CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO #4
“Well,” Evylin said with a scoff, “there’s your third weakness. You have to stop being scared.”
“You don’t know what I can do, Evie,” he said flatly. “You haven’t seen me that way.”
She raised her brow. “Because you haven’t let me.”
“You don’t want to.”
She stabbed the point of the training sword into the dirt, leaning against it. “Let me guess,” she said lightly. “You haven’t lost control like that since the attack with . . . Brewer, was it?”
Slowly, Ethenn nodded.
“So you’ve managed to contain your rage for roughly two to three months now despite numerous battles where your life was at stake.”
“If you’re trying to convince me that I have control of it,” Ethenn held her gaze fiercely, “don’t bother. I’ve gone this long without breaking before. Inevitably, I snap. And then someone dies.”
Evylin narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t determine if the hunter was being facetious or not. Surely, he hadn’t killed someone in cold blood. Should she be concerned by that admission? He seemed regretful of it, and he’d given her no cause to question his morality up until this point.
Seeing the hardness in his gaze, she decided not to press. This was a fear they wouldn’t work through in one session. Not if it’d driven him to murder. . . .
Looking up at the fading sun, Evylin lifted her sword again. “We have another thirty minutes of sunlight,” she said. “Let’s spar until it’s gone.”
Ethenn held up a hand. “Can I get some water first?”
With a smile, Evylin waved a hand through the air. “Fine,” she said, then called as he began to jog toward the camp, “Bring some for me when you come back.”
He waved in acknowledgment.
While he was gone, Evylin twirled the training sword at her side. She stared out over the flowers and scraggly bushes. Despite the change in scenery, sometimes she forgot that she was in another country, on the adventure she and Ryen had always dreamed of. The adventure Hewitt had died to give her.
Evylin blinked at the violently bright orange sun as it crept lower and lower on the horizon.
Her fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of the sword, the leather slick under her sweaty palms. The truth was clear to her now.
It wasn’t worth it, this adventure. She’d kept Ryen’s memory alive at the cost of his father. What a horrible price.
“Here,” Ethenn said, startling her out of her reverie. He stood at her side, holding out the waterskin.
Evylin caught her breath and thanked him, pretending that the sun’s fierce rays were the cause of the tears welling in her eyes.
When she took a swig and dropped the skin to the ground, she found Ethenn shuffling his feet uneasily.
He held something small in his hands, though she couldn’t make out its shape.
“What’s that?” she asked curiously.
“It’s, uh—” He proffered a small, brown leather pouch. “It’s a birthday gift.”
Evylin froze, dumbfounded. Was it her birthday? She’d lost count of the days.
Gingerly taking the gift, Evylin eyed him warily. “How’d you know it was my birthday? And why’d you get me a gift?”
“Oh, no.” Ethenn shook his head vehemently. “It isn’t—it’s not from me. It’s from Colonel Deckard.”
Evylin felt her face blanch. “I see,” she said hollowly. She dug at the stitching along the edge of the pouch. “You know, we’re not soldiers anymore, Ethenn. You can just call him Deckard.”
With a dismissive shrug, Ethenn ignored her suggestion. “Would you like to be alone? To open it, I mean.”
Though she tightened her grip on the pouch, Evylin had the distinct urge to throw it back at him and flee across the moor in search of a hole in which to hide. “No,” she said with an unfelt laugh. “That’s not necessary.”
To prove her nonchalance, Evylin tugged at the strings tying the pouch together. She lifted the flap, finding a slip of paper sticking out. She removed it, unfolding it awkwardly with one hand. A lump lodged in her throat as she registered the penmanship.
It’s been quite some time since I’ve written a note for you,
but as you kept all the others, I thought you might appreciate one more.
Happy birthday, Evylin.
Yours eternally, Jonn
Evylin chewed on the inside of her lip. How just like Deckard.
It was the same as all his other notes: short, direct, and perfect.
She couldn’t believe he’d noticed her collection of his missives.
She’d never meant to save them in the first place.
Yet, she had, wrapping them in an old ribbon for safekeeping and placing them on her nightstand in their bedroom in Loclight. A mistake, she now thought.
His valediction worried her most of all. He always signed his notes with that unnecessarily sweet “Yours.” But the addition of “eternally” caused her heart to stutter.
Agitated at the sudden swell of regret and sorrow in her chest, Evylin refolded the note roughly.
She stuffed it back into the pouch and tugged out the remaining object.
A small, oval frame of walnut wood encased a painting that made her veins cease flowing.
Usually, ornamental trinkets like this would rouse her derision.
This one elicited her unyielding affection.
The tiny vignette depicted the sparkling frost of an ice-covered lake.
She could almost smell the winter chill in the air.
Buttercream-yellow grass contrasted with the pines dotting the valley.
The intricacy of the work was beautiful; its likeness to the Wayford countryside was uncanny.
This was no coincidental bauble Deckard selected for her.
It was a memorial of their celebrating one month of marriage, even if it was a marriage of convenience.
And it felt like a slap in the wake of her rejection just a day prior.
Blinking rapidly to avoid the tears that rose, Evylin chose to feel irritated rather than guilty. Hurriedly, she returned the painting to the pouch. “Thank you,” she said, giving Ethenn a false smile, hoping he wouldn’t see how unsettled she was.
Ethenn kicked at the dirt. “Yeah,” he said.
Unsure what to do with the gift, Evylin clutched it to her chest. “We should, uh . . .” She glanced at the training swords, now lying forgotten on the ground. They should keep training. She should find a way to ignore Deckard’s wonderful thoughtfulness.
With a heavy sigh, Evylin picked up the swords. “I’m tired,” she said dully. “Let’s go back.”
Ethenn didn’t question her. He walked quietly at her side as she stared ahead sightlessly, her head aching with barely contained emotion.
Her fingers tightened around the gift, the leather warm in her hands.
She should have found a distraction once they returned to camp.
Sparring, cleaning, or conversation. Instead, she spent the rest of the evening in a stupor.
And when she lay down in the tent under the stars, she held the pouch close to her heart, wondering if she’d ever recover from this wound that bled slowly inside her chest.