Private Dust in the Wind

Venla’s steps slowed just a little as she listened, her eyes on the road ahead.

The thought struck her hard. That someone could be given away so young. He had been seven, and someone had made a choice on his behalf. A choice that shaped the rest of his life. She thought of him, not the man beside her now, tall and tempered and stoic, but the small boy, confused and crying and still trying to understand why his world had cracked open and no one stopped it from happening. It stirred something tender in her, something that ached in sympathy. She looked as though she might speak, then didn’t. Her hand had drifted slightly outward, her fingers hovered for a moment beside his sleeve, a breath away. She wanted to give something back. A word, a touch, a promise, a comfort. She might’ve touched him, but something held her back. What good would it do? He had long since made peace with it. He had lived with his loss for years and made it part of himself.

“I don’t know what kind of boy you were,” she said softly. “But I know the man that came of it. And he’s good. He’s steady. And kind. You’ve done right by me, even when you didn’t have to." She swallowed, eyes fixed on the road. She was sure she would have come apart without him. "I hope I can… repay it someday.” Somehow.

She exhaled slowly. “I could’ve,” she murmured. “Maybe I should’ve.” But she didn’t. And she hadn’t. She had watched them all go on loving her, unaware, untouched by what now lived beneath her skin. And it had felt, in some twisted way, like a mercy. Let them remember her that way. “They got a goodbye that didn’t have fear in it." she said softly. To spare them the burden of knowing.

Because what was waiting for her now, it wasn’t peace. It wasn’t safety. It was more unraveling.

She looked down at her hands. Calloused after many years of working in a kitchen, ringless, unremarkable. No glow. No crackle of power. Just hands. They had been good hands. For cutting roots. Kneading dough. Holding back a wound and praying the bleeding would stop. But now? Now they could take. It was in her. Always humming now, like a pressure behind the eyes. A weight in her blood. Sometimes it came as heat, a flash behind the ribs, like a heartbeat out of sync. Other times it was colder, like a whisper at the base of her skull, as if something was leaning too close.

It did not feel holy. Or beautiful. Or marvelous. Or miraculous. Or like a gift.

“Whatever debt remains between us is mine to repay. You did save my life, after all.”

Venla held to silence for a few paces. He was blushing. She caught it, of course. Her lips parted slightly, but not to tease him, she did not want to startle anything too delicate. “I meant what I said, you know. I am grateful. I’m just not sure how to say thank you properly.”

Spring had only just begun to take hold, and the trees lining the path were dusted in pale buds, new and trembling. Wildflowers freckled the ditches, blues and whites, the occasional flicker of yellow. A lark trilled somewhere in the distance, spring's melody of young things.

She felt his fingers brush her elbow, a fleeting touch, like the wing of a moth in the dark. The contact was small, casual enough that it could be mistaken for nothing. But her skin tingled beneath the wool of her sleeve where his fingers had passed. The ginger didn’t pull away. If anything, she stepped just a little closer. At the sound of her name, she turned her head, meeting his brown eyes.

When Willard asked 'ever ridden a horse before?' she tilted her head slightly and looked toward his mount.

“Aye,” she said. “Once.” How old had she been when her father lifted her up on their old drafthorse? Five maybe? Brute, they had named him because he had broken his stall door twice, but he was a gentle thing with people. Big as a barn. “But that was an long time ago.” she said.

Venla’s lips curved into a genuine smile as she watched the big horse nuzzle Willard’s shoulder like an old friend. The gentle way he spoke to the horse, the fondness in his voice. “You’ve a good hand with animals, you know.” she said, stepping forward. Bramble trusted Willard fast enough. That says something. She moved closer, careful not to spook the horse, though Hellion seemed calm as a cloudbank.

“Or do they just like you because you’re tall and smell like oats?” The tease slipped out, it was soft-edged and bright as sun through apple leaves. There was a smile on her lips again, more impish this time. She didn’t mind the smell of oats, truth be told. It reminded her of barns and dry summers, composed by the creak of wooden gates and chirping of swallows. But Willard didn’t smell like oats now. Not exactly. He smelled like leather and something faintly metallic. But she liked that too. Maybe too much.

Venla reached out a hand slowly, fingers open and relaxed, letting the mare sniff her skin. The mare’s breath huffed warmly against her hand, and the redhead gave a quiet, delighted chuckle before laying her palm along the strong curve of her neck. Warm. Silky. “Good day, Hellion, nice to meet you too.” she murmured, rubbing just beneath the mane where the hair thickened. “She’s lovely.”

She glanced down at her skirts, the thick, practical wool of her green dress falling in heavy folds around her boots. It had plenty of room, she could ride without scandalizing half the road. But the idea of swinging up into the saddle with grace was another thing entirely. Venla leaned in to stroke the mare’s neck. “Yes.” she said at last, with a small, eager nod. “I’d like a ride.”

Venla gave Hellion one last fond stroke, then stepped back with a small huff. Not one of frustration, but amusement. “If I fall,” she said, glancing at Willard with a smile “you’ll catch me, won’t you?”

Her skirts, full and hemmed just low enough to trip over if she wasn’t paying attention. Her fingers moved quickly, tugging up the green wool in practiced folds and knotting the gathered fabric into the leather belt at her waist. It left her boots visible beneath the hem and gave her the freedom of movement she needed.

“Now... Let’s try.”

Venla set one hand to the saddle horn, the other to Hellion’s side. The mare stood still beneath her touch, patient and solid as a wall. Venla gave her a grateful pat, then turned her body slightly, lifting one booted foot to find the stirrup. It took a moment. She hadn’t done this before, and it was not easy in a dress. The mare stood steady, unbothered by the human fussing at her side, wobbling on one leg. “Oh..wait...no, stay still, love,” she muttered, half to Hellion, half to her own awkward balance.

With a small grunt, Venla hauled herself up, not graceful in the least. Her other leg flailed behind her a moment before she managed to swing it over. Her backside landed in the saddle with a soft whump. Venla blinked, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a laugh. She brushed a loose wisp of hair back from her cheek, looking down at Willard, her cheeks flushed.

Her fingers hovered near the reins, uncertain. “So,” she said, “how do I… hold these?” She shifted in the saddle, adjusting her skirts.

'You talking to me?'
The mare gave a tolerant flick of her tail. Venla huffed softly through her nose, but the smile playing at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Mmh” The horse flicked an ear.

"Aye, I've decided to become a highwaywoman instead of studying magic. Syr, stand and deliver!" she said while leaning forward slightly. Hellion shifted, and Venla’s hands fluttered awkwardly over the saddle, unsure where to put them.

She scooted back at his instruction, careful not to tip backward like a sack of potatoes. But she had thought he meant to lead the horse. Walk beside her and hold the reins like a gentleman escorting a lady. No, she hadn't expected him to mount in front of her. She blinked. Then laughed under her breath, quiet and breathy, more out of surprise than anything. Everything felt oddly wonderful and wrong-footed, like the first dance at a spring fair.

Venla settled behind him, her skirts rustling softly as she shifted, finding her seat. Her hands, slowly, came around him. A cautious circle at first. Uncertain and polite. Her fingers brushed the edge of his belt where the leather had worn smooth from years of use. She leaned forward, the gentle sway of Hellion's steps pressing her close to his back. Her cheek brushed his shoulder, then came to rest there. The armor was cool beneath the yellow fabric of his tabbard, but the man beneath it radiated a steadfast heat.

“Won’t bite, huh?” she said, lips curling. “What a shame.”

Then she lifted her gaze, trying, mostly in vain, to keep her attention on the road ahead. She meant to keep her eyes on the road, truly she did. But her eyes strayed, again and again, to the curve of his jaw, to the tilt of his head as he listened to the world around them. To the slope of his shoulders. The line of his neck, strong and corded, where the collar of his mail coif sat slightly askew. How the sunlight picked out strands of gold in his hair.

“Did you always want this?” she asked, her chin still resting against the back of his shoulder. “Did you ever think about leaving it?” she asked softly. “The Order, I mean.”

She thought of what he’d said. Of kindness, of being taken in and shaped by it. He was young. Younger than her, in more ways than just the years. There was a restlessness in him, a reaching. Bright and unburned. The world hadn't carved its shape into him yet, not fully. He rode like he meant to greet every corner of it with open arms... and perhaps he would. He would keep riding, she thought. He would see the breadth of the world. She hoped he would see it all. The cities with their spires and stained-glass windows, the wild places where the trees grew taller than towers, the far coasts where the sea sang. He deserved that much. More, even.

'Never thought about striking out on your own and heading for one of the big cities?'

The question landed deeper than expected. For a few heartbeats, she just went quiet. Her fingers, still beneath his hand, flexed gently at the touch of his thumb. But she didn’t pull away.

“I did,” she said softly. “When I was younger.” Her chin shifted slightly where it rested against his shoulder. She watched the road again. Her gaze drifted to the hedgerows and low stone walls lining the road. Her eyes rested where foxglove nodded in the breeze and a rook flapped lazily overhead. The world was so wide here. Open in a way it rarely was back home.

“I used to dream about it. I’d sit on the fencepost and watch the trader carts pass on the road, trying to guess where they were headed. Cities with tall gates and towers. Inns where music played all night. Foreign cheeses.” she went on. She used tp imagine all sorts of things. But dreams like that... they grow smaller and the world presses in. "But one day I looked up and realised I was needed." And she had to tell herself it was enough, because it had to be. Before she had known it, someone called her ‘the responsible one’ and she forgot the girl who wanted to ride riverboats. She fell silent a moment, letting the hoofbeats fill the space between memories.

Her hand shifted slightly beneath his, tilting her palms so that her fingers brushed his gently, giving room for more, to rest more deliberately against his palm. Then, softer: “I was needed at home,” she said. “That’s the long and short of it. And I don’t say that bitterly." There's honour in the quiet things, like staying when you could have run. Life did not wait for anyone. "My father's leg went bad after the fall harvest, and he passed during winter. He had been sick for so long. My mother was not quite the same after that.” The sunlight dappled through the trees above, and she watched it flicker across the road ahead, golden and leaf-laced.

“I don’t regret it,” she added. Maybe those dreams she had to leave behind waited for her somewhere down the road. Not in the grand, thundering way. Just… quietly. Like a patch of sun on a stone wall. Waiting for her to stop long enough to feel it again.

The world had enough heroes, but not nearly enough good travelling companions. Willard may be the knight, but she packed the journeybread and remembered the salve for blisters. That should count for something. "When we reach Drachenberg…” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “That’ll be the fork, won’t it? You’ll go one way, and I the other.” The words sat for a moment, simple and certain. There was no complaint in them, only the hush of knowing. Of watching a river split and accepting the current.

But gods, she would miss this. Miss him.

“Gods...!” she gasped, the word lost in the rush of wind. Barely had time to draw breath before Hellion launched forward like a released arrow. She slammed forward against his back and she buried her face briefly between his shoulder blades.

The force of the movement snapped through her, no slow build-up, just impact. Her body jolted back, almost torn from the horseback, and she instinctively hugged her arms around him in a desperate grip. Her knees clamped tight, but it felt like she balanced on a runaway boulder. She couldn’t sit upright, every stride pitched her forward and then yanked her back, jerking her spine with violent momentum. Her stomach dropped with every bound, like falling off a ledge again and again.

“Shit!” she gasped, but the wind swallowed her voice. Her breath came short and sharp, her hands clinging so hard to him the knuckles ached. The ground flew past too fast. Venla pressed herself closer to the knight. But she laughed, only half startled. Wind tore at her hair. Dirt and grass whipped past in streaks. Trees, fenceposts, the rise of a distant hill... everything blurred, gone before she could register it.

But she was hit with a hard, wild exhilaration. The kind that only comes when you're right on the edge of losing everything.

A day later
Overlooking Drachenberg
The light dwindles...

Even from afar, the city was quite something to behold. From atop the rise, Willard could see fully the way the city grew in stages, climbing from one step to the next, up the side of the tor. A fortress, big and dark and foreboding, conquered the hill's summit, its watchtowers and keep dominating the skyline, where the Sun had not yet finished setting. In its shadow lay the noble and merchant qaurters, one step below the fortress. Colourful buildings replete with balconies and walled gardens, this was where Drachenberg's wealthier citizens made their roost.

At the tor's base, the rest of the city sprawled like a canker upon the land, townhouses packed close together, as if to save room. And yet it was to the lone tower Willard's eyes were drawn.

'Well, there it is.'

Sat astride Hellion, his armour dusty from the road, Willard turned to regard Venla, his expression impassive, for the most part. 'The journey went... smoother than I expected,' he frowned. Quicker, too. A day and a night, all told. He had tried to force a leisurely pace, so that Venla might have an easier time saying goodbye to her old life, just as she welcomed the new. It was something no amount of words could prepare her for.

Still, he had tried, fool that was.

Not that it would make a lick of difference in the end. 'How are you feeling?' He asked. 'Nervous?'

“There it is,” she murmured, echoing his words without meaning to. “It's ugly...” The words came out before she could temper them, but they weren’t cruel. Just honest. The fortress loomed over the terrain like a dark tooth. Venla sat behind him in the saddle, arms still looped around his waist. The horse stood still beneath them, quiet and patient, tail flicking against the night flies. The woman's eyes swept the sprawl of the city.

She hadn't expected it to be so soon. Not really. One more night, she had thought. One more campfire. One more slow morning with tea and soft conversation. One more stolen glance at Willard's sleeping face. But here it was... and something twisted low in her stomach. But the wind smelled of wild grass, not stone, and she was not ready to trade one for the other. Not yet.

Venla slid down from Hellion’s back, boots hitting earth still warm from the sun. A quick pat to her skirts. The long ride leaving her stiff in the knees and sore in the seat. She winced, stretching a little, then brushed her hands over her dress before she folded her arms against her ribs. The city looked different from up here. Smaller, in a way. Small enough tuck into your pocket like a pebble. Drachenberg was already kindling to life below them. One by one, lanterns bloomed in windows. Smoke curled up from hearths and chimneys, thin and silver.

Nervous? “I’m not nervous,” she quickly said, not turning to look at Willard just yet. “Not really.” A pause. “Maybe a little.” Her heart wasn’t racing. Not much. There was a tightness in her chest, yes, but it had more to do with the man still seated on the horse. “I don’t know what I’ll find there,” she said at last, softly, green eyes on the city. “but I know what I’ll miss.”

She glanced back at him and she drew in a long breath, letting it fill her chest, to steady her. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, searching for something clever, something bright... and found none of it. “Stay a little longer, can we?” Her voice was softer now “Just a little.”