Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
R udi’s antlers pulsed as he watched Miran sweep into his home like she owned it, disturbing the peaceful breakfast scene. His jaw clenched as the elderly healer’s eyes darted around his usually private sanctuary.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” Miran’s weathered face creased into a knowing smile.
“What do you want?”
The words came out harsher than he intended. His arms crossed tighter against his chest, shoulders hunching forward.
“Miran!” Lina tugged excitedly on the healer’s tunic. “We had breakfast together. Clarice made eggs!”
“Did she now?”
Miran gave Clarice an amused look, and he had to fight back the impulse to put himself in front of her. The last thing he needed was Miran meddling. She had a habit of pushing him toward things he wasn’t ready for, always hinting at some greater destiny he wanted no part of.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you yesterday. Amana went into labor a week early and I didn’t hear about your arrival until last night.” Miran shook her head. “I know North Haven can be a little... suspicious of strangers, especially now. But I intend to make up for it today. I thought I could start by showing you around the village.”
His stomach dropped. Of course Miran would try to take Clarice away, just when he’d started to feel... He cut off that dangerous line of thinking. But the thought of his home returning to its hollow silence made his antlers pulse brighter.
“Really? That would be wonderful,” she said eagerly.
His frown deepened at Miran’s calculating expression. The old female knew exactly what she was doing. He’d known this tentative arrangement wouldn’t last, but he hadn’t expected it to end so soon. The familiar weight of isolation pressed against his chest, his antlers throbbing with suppressed emotion.
Miran settled into one of his kitchen chairs without invitation, her bright clothes a splash of unwelcome color in his muted home.
“I’d be happy too. I can tell you all about the villagers too, even Rudi. Like the time he got his antlers tangled in my yarn collection. He’d snuck in to leave me fresh herbs.”
Heat crept up his neck, and he turned away, busying himself with clearing the breakfast dishes.
“I found him hours later, wrapped up like a festival gift. He’d been too proud to call for help.” Miran’s voice held no mockery, only fondness. “Even then, he tried to do everything alone.”
I didn’t have a choice , he thought bitterly.
He wanted to snap at Miran to stop, but the words stuck in his throat.
“I was leaving the herbs as payment for treating my scraped knee,” he growled instead.
“Yes, but you picked twice what was needed.” Miran’s knowing tone made his shoulders tense. “So determined to be independent.”
He kept his back turned, unable to face Clarice’s reaction to this unwanted revelation of his past. The silence stretched as he scrubbed at a perfectly clean plate, waiting for the laughter that usually followed stories about him.
No laughter came, but somehow, the quiet acceptance felt worse than mockery. At least he knew how to handle ridicule.
When he finally turned back around, Miran’s eyes were fixed on him with that same penetrating stare he remembered from childhood.
“You didn’t have to sneak in, you know. You were always welcome in my home. Every time you skulked past my door, I called out. Every festival, every gathering?—”
His antlers flared again, as his fingers clenched around the dish towel. The memories surfaced unbidden—Miran’s invitations to join her for meals, her attempts to teach him weaving, her quiet presence at his mother’s burial. Each kindness he’d rejected, certain it stemmed from pity rather than genuine concern.
“That was a long time ago.”
The words came out harsher than he intended, and he turned away again, focusing on the mundane task of drying dishes that didn’t need it. Behind him, a chair creaked as Clarice shifted, and he fought the urge to glance her way.
“Time doesn’t change the truth, dear boy,” Miran said softly. “You chose your solitude. I merely hoped you’d choose differently.”
She was right—she’d always been right. Every withdrawn step, every refused invitation had been his choice. The loneliness that followed wasn’t something thrust upon him, but a wall he’d built himself, brick by careful brick. But he’d erected that wall to protect himself. Miran might have been kind but so many others were not.
He waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away an irritating insect, and the silence stretched between them. He refused to break it, refused to acknowledge how accurately she’d struck at the heart of his self-imposed exile. The dish towel twisted in his hands as more memories threatened to overwhelm him—but he pushed them down, locked them away where they couldn’t touch him.
At last Miran sighed and turned to Clarice.
“Are you ready to go, my dear?”
She cast an uncertain glance his way, and he forced a nod, each muscle in his neck rigid. What right did he have to stop her? She should learn about the village, find her place there. His antlers pulsed with a dull glow that reflected off the window panes as she picked up her furs and followed Miran through the door.
Lina bounced after them, her small antler buds catching the light. The sight twisted something in his chest. Until yesterday she’d been his only visitor. She’d always gravitated toward him, perhaps because of her own loneliness, but now she skipped away without a backward glance, caught up in the excitement of showing Clarice around.
The door swung shut, and the silence crashed over him like a physical weight. His home, which had felt warm and alive moments ago, now seemed to mock him with its emptiness. An unfamiliar ache spread through his chest, equal parts jealousy and yearning. He’d grown used to his solitude, learned to wear it like armor. But now that armor felt heavier than ever, weighing him down as he stood alone in his kitchen.
Unable to bear the sight of those empty chairs any longer, he turned away from the table and headed for the workshop on the other side of the living area. He was determined to lose himself in work, but instead he found himself pacing, his boots scuffing the worn floorboards.
Crystals were arranged in precise rows on his workbench, awaiting his attention, and their faint glow seemed to mock his restless energy. He picked up a rough-cut specimen but didn’t reach for his tools. He set it down with a sigh, his ears straining for footsteps outside. His house felt hollow now, each creak of the old walls emphasizing the silence.
He’d spent years building similar walls around himself, convinced he needed no one. Yet now...
Miran’s words echoed in his head, and he shifted uncomfortably. She’d extended her hand countless times over the years. After his mother died. When the other children taunted him. During the worst of the power shortages when everyone was cold and desperate. He’d always rejected her, convinced she pitied him.
Now Clarice would be the object of her kindness. His chest tightened. He’d given her nothing but gruff words and reluctant shelter. Why would she choose his company over Miran’s warmth?
He’d been so sure he was better off alone. But now his solitude felt less like a choice and more like a burden. He tried to imagine a life with someone who understood and accepted his quirks and flaws. Someone like Clarice?
The thought made his antlers pulse with warmth as he imagined coming home to her, sharing a meal, even sharing his bed. But that was impossible. She would never want to stay here with him. No one wanted to stay with him.
His fingers drummed against the workbench. How long did it take to tour the village? What was Miran telling her? He caught himself glancing over at the doorway every few minutes, hoping to see her auburn hair and determined chin.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but couldn’t shake the restlessness. He’d survived decades alone, built a life in this isolation. So why did these few minutes stretch like years?
A noise outside the door interrupted his thoughts, and he hurried over. Had she returned to him? But when he yanked the door open, there was no one there. Just a basket sitting on his doorstep.
He recognized Miran’s intricate weaving on the basket, but what was it doing here? Had she forgotten it? Or was this some new game she was playing?
He cautiously picked up the basket and took it inside, placing it on his table before he lifted the lid. Inside, neatly folded, was a pair of pants and a tunic, both clearly sized for Clarice. He picked up the tunic - not new but soft and warm in a pretty shade of green that would suit her pale human skin.
His jaw clenched as he imagined Miran presenting the clothes to Clarice, watching her eyes light up with gratitude and wonder. The clothes were not ostentatious, just simple and practical, but they were something she desperately needed, given the way she’d shivered in her existing clothes.
He slammed the lid down on the basket, his antlers pulsing with frustration, then froze. Miran could have just given the clothes to Clarice. Instead she’d left them here. So that he could give them to her? So that he could be the one to please her?
Fuck. Miran was meddling again - and yet he couldn’t help envisioning Clarice’s happy smile. With a frustrated sigh, he picked up the basket and stalked back to his workshop.