14. Draven
DRAVEN
The buck's weight settles against my shoulders as I navigate the final stretch to my cottage. Blood seeps through the cloth I wrapped around the worst of the wounds, but the meat underneath remains clean. Good kill. Clean shot through the heart—no unnecessary suffering, no waste.
I drop the carcass onto the wooden table beside my cottage and roll my shoulders to work out the tension.
The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy above, casting shifting patterns across the workspace I've carved from this corner of the forest. Everything here serves a purpose—the hanging hooks, the sharpened knives, the salt barrels for preservation.
My hands move automatically as I begin the process, muscle memory guiding each cut.
Strip the hide first, then section the meat for different uses.
The hindquarters will make excellent jerky—lean strips that'll last through winter.
The shoulders and ribs can go into stews, slow-cooked until the meat falls apart.
But my mind keeps drifting to the empty apiary.
I passed by during my patrol today, following a route that's become as natural as breathing.
The hives stood in their neat rows, humming with activity, but Isolde was nowhere to be seen.
No flash of brown curls bent over the frames, no soft voice murmuring to her bees.
Just empty space where I'd grown accustomed to finding her.
The disappointment caught me off guard. When did checking on her become the highlight of my patrols? When did the possibility of seeing her start shaping my routes through the forest?
I slide the knife along the deer's flank, separating hide from muscle with practiced efficiency. The work usually centers me—honest labor with tangible results. Today it feels like distraction from a question I don't want to examine too closely.
Footsteps crunch along the dirt path leading to my cottage. Heavy, uneven steps that announce their approach from a hundred yards away. My hands still on the carcass as hope flickers through my chest. Maybe Isolde decided to—
"Draven! Good afternoon!"
The voice kills that hope instantly. I watch from the corner of my eye as Vaelis picks her way down the path, her pristine blue dress completely inappropriate for forest terrain. She lifts one foot delicately, her top lip curling as she steps over what appears to be a fallen branch.
When she looks up and catches my stare, her expression transforms into a practiced smile—the kind that never quite reaches her eyes.
She stumbles slightly over a root, arms windmilling before she catches herself. Grace personified, as always.
I bite back the sigh that wants to escape and turn back to the deer.
My hands find the meat hook hanging from the overhead beam, threading it through the buck's hind legs with movements that speak of long experience.
The rope system I rigged years ago makes lifting the carcass simple work, even with a deer this size.
"Careful on the path," I say without looking at her. "Forest doesn't accommodate fancy footwear."
The rope pulls taut as I haul the buck into position, securing the line with a series of knots that'll hold against any weight. Blood drips steadily into the collection basin below—nothing wasted, everything serving its purpose.
Unlike some visits.
"You know, if you lived closer to the village—or at least somewhere with a proper paved road—I could visit you much more often."
The suggestion hits me like a painful physical blow. I reach for my carving knife and the whetstone, needing something to occupy my hands before I say something I'll regret. The blade slides against the stone with a familiar scraping rhythm, steel singing against granite.
More visits. As if this one isn't already testing my patience.
"I missed you today." Her voice carries that practiced note of disappointment she's perfected over the years. "I'd invited you to the lunch party at Alma's shop. Didn't you get my letter?"
The whetstone continues its work, each stroke deliberate and precise. I did receive her letter—cream-colored paper with her careful script, folded and sealed like something official. I'd read it once before using it to start my morning fire.
"Got it." I test the blade's edge against my thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. Sharp enough. "Had work to do."
I return to the deer, positioning the knife at the base of the neck where hide meets muscle. The first cut parts cleanly, revealing the clean separation between skin and meat. Behind me, Vaelis makes a small, strangled sound—somewhere between a gag and a whimper.
I bite back a smirk. Refined sensibilities meeting forest reality.
"Many people were expecting you to attend with me." Her voice carries a subtle edge now, disappointment sharpening into something more pointed. "I hate that they were disappointed."
The hide peels away in long strips, exposing the pale muscle beneath. Clean work, efficient. No waste, no unnecessary suffering. Everything here serves its purpose.
"They'd be more disappointed if a bear wandered into their village square."
Vaelis forces out a laugh—thin and brittle as autumn leaves. The sound doesn't carry any genuine humor, just the social obligation to acknowledge what might have been a joke.
I continue working, letting the silence stretch between us. The deer's hide comes away cleanly, years of practice making the work almost meditative. Almost enough to distract from the growing discomfort crawling up my spine.
"Well, that's exactly why I came out here to invite you personally." Her voice brightens with forced cheer. "For the next lunch gathering. I thought perhaps a face-to-face invitation might be more... persuasive."
The knife stills in my hands. There it is—the assumption that's been building for months, maybe years. The expectation that time and proximity will eventually wear down my resistance, that I'll simply slide into whatever role she's imagined for me.
"Busy right now." I resume cutting, not looking at her. "Maybe I'll try to make it."
"Wonderful!" The relief in her voice makes my teeth clench. "I knew you'd come around. I'll tell Alma to prepare an extra place setting."
Her footsteps retreat up the path, lighter now, as if my non-committal response had somehow confirmed her expectations. I listen to her careful progress through the forest until the sounds fade completely.
The silence that follows should feel peaceful. Instead, it presses against my chest like a weight I can't shift. My hands continue their work automatically—sectioning meat, preparing cuts for different uses—but my mind churns with an uncomfortable restlessness.
I need to wash this feeling away. Need to find something real, something that doesn't come wrapped in expectations and assumptions. Something warm and honest and grounding.
I need to see Isolde.