CHAPTER FIVE
Throughout the rest of the day, they walked, the rain drizzling constantly around them.
It splattered on the vegetation, spraying little droplets onto their faces that even their hoods couldn’t deter.
Despite the wool cloaks, their boots and hems soaked up the dampness, brushing against the thick, wet flora around them.
The Ephrians’ introduction to Wauld was unpleasant, to say the least. As far north as they were, the chill of winter laced the air with a sharp twinge. It didn’t help that the canopy of leaves above them blocked what little sunlight filtered through the rain clouds.
Worn down and damp to the core, the troop finally made camp as the world grew too steeped in gray shadow to continue safely.
Though “making camp” was too generous a term.
They’d have to sleep on the wet ground without bedrolls or blankets.
And with the chance of the Mages still pursuing them, they couldn’t risk a fire either.
The troop found the most shaded clearing they could, backed up to a large outcropping of rocks. It would provide a comfortable, well-hidden place to rest.
“We should keep watch in shifts,” Deckard suggested as they ate their meager rations. “I don’t want to give anyone the chance to sneak up on us.”
With their odd numbers, Deckard assigned Ethenn to watch with Ilain for the first shift, Thom and Auden to the second, and he would take the third with Evylin and Rafferty.
He’d attempted to divide them into the most palatable groupings possible, and he also took care to separate those who might distract one another most. With Ilain and Rafferty’s penchant for chatter, he paired them with those who wouldn’t encourage such behavior.
“I’ve never been on watch duty before,” Ilain remarked as she sat next to Ethenn near the entrance to their camp. She patted his knee playfully. “You’ll have to teach me what to do.”
Ethenn’s whole neck burned scarlet. “It’s pretty straightforward,” he muttered, fidgeting with his cloak’s hem. “You just watch and listen.”
Thom stepped up to Deckard’s side, several paces from the pair. After Auden’s healing magic, his leg had recovered nicely, only the faintest of limps suggesting the toll the day had exacted on their bodies. “That,” his brother remarked under his breath, “wasn’t your finest idea.”
“No?” Deckard inquired.
His gray-blue eyes flashed with an amused glint. “That boy’s gonna be so distracted he wouldn’t be able to hear a Guardian crashing through the trees.”
Instantly, Ethenn whipped his head around, scowling at Thom. “I heard that,” he returned.
“Heard what?” Ilain asked.
“Nothing,” Ethenn grumbled, then turned back to the forest.
Deckard and Thom shared barely restrained laughter. “He’s got sharp ears,” Deckard noted.
The remaining five found what open ground they could to sleep on in the small clearing. Rafferty snored soundly, nestled under a fern to hide from the constant rain. Auden lay more comfortably near the entry, seemingly undisturbed by the weather conditions.
Thom dropped down near Evylin at a respectful distance. He rubbed his hands together beneath his cloak. “Are your fingers as numb as mine?”
Back pressed against the rock, Evylin shifted to give Deckard the room to take his seat next to her. “Actually,” she countered, “they aren’t that bad.”
Unsure if she was being sarcastic, Deckard glanced down at her. “Then perhaps you’d graciously lend me some of your warmth.” He curled and uncurled his frigid fingers. “I can’t feel mine anymore.”
A low, airy chuckle escaped Evylin, and Deckard froze. She’d not laughed at any of his jests in twelve days.
Even more surprisingly, she nudged his side and held out her hands. “Give them here,” she instructed.
Deckard stared at her waiting palms, baffled. “What?”
She motioned toward him. “Your hands. I’ll help you warm them.”
In a stupor, Deckard found himself placing his hands in hers.
Evylin gently rubbed her palms over them, her touch surprisingly warm as she massaged life into his skin.
He couldn’t help glancing up at Thom, who watched with equal shock.
Since Hewitt’s death, Evylin had been altogether distant from Deckard.
Their only physical interaction was due to the necessity of sleep.
For her to willingly offer to touch him like this was unprecedented.
“Better?” Evylin asked, her gaze fixed upon her work.
Deckard found himself nodding mutely.
Finally, she looked at him with a dry grin, then squeezed his hands. “Good.”
Thom held up his hands then, a teasing tilt to his lips. “I suppose I’m on my own?”
Evylin sniggered, beginning to lie down. “Goodnight, Thom,” she said in response, then rolled onto her side, facing Deckard.
Still incredulous at what had just occurred, Deckard remained locked in his seat. He and Thom exchanged a silent, mystified conversation. Had the Mages somehow exchanged their Evylin with an impostor? That was the only explanation.
Forsaking comprehension, Deckard settled onto the ground next to his wife.
Her head lifted in anticipation of his arm, which he extended in its usual fashion, propped under her neck.
He lay facing her as he always did when it was especially frigid, using one of the packs for a pillow.
Evylin had always struggled with the cold, and early in their relationship, his warmth made sleep bearable for her.
At this point, they’d grown used to their snuggled positioning.
Despite their nightly closeness, there were clear lines that Deckard had never crossed.
He was profusely aware of her shyness regarding physical relations and intended to honor it.
Tonight, given the very public setting, he was even more cautious.
Even when they’d slept in their shelter-halfs, they’d had far more privacy than this.
Now, Deckard’s sense of propriety made him anxious.
With no escape from the wind or the rain beyond their cloaks, Evylin huddled against him, her arms creating the semblance of a barrier between their bodies.
It was a joke, Deckard often thought, to consider such a menial blockade an actual impediment to their physical contact.
A bald-faced lie, he ventured, as most nights, Evylin’s lower half wound up firmly pressed against his, their feet often intertwined.
He’d never mentioned this to her. Whenever he woke in those conditions, he rose before her, as he didn’t care to lose what little opportunity he had to enjoy the pleasure of his wife’s affections, even if she were asleep.
Gently, Deckard laid his arm over Evylin’s side, forcing himself to settle in and get some rest. His fingers were already growing numb once more, but he worked to ignore it.
“Jonn,” Evylin whispered into his chest.
“Mm?” he murmured in reply.
She drew her head back, tipping up her chin to look at him. Her eyes took on a darker brown than usual in the shadow of her hood and the ever-growing night. “Your hand will freeze if you leave it out there.”
Rather certain there was only one other option in their current sleeping arrangement and equally confident she would disapprove of it, Deckard lifted his shoulder with a shrug. “I’ll be fine,” he lied.
Evylin heaved an exasperated sigh, then knocked his arm off her side. She grabbed his wrist, tugging it under her cloak as she drew near again. “There,” she said, satisfied.
His arm remained rigid around her back as Deckard tried to understand why Evylin was suddenly so comfortable with him. Over the last twelve days, she’d never relaxed so fully in his embrace. And she’d certainly never encouraged it.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Evylin tucked her head down, her temple pressing into his chest. “Yes. Now, go to sleep.”
With his hand resting against her back, Deckard tried to follow her command.
He stared into the darkening forest around them, struggling to process how to behave.
In the past, he’d grown into the habit of letting himself rub her arm or brush his thumb in small circles against her back.
Since Hewitt’s death, he’d stopped, knowing the action would not elicit his intended soothing sensation.
Evylin’s breathing deepened, her muscles relaxing as she fell asleep. She was abnormally warm, Deckard realized, as she subconsciously burrowed deeper into him. Almost too warm for his comfort. But he didn’t pull away, unsure if this moment would last if he moved.
Holding her as close as he dared, Deckard scanned the trees one final time.
Their comrades were all either asleep, attempting to sleep, or on watch.
He could hear the light murmur of Ilain’s voice as she talked with Ethenn.
The young man’s deeper, steady voice occasionally joined the conversation.
Deckard was sure his hunter’s training would miss nothing in the forest around them.
Nothing . . . except for the singular shadow that Deckard alone could see.
A figure stood in the pines and alders, arms crossed and eyes on the camp. Massive. Burly. Bear-like.
With a self-deprecating smile, Deckard forced himself to close his eyes. He was going mad, he knew. Slowly sinking into insanity. The figure wasn’t real but a simple figment of his imagination. But somehow, the vision gave him peace.
And resting with the knowledge that the ghost of his guilt watched over them, Deckard found his way into slumber.
Darkness surrounded him in his dreams. A shadow of the deepest amethyst encircled him.
He could see a horde of Shades rushing toward him.
Yet, he stood steadily, absorbing them into his body.
The dichotomy of Night filled him with each Shade that became part of him. Bliss and fright. Pleasure and panic. Rest and violence.