knight,” she said softly, the breeze playing between their faces as the night deepened around them.
Sydney sat rigid. Hesitantly, he searched her face for signs of sarcasm and judgment, but he found only acceptance.
“I can’t…” he stammered, “my scar…”
She raised her hand, a finger extended. Her eyes gauging his, she let it approach his face. He leaned back slightly. Then his eyes met hers. Delicately, she traced the pale line that ran from his brow down his cheek.
“Our scars are marks of wisdom,” She said. “Laying eyes on them, we remember the lessons that we have learned.”
Sydney sat paralyzed. This was foreign to him. Since he was young, his world - inside and out - had been structured. Routine. There was no room for such…incongruities.
The silence stretched, settling around them like a thin, fragile veil. She lingered close, her gaze softer now, and Sydney felt his heart beat in the spaces between their words. She tilted her head, studying him, a glint of something unspoken flickering in her eyes. She leaned forward, her hand resting just a hair’s breadth away from his on the rock, her fingers brushing the edge of his knuckles, featherlight.
For a heartbeat, he couldn’t move. The fire crackled before them, its warmth creeping into his skin, and he could sense her presence - closer than he was accustomed to.
She said nothing, her gaze steady, holding his with a gentleness that unnerved him. His pulse quickened, his body caught in some unfamiliar pull, as if she were inviting him to step forward, to close a distance he hadn’t realized existed until this moment.
But something in him recoiled.
He cleared his throat, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, and broke his gaze away, feeling his own discomfort sharpen into resolve.
“I’ll… I’ll let you take the watch now,” he said, his voice tight.
Without waiting for her response, he rose, retreating into the shadowed edges of their camp, a knot of confusion tightening in his chest. Her presence lingered in the air, warm and unsettling, but he pressed it aside, taking his place on the ground with his back turned to her.
She watched him go, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and settled down by the fire once more, her eyes following him for just a moment longer before she turned to the flames.
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