Circling the Same Wound #2
He cupped her face and gently tipped it up until their eyes met. “We’ll figure it out. We got into this as a pair—we’ll get through it the same way.”
Helen sagged into him, her shoulders trembling. He held her, wrapped her in the safety of his arms even as his own heart galloped. The fear was enormous. The possibilities, overwhelming. But she was here. And so was he.
They weren’t just two people in love anymore.
They were two people in love with a future they hadn’t planned.
“Can you meet me tomorrow evening?” Nic asked. “We’ll talk more when we’ve both had a chance to breathe.”
Helen nodded, wiping her nose. “I’ve been staying at the villa on the hill. My father opened it for me while I work late on the Daughters’ performance.”
“Then I’ll meet you there tomorrow night. After training.”
He kissed her forehead softly.
“Don’t worry, Biscuit. Whatever comes—we’ve got this.”
Nic caught up to Uriah just as they turned onto their trail. Close enough to count as together, far enough to avoid conversation. He leaned into his limp, let his silence ride on the weight of exhaustion.
He climbed into bed without a word, barely managing to toe off his boots. Uriah was asleep within minutes—maybe seconds. Nic stared at the ceiling, eyes open but unseeing.
The silence swelled.
Thoughts came like jabs: sharp, erratic, relentless. Before one could finish, another elbowed in. Panic flashed, then anger—then guilt. Then a heavy, stupid ache that felt suspiciously like fear.
How could he be a father when he still lived with his parents? When his worldly possessions fit neatly on one side of a shared room? He didn’t even have a drawer to call his own, let alone a home. What was he going to do, raise a child between training drills and shared soup bowls?
It was absurd. It was terrifying.
And it was real.
His life hadn’t just changed tonight—it had changed six weeks ago. While he laughed with his friends and argued with Uriah. While he practiced sword forms and kissed Helen beneath shaded arches. The ground had shifted beneath his feet, and he hadn't felt it.
Until now.
He turned his face into the pillow, as if that could block out the churning of his stomach, but sleep didn’t come so much as crash over him in jagged waves.
Nic paid for his sleepless night like it was collecting a debt.
Sleep had come in miserable, broken snatches—just enough to disorient him, not nearly enough to help.
By morning, he felt like he’d been dragged behind a cart: head pounding, jaw aching, muscles tight and uncooperative.
Even his teeth throbbed with the kind of pressure that came from grinding them halfway to dust.
Training was a disaster. He moved like his limbs were filled with gravel. The captains shouted. Then they shouted louder. When that failed, they issued a punishment drill so grueling that even his grandchildren flinched on his behalf. Nic just blinked through it, eyes dull, breathing smoke.
He spent lunch swinging a shovel, digging trenches for the new fencing while the others were training, sharpening their skills with Owen.
The sun baked him until his skin felt brittle.
His stomach cramped from being rushed and underfed.
His thoughts scratched like burrs under his skull.
He wanted to scream, or sleep, or throw the shovel straight into the lake.
When he was finally released, the yard was quiet. Everyone else had gone home. Everyone except Uriah, perched near the shed with arms crossed.
“What’s wrong with you today?”
Nic didn’t look at him. Didn’t have the energy to fake civility. “Nothing,” he muttered, grabbing his satchel from the changing stall. “Go home without me. I’m heading to Helen’s. I’ll change there.”
“What should I tell Mam and Da?”
Nic shuffled past, eyes burning. “Tell them whatever helps you sleep, but use my words, saves me from explaining later.”
The walk up the North Town hill felt like a scorched wasteland.
He dragged every step, sweat soaking through his clothes, grime caked under his fingernails.
His boots squelched slightly with each footfall.
He passed immaculate flower beds, tidy trimmed hedges, gates painted to match their trim in whimsical, utterly unnecessary colors.
He looked—and smelled—like someone who’d been exiled from polite society and tried to crawl back.
These weren’t just homes. They were declarations of status. Helen’s family kept a villa here just for entertaining, as though they might throw a party at any moment, on a whim, and need fifteen gilded chairs and five mirrored wardrobes at the ready.
He had helped lay tile in more than one of these houses. He’d held boards while his father nailed trim. He knew what the foundation looked like under all that polish. And yet, today it felt alien. He didn’t belong here—not with dirt on his boots and panic under his ribs.
He paused outside one of the cottages, half-wishing he could scrub his face clean before seeing Helen. But no amount of water could wash away the dread clinging to him like sweat.
He inhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, like trying to steady a blade that wouldn't stop shaking. Then he adjusted his satchel and kept walking, eyes fixed ahead. He’d promised her he’d show up.
Nic knocked lightly on Helen’s door. The last thing he wanted was to paste on a smile and act like he hadn’t just aged twenty years since yesterday, but he did it anyway.
Dolly’s bark shattered the quiet. A moment later, the door opened and the dog launched herself at him, tail wagging like a weapon of joy. Nic braced himself and let the greeting happen, blinking through slobber and fur. “Hello to you, too, fury incarnate.”
Helen appeared behind the dog, radiant even through his pounding headache. He leaned in and kissed her, lingering longer than he meant to. “Sorry I’m late. Training turned sadistic.” He offered a faint smirk. “I came straight from the seventh circle of hell.”
“Do you want something to eat?”
“Let me rinse off first,” he said, trudging toward the back. “Also, any chance you keep willow bark around? Or bitter almonds?”
“I’m not sure about the bitter almonds,” Helen called after him.
It took a minute to coax the pump to work. The cold water bit at his skin as he hauled a bucket inside. Helen was already in the solarium, holding out towels and soap like a priestess at a ritual.
He managed a half-smile. “You’re too good to me, Biscuit.”
“I put water to boil—the willow bark’s stale, but it should help a little. Are you unwell?”
“Just a light headache,” he said, stripping off his filthy shirt. “Plus bone rot. Possibly early-onset death.”
Helen quietly gathered his clothes. He noticed the way her shoulders sagged, the fatigue dimming her usual brightness. She looked as wrung-out as he felt. And that made him want to slap something. Hard. Preferably a wall. Or Captain Sol.
When he padded barefoot into the kitchen, smelling like her honey-and-goat’s-milk soap, she was just pouring tea. He slipped his arms around her waist and pressed his face into her neck. “I love you, Helen.”
“I love you too,” she murmured, but the tremble in her voice told him what he already suspected—her composure was running on empty.
He turned her to face him. One look at her tear-bright eyes and every fiber of him itched for a sword. If emotions were enemies, he could fight them. Instead, he kissed her cheeks and tasted salt. “Why the tears, my love?”
Helen faltered. “I... I thought you wouldn’t come.” As soon as the words escaped, she buried herself in his chest. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it—I just—”
Nic stroked her back in long, soothing lines. “It’s alright to be scared, Biscuit,” he murmured. But part of him twinged.
Did she really think he’d vanish?
She looked up at him. “I’m so fortunate to have you, Nic.”
He gave a tired smirk. “Well, someone should be.”
She handed him tea, the cup gilded in gold. He clutched it like a lifeline, barely tasting the bitterness. She returned with cheese and rolls. Nic grabbed one just to keep his hands busy—his appetite had taken the evening off.
He looked at her, then down at his half-eaten roll, then back again.
She was quiet, tired, still a little shaky. But she was here. They were here—together.
Maybe it wasn’t the perfect time, or the perfect setting—but what in his life had ever been perfect?
He set the roll down carefully and met her eyes.
“Helen,” he said, voice steadier now, “I’m going to ask your father for your hand.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s your plan?”
Nic blinked. “Yes? What was yours? Flee to the mountains?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to...”
“Oh, come off it. You know I want to marry you.” He tore a chunk from the roll a little too savagely. “Unless you don’t want to marry me.”
“Of course I do! But he’ll never agree!”
Nic gave a tight smile. “He’ll have to. We’ve given him very few alternatives.”
Helen’s face drained of color. “You’re going to use my condition to force his hand?”
“I’m going to use the truth. If he wants his grandchild born outside of wedlock, he can make that call. Otherwise, he’s going to have to stop pretending I’m just the gardener.”
“He’ll be furious.”
“Good.” Nic stood, pacing to the window and back to his tea. “We’ve spent too long letting him treat our future like something on a wine list he hasn’t gotten around to reading. Well—surprise. We skipped to dessert.”
Helen buried her face in her hands. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go.”
“And how exactly did you imagine it?” His voice was clipped, irritation seeping through. “Were we supposed to keep playing house in secret until Jacob finally declared me tolerable?”
“Don’t shout at me,” Helen choked, eyes full of fresh tears.
Nic swore under his breath. He reached out and caught her hand, kissed her trembling fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to shout at you, I promise. I’m... fraying a little.”