45. Saige #2
The general is crouching down on the side walk, setting down a ceramic bowl of what looks like water. Grim stands beside him, wagging his tail, with two other dogs gathered behind him.
“Too hot for you to be without water,” Archer mutters, a note of irritation in his voice as he scratches one of the strays behind the ears. “Damn irresponsible is what it is.”
As he moves, I see a hint of those tattoos peeking from beneath his collar and I’m reminded of what the ink conceals beneath.
Scars. Seeing them had been nothing short of harrowing.
Azkari are meant to heal quickly, with very few experiencing long-lasting scarring.
Which can only mean one thing. Whatever was done to Archer was done in a way that made it impossible for him to heal.
It may have even impacted his ability to do so forever after, judging by how long it took for those arrow wounds to close up.
I thought I had known brutality and cruelty at the hands of Thorne and his men, but what marks Archer’s flesh is beyond any taste of malice I’ve ever encountered.
He oversees the hounds drinking their fill, watching the level of the water. Shaking his head he takes a jug from beyond my line of sight and re-fills the bowl. “That should sort you out,” he murmurs before stomping up the handful of steps to the shop.
“So the great Azkari general does have a heart for furry beasts,” I say by way of greeting, smiling widely at the sight.
He freezes on the threshold, gaping at me. “You’re awake.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
“Another of my many, many skills.” Despite the lightness of his tone, his gaze scans over me, assessing. “How are you?”
“Better,” I tell him. “Thanks to you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Let me say thank you, Archer. No one but Raven and Yevna has ever looked after me like that, and I’m sure I only know the half of it.”
He fiddles with the crispy black leaves of a dead plant. “You don’t need to thank me.”
I shake my head. “Has anyone ever told you how stubborn you are?”
He scoffs. “Not a soul.”
“Figures.” I huff a laugh. “Let me wash and we’ll get started on this book of yours again. I’m sorry for the delay.”
I’m almost at the bathing chamber when I hear him speak again. “Don’t ever be sorry, Grayson.”
It’s late evening when the light becomes too poor for me to continue work on the Confluence.
Progress has been slower than I’d like, especially with the time we’ve lost, but such is the nature of the bookbinding when signatures need to be pressed and rid of bends.
My lower back aches from standing all day and my eyes feel gritty and tired.
The work is hard but rewarding as I can slowly see the book coming together, resembling what it must have looked like however many centuries ago.
I hand my apron on its hook, desperate for a little downtime, to put my feet up and sink into the familiarity of the shop.
Rolling my shoulders to relieve some of the tension there, I pile my messy braid atop my head so I can wash my face in the basin.
The cool water is a shock on my skin, but it feels good to cleanse the day away.
Upstairs, I change into my soft clothes—loose fitting lounge pants and a pair of my favorite socks.
The soft wool cushions my aching soles, and I sigh in relief.
“What in the name of all the gods are those?” Archer demands, standing at the door to the attic room, eyes bulging at the sight of my covered feet.
I frown down at the offending garment. “They’re socks.”
“Those aren’t socks. Those are monstrosities.”
I hide a smile. “Don’t be dramatic, General. I assure you, they’re socks, and they’re divine.”
“Grayson, as someone who was made by the gods themselves, I’m insulted.”
“Rude. My friend Morwen makes them. They’re the best in all of Lorevael.”
Archer shakes his head in dismay. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You don’t have to. I bought you a pair.”
“You what?”
I toss him a new pair of balled up knitted socks. “Go on, General. Treat your feet, as Morwen likes to say.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” He catches them with one hand, a grimace of distaste gracing his handsome face.
“I don’t joke about foot comfort,” I say. “Go on, put them on.”
With a bewildered expression, Archer pushes his boots off at the heel and peels away his plain black socks. Seeing him standing there in bare feet in my bedroom feels strangely intimate.
“These have got to be the ugliest socks I’ve ever seen,” he mutters, tugging them on.
He’s not wrong, that’s for sure. Morwen’s knitting is chunky and uneven, the colors she chooses are consistent with mud or mold. “Your lack of gratitude wounds me, General. Just wait. Your life is about to be changed.”
He simply grunts in response as he shoves his foot into the other one.
Archer stares down at his wiggling toes clad in lumpy knitwear. It’s like watching a fawn find its legs for the first time.
“Well?” I prompt.
“They’re fine.”
I raise a brow. “Just fine?”
His cheeks flush with the tainted tinge of pink. “Yes,” he mutters.
“Really?”
“Alright!” He throws his hands up, exasperated. “They’re the coziest pair of socks I’ve ever worn. It’s like a warm hug for my feet. Happy?”
I don’t think I’ve ever grinned so hard in all my life. “Extremely.”
There’s a knock at the shop door below.
“Can you get it?” I ask Archer, the intimacy of that small action not lost on me in the slightest. There is a Azkari general in my bindery wearing Morwen’s homemade socks, and he’s about to answer the door on my behalf.
“If it’s Yevna and the mongrel, I’m closing the shutters and bolting the door,” he mutters in response, trudging down the stairs.
I tidy up my room before heading back to the workshop, putting away my tools and setting everything up for the next day, ready to take advantage of dawn as soon as it filters through the windows.
I hear the door open and voices exchange words at the shop entrance.
Only when the door clicks closed, do I peer out from my workstation.
Archer stands in the middle of the shop, clutching a lush and intricate floral arrangement large enough to take up the breadth of his arms. Black calla lilies with their distinctive curved trumpet shape are the focal point of the enormous bouquet, followed closely by wine-colored roses and dark purple dahlias.
To my untrained eye, there’s a sprinkling of other ruffled blooms along with sprigs of lavender and clusters of sweet peas.
A familiar combination, if I do say so myself.
“Someone sent these,” Archer announces gruffly, setting them down on the counter. “Looks like half the florist stall at the Underhill Exchange.”
“Really?” I say, confused. “Is there a note? Who are they for?”
“How would I know?”
“Why don’t you look, General?”
Scowling, the Azkari warrior rifles through the blooms until he finds a small square envelope and breaks the delicate wax seal, the crease between his dark brows deepening.
The smile breaking across his face? I’ve never seen something so pure.
He looks up, green eyes brimming with unabandoned joy. “They’re for… me.”