CHAPTER TWENTY #2
The three Warriors returned to camp from their training, exhausted and contemplative.
The smell of roasted goose and vegetable stew greeted them.
In the rusty glow of sunset, the rest of their troop lounged around the camp.
Thom sat next to Ilain, talking in low, amused tones.
Their friendship had survived his mistakes, and Evylin smiled, knowing that it meant more to him than he’d ever say.
Nearby, Auden tended the meal, talking with Deckard, who pointed to a passage in a rather thick book. Vayden and Isla sat across from them, but Rafferty stood to the side, chatting merrily with Hewitt.
Instantly, Evylin’s heart filled at the sight.
Splitting off from Brea, she and Ethenn hurried over to the pair.
“That’s because you’re cocky,” Hewitt was telling Rafferty. “You pay too much attention to how you can outsmart your opponent, and you miss your opportunity to defeat him with simple skill.”
“Simple,” Rafferty said in a snarky tone, “is boring.”
“Simple is effective,” Hewitt returned. “And if you don’t accept that, then you’re an idiot.”
With that, Hewitt turned to face Evylin. “Hello, Evie,” he said, his words immediately becoming gentle.
Evylin crossed her arms to keep from reaching out for him. “I like seeing you around camp,” she remarked.
“I like being around camp,” he admitted, then greeted Ethenn. “Has your training been effective?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Ethenn said sourly.
Evylin grimaced in agreement. “Brea is a fan of torture, it seems.”
Hewitt nodded. “Good. You were getting sloppy.”
“I was not!”
“You were grieving,” he said casually. “It’s to be expected. However, you three—” Hewitt motioned toward Ethenn, Rafferty, and then Thom by the fire, “were not, so you have no excuse for your regression.”
Ethenn and Rafferty shared a look that said they disagreed.
Upon Auden’s announcement that dinner was ready, they made their way to the fireside. However, Evylin lingered behind for a moment longer, looking up at Hewitt. “I want to talk with you,” she whispered. “After dinner.”
“Without Deckard?” he asked, a single bushy eyebrow raised.
She nodded.
Hewit returned the gesture, then motioned for her to precede him to the fire.
Deckard had risen, returning his book to his saddlebag, so Evylin sat next to the empty spot he’d vacated.
As had become the standard in the past three days of travel, Hewitt sat at her side.
Though he had no need for food as a ghost, he took every opportunity to stay with her.
Auden handed out bowls to everyone. The hearty meal was made of the last of the meager supplies they’d brought for the beginning of their journey. Once they were back in Ephria, where they could move freely, they would replenish their food stores.
The conversation grew happily chaotic, filling the camp like an overstuffed turkey. It was strange to Evylin how only three more people could add so much more noise.
Deckard returned to the campfire, calling, “Thom.” His brother looked up, and Deckard tossed something to him before taking his seat again next to Evylin.
Across the fire, Thom caught the small, cloth-and-twine-wrapped object. “Of course you remembered,” he muttered sardonically.
“Remembered what?” Ilain asked from her seat at his side.
Deckard remained silent, a wry grin on his face as he spooned his dinner.
Thom clucked his tongue, unwrapped the object, and blinked. “Are you serious?” he asked.
“Don’t lose it this time,” Deckard said in a kindly manner.
Evylin peered across, trying to get a view of what Thom held. Given the shadows, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was a wooden horse.
Thom tapped the toy’s back. “I didn’t lose it,” he said good-naturedly. “Meria broke it, and she made me promise not to tell you because she was terrified that you’d be angry with her.”
“She was right to be terrified,” Deckard said. “I spent weeks making that bloody thing for you, and I was furious you’d lost it. I’m surprised it took you twenty years to rat her out.”
Understanding dawned on Evylin at that moment, the unexplained pieces of the strange scene coming together. “It’s your birthday?” she asked Thom.
Everyone stared at him, and Thom let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Uh, yeah,” he said, holding the toy fondly. “It is.”
A chorus of well-wishes was instantly passed around, and Thom graciously received them. Though he ducked his head bashfully, his side grin spoke of his happiness at being recognized. Evylin immediately saw why Deckard had made a spectacle of giving his gift.
Turning to her husband, Evylin whispered, “You did that on purpose.”
“Did what?” he replied with false modesty.
She eyed him knowingly. “You can’t fool me.” She poked him in the chest. “I can feel what you’re feeling, remember? And you’re decidedly smug.”
“I’m never smug,” he said with a smile. “I’m simply glad to know that my brother feels loved and celebrated on his birthday.”
Evylin nodded but didn’t press him. Instead, she kissed his shoulder. “You’re a good brother, Jonn Deckard,” she said.
His expression softened, and he shifted closer to her.
The dinner fell to discussing Thom and the topic of birthdays after that.
He recounted his favorite birthday: The day Deckard gave him the first iteration of the carved horse named Valor.
Then he told them about his least favorite: The day he dislocated his pinky finger after punching the side of the house because he lost a sword fight with Deckard.
And while the conversation was charming and chipper, Evylin found herself frowning internally.
This was her first time hearing these stories, just like the rest of the troop.
She hadn’t even known that Deckard did woodworking.
And while she was rather certain that he was thirty-two at the time of their marriage, she suddenly realized that she’d never learned the date of his birthday.
They’d been married for almost half a year. Had it already passed?
Once again, Evylin was faced with the reality that she didn’t know her husband.
It was disheartening. How could she make him happy when she didn’t know what he wanted out of life?
How was she supposed to love him—well and with care—when she couldn’t even think of an appropriate gift to give him once she did learn the date of his birth?
And for Allore’s sake, she couldn’t even recall their anniversary!
While the conversation around them continued, Deckard leaned close to her. “Are you all right?” he whispered.
Blinking herself out of her worried thoughts, Evylin forced herself to nod. “Yes,” she assured him. “Yes, I’m just thinking.”
“I guessed that,” he said lightly. “But it felt like you were . . . frustrated, maybe? I’m not sure. I can’t quite tell the emotions apart sometimes.”
Evylin couldn’t help smirking. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who struggles to interpret them.”
“Most certainly not.” He brushed his hand comfortingly across her back. “Sometimes, I can’t even tell whether they’re yours or mine.”
“I’ve been doing that too,” she said, pressing into his side. “Do you think it’s normal?”
“I have no idea.” He dipped his chin, giving her a determined look. “But back to what you were feeling. Was it frustration?”
Uncertain if she should reveal her true thoughts here in the presence of others—be their conversation overheard or not—Evylin hesitated.
She wanted to be honest with Deckard. They’d had too many misunderstandings in the past because of her withholding.
But she didn’t want to discuss the subject here.
“Not now,” she said quietly. “I promise I’ll tell you another time, but . . .”
When she glanced toward the others, he nodded, understanding. “Another time,” he agreed.
Setting her empty bowl on the ground, Evylin glanced at Hewitt. “Could I talk with Hewitt?” she asked.
Deckard didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
With his direction, Evylin rose and hurried into the trees where Deckard said the ghost would be.
Sure enough, he was waiting readily. His scruffy beard and unruly hair didn’t ruffle in the cold evening breeze.
His military coat stretched across his broad shoulders yet showed no more wear than on the day he’d died.
“Now,” Hewitt said, voice a soothing rumble, “what’s bothering you?”
Evylin smiled forlornly. “Many things,” she admitted.
He waited patiently.
With a sigh, Evylin leaned against an elm. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
“In regard to what?”
“Life.” She scoffed at the grandiosity of that sentiment. “If we make it through this, I’m going to live for roughly two hundred years, maybe more. I love Jonn, I’m happy being with him, and I know those two hundred years are going to be . . . so full. Full of everything good.”
Evylin paused, scanning her uncle’s face. “And yet, I don’t know what I want any more now than I did three months ago.”
Hewitt gave her a dry smile. “Adventure isn’t what the storybooks say, is it?”
“Not even a little.”
He dipped his chin, compassion in his gaze even as he fell silent.
Evylin sighed. “When we were children,” she murmured, almost afraid to speak the words, “Ryen and I made all these grand plans. We were going to travel the world. And after he died, I thought that dream was lost even as I clung to it.”
“It’s why I got you out,” Hewitt said.
“I know.” She smiled sadly. “I knew even then—when you convinced Jonn and me to marry. All of this was meant to give me our dream. To give Ryen our dream, even if he couldn’t be here with me.”
Hewitt’s silence was confirmation.
“But the problem is, Uncle,” she said. “I don’t think I want it anymore. I don’t think I wanted it even then. Because I didn’t know what it was. Instead, I blindly followed our plans, thinking that even without Ryen, adventure was still what I desired.”
“You find that it isn’t?”
She tipped her head in thought. “No, I—I do desire it. But I think I’ve discovered that it isn’t enough. It isn’t all that I want—traveling the world, going from one adventure to the next. I want more.”