Willard

Willard

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The gardens were peaceful this time of night. Bathed in the rays of a dying sun, its shadowed pathways led to places of solitude; its silvery pools to places of reflection. As a youth, Willard had spent many an evening whiling away the hours here, alone more often than not. Out here, he had a chance to think, to piece together the puzzle of his life, and how it all fit together.

It was also a good place to relax, should the need arise.

Having spent much of his day putting edges to blades and banging dents from armour, Willard felt he had earned the break. Away from people and their problems, he only had his own to contend with. Small things. Inconsequential in the long run. But problems all the same.

Perhaps it was selfish of him, to seek some time for himself. Indeed, the thought weighed on him like a guilty conscience, dragging him down into the muck of a mind that was not yet at peace with itself. For he had made a mistake. Several, in fact. Each as damning as the next. The first, well, half the monastery knew about that one. The other half at least had the decency to pretend not to.

The second mistake was a matter of the heart, not so easily ignored.

Though, the Eight know I've tried. Picking himself a place amongst the whispering trees and water lilies, Willard took a seat on one of the stone benches dotted throughout the garden walks. The air was unseasonably humid, and as such he had donned a light tunic and breeches as well as a pair of sandals he had -albeit with permission- requisitioned from Hector's room.

'A little stroll to clear my head and where do I end up?' Right back at square one, he thought, running a hand through hair grown thick from time and inattention.

A sound from behind made him turn, and his eyes narrowed against the dying light. 'Hello?' He called out, suddenly wide awake.
 
Venla wasn’t entirely sure when she had left the Knoll. One moment, there had been the clink of cups, stories, that sweet-blackberry tang lingering on her tongue... and then she was outside. Cool air slid under in her hair, coiling arround her neck, smelling of night flowers and wet stone. The garden stretched before her in neat rows and curling paths, torchlight making the leaves glitter.

Her boots scuffed along the gravel, the ginger stumbled slightly over the edge of a path, laughing at herself. She moved slower than usual, her head pleasantly heavy, warmth humming in her chest. She took a turn without thinking, her fingers brushing the petals of a low-hanging blossom. The drink had loosened her sense of direction, her thoughts drifting as lazily as the bees she imagined slept in the flowerbeds. Somewhere in the haze she realised she didn’t know where she’d been walking, only that her feet kept going. The paths blurred into one another.

The late sun poured gold over the rosebeds and hedges, and the scent of herbs and warm earth made her head light. A voice cut through the hum of the evening. Familiar. Her heart gave a small, startled jump.

“Oh…” she murmured, stepping closer. “Is someone there, or am I just talking to the lilies?” Her boots scraped softly on the stones. "Willard?" Her thoughts tumbled over one another, a messy bundle of worry and delight. Haven’t seen him for days… not since we arrived. She assumed, reasonably, that he had been consumed with duties that left little space for her. She could not demand more, and she did not. Leaning lightly against a tree for support.

“Oh… I didn’t mean to wander into your quiet evening. I just… needed some air, that’s all.” she said softly, a soft smile tugging at her lips. Then, after a short pause, she asked, “How… have you been? I’ve missed seeing you these past few days.”
 
From the moment he recognised her voice, Willard felt his pulse quickening, his heart beating just that little bit faster as his eyes caught up to his ears. 'Venla,' he found himself murmuring, guilt mingling with surprise, making a mess of emotions he had tried and failed to ignore for the past few days.

Looking at her now, Willard wondered how such an idea could have ever crossed his mind in the first place. Indeed, he was starting to feel quite the fool. Ain't the first time, he thought, smiling at her words.

'The lilies are pretty enough to look at, sure,' he said, gaze turning to the gardens surrounding them. 'But I find the toads make for better conversationalists.' The red-spots could get a bit tetchy this time of day, but then the same could be said for many of Willard's brethren.

'You and I both,' he replied, turning back to Venla. 'You're not bothering me. In fact, I meant to seek you out.' Eventually. He wasn't sure if he was deceiving himself; it probably wouldn't matter if he was. They were here now, face to face.

'I've been... Well. I'm okay.' Willard smiled reassuringly, deflecting the question with a wave of his hand. 'I've... missed you, too. I know it probably hasn't felt that way, but it's true.' Nodding to himself, the dawnling moved away from the pond's edge, nails digging into the skin of his palms as he retraced his steps towards Venla.

His eyes beheld her soft smile, and he grinned, fool-like.

'How have you been?' He asked, a sly twinkle to his eye. 'I hear you've been making friends. Certainly, Syr Darthinian sounds quite taken with you,' he smiled, shrugged. Not that I can blame her, so long as she keeps her claws to herself.
 
"I meant to seek you out."

He hadn’t sought her out, however, and she knew, with a quiet, certain sort of understanding, he did not wish to pick up the thread they’d left between them, and that was fine. Best not to hold too tight to such things. Venla had learned to accept such things without bitterness. She shook her head, a soft chuckle in her breath. “Well, you’ve plenty more important things to be about.” Her voice easy, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She found comfort in the small grace that they’d met again at all.

Venla’s lips curved into a soft, quiet smile at his words, the warmth of the wine still lingering in her chest lending her a gentle courage. “I’ve been alright.” she said. She let her gaze drift over the flowers around them before returning her eyes to his smiling face, searching for the right words between the quiet of the garden and the hum of her thoughts.

“The days have been… well, busy enough." she murmured. Her voice was low and even, steady despite the slight sway of her feet. Fingers absentmindedly traced a groove in the stem of the tree. Her gaze lingered on him, warm and attentive, though her mind drifted elsewhere, behind the surface of the conversation.

The green eyes flicked to the pond, the flickering fireflies dancing over the water’s surface, before returning to him. She tipped her head, her smile lingering as her gaze met his. “Aye, I’ve made a few acquaintances, yes. But Syr Castor and Isander, I know from before...” she added. “Met them back in Arrowdale." A small, soft laugh escaped her lips. “Syr Darthinian? Oh, yes.. well... briefly ran into her at the Knoll." She shook her head gently, not saying more about someone she had only met for such a brief moment.
 
"Well, you've plenty more important things to be about.'

A hum, neither here nor there. Her gaze met his, and Willard found himself wishing, wanting. The way she smiled didn't help. Like a fish on a hook, he mused, no more surprised than the first time he'd laid eyes on her. 'Castor and Isander, huh,' he smirked, nodded. 'Quite the pair, those two make. Guessin' they roped you into a game of bones? Cards, even.' Both were known to gamble on occasion.

But then what was life, if not one big gamble?

'Aye, brief is perhaps best where she's concerned,' replied the dawnling, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. Certainly, it seemed Venla had been on her fair share of adventures, past and present. No doubt she missed Arrowdale, the family she had left behind. Someone should notify her mother as to the change of plans, thought Willard, if Venla hasn't already.

'Would you sit with me awhile?' He asked the redhead, quiet, unsure of where he stood, but ready to take the plunge. 'Or we could... go for a stroll? After all, the day is not yet spent, and I would like to spend what's left.'

With you.
 
Four days, she had walked these grounds, wondering if she had imagined all of it. Wondering if she had misunderstood. He had said he wanted to see where the road led. Said she could come with him. Slept in her arms like it meant something. And then disappeared like it didn’t. No word. No knock at her door. Not a glance over the courtyard. Not even a fuck you.

He’s young, she reminded herself. Twenty-one, and full of wind in his lungs and stars in his head. She had been twenty-one not long ago. She remembered what it was like to want everything and promise nothing. She couldn’t hold that against him. Wouldn’t. She be damned if she let herself become something someone tiptoed around out of guilt.

And now this. The soft look in his eyes. The flicker of want and wishing. You can want the road, and you can want to be free. But don’t come back looking like you remembered something precious, when you left it in the cupboard with the dishes.

She wasn’t angry. Truly, she wasn’t. That wasn’t how her heart worked. not anymore. She had her wild seasons, the kind where you chased after feelings like they were lightning bugs in the tall grass, thinking you could hold them in your hands without crushing them. But she was older now. Wiser, maybe. Or just more tired of holding things that didn’t want to be held. There were a hollow feeling to knowing that sometimes people drifted, and sometimes you were the one left holding a moment that had already passed.

But she had been someone’s regret before, and she would not become it again. Still, he mattered to her. That part hadn’t changed. He was someone she cared for, deeply. Maybe always would. But love, or whatever flickered between them, wasn’t a bird to be kept in a half-open hand. If it wouldn’t perch of its own will, it wasn’t meant to stay.

Venla’s smile didn’t falter, not quite, but something in it stilled. Not cold. Just gentle. “A stroll sounds nice.” she said simply. She moved toward the bench. "But, I don’t mind sitting either. This spot’s a fair one.” Her eyes followed the flickering fireflies over the pond and the gentle ripples of fish rise, catching the glimmers of light. Then she looked back to Willard.
 
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Venla's smile didn't falter, but it did change. Shifted like sand through a hourglass. 'It is, a fair one.' Willard agreed as she moved past him in a whisper of skirts. Feelings he couldn't put a name to warred within the confines of his chest, so hot as to burn right through a heart that wanted nothing more than for him to stop being a fucking idiot.

'We'll sit, then. Rest a moment while you tell me all about how your first days in Astenvale have treated you.'

It would be a start. Turning, Willard paused a moment, breath catching in his throat as he regarded Venla, and she him. Whatever had changed between them, there was still something there, beneath the surface. Love, or perhaps just simple affection - it was hard to describe, to define. But then they weren't characters in one of Syr Kerrigan's romance novels. Nothing was simple about this.

Shaking his head to clear it, Willard closed the distance between them, waited for Venla to take her seat before doing the same. Around them, the garden's denizens croaked and clicked, the only witnesses to a scene yet to unfold.

'Where do you want to begin?' Asked the Dawn-knight, aware of the answers he owed her.
 
The hush between them was not uncomfortable, no, not quite, but it was full. Full of the things she had learned in his absence. It wrapped round them like a well-worn shawl, soft and full of things left unsaid.

Venla sank down onto the bench. “The first days here? They’ve been…" strange. "... grand, in their way. Astenvale’s full of beautiful things, tall windows, green walks and shining armor. I have learned that this is a place where everything has its place. Its people. Its purpose.”

She hadn’t expected grand gestures. She hadn’t expected anything, really. But it struck her that if she hadn’t wandered into the garden tonight, if she hadn’t turned down that path and stumbled upon him sitting here… how many more days would he have let pass before saying a word?

Two more? Four? A week? Would it have been ever?

The wondering didn’t sting, not the way it might have a few years ago. But it did settle. A quiet knowing that she was not the one he reached for when left to his own choices. And that… that told her something. People did what they did. Everyone made mistakes. She had once or twice been foolish herself. She wouldn’t fault him. She wouldn’t make him wrong for being himself. But she had grown tired of being someone’s regret, of being counted as a fleeting mistake rather than a choice.

“They’ve got good bread in the kitchens,” she added, almost absently.

'Where do you want to begin?'

His question met her ears gently, but she let it hang there for a moment, the way you do with words that might mean more than they seem. She smiled softly, her eyes still on the water. He owed her answers... but did he? They had made no vows. No promises over candlelight. Only glances, soft touches, a night under the stars.

"Well… I’m not sure there’s much to say. Might be best if we leave it be for a bit, eh?" She glanced sideways at him. Venla let her hands rest loosely in her lap, the soft rustle of her skirts the only sound she made as she regarded him and the garden around them.
 
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The silence was almost deafening. 'Might be,' replied Willard, leaning forward so as to hide his face. The gentle trickle of a nearby fountain filled the quiet glade, cultivated, and yet wild at its roots. The shimmering pool over which they resided painted his features in silver and shadow, the light behind his eyes the purest of all.

It was there he kept his pain, tried to conceal it, away from the prying eyes of those he cared for. Those he loved.

'Do you feel like you do not belong here, Venla?' He spoke quietly, his voice carrying into the night despite efforts made to the contrary. 'Do you think I am ashamed of you... That the welcome I received upon our return was in any way your fault?'

It was true, he had avoided her. Of that much he was guilty. But to think him so callous as to have forgotten about her, to have disregarded her feelings, after what they had shared... If thoughts could sting, I would be in tears right now.

'I s'pose what I'm asking is...' The knight stumbled. Paused. Turned to face her like she wasn't the most beautiful creature in all of Khurun. 'Is that what you want? Is that what you really want, to leave it be?'
 
“It’s all new, and I’m still finding my footing here." She could hear the distant rustle of leaves, a faint hum of insects, and the occasional croak of a frog hidden among the reeds. This place made her feel unmoored, adrift. Not only because the paths were lined with strangers whose faces she did not know, whose voices she did not yet trust, but because of the restless pulse that stirred under her skin. Something wild and unquiet, whispered beneath the surface like a hidden tide. It was a current she felt with every breath, a subtle, dissonant song woven into the quiet evening. Even here, among the lantern-lit paths and the soft murmurs of water, it hummed beneath her skin, patient, watching, and not entirely willing to be ignored.

“I’m not rightly sure,” Venla said, her voice soft, a little like the hush of the garden settling around them. She let her eyes follow the small ducks on the pond, drifting lazily as if they had all the time in the world. “Whether… whether the way the Captain greeted you has anything to do with me, I couldn’t say for certain. But…” She gave a little shrug. “I do feel… I might have have distracted you. From your calling, from your duty.” That was a thought that would not leave her be.

Her eyes flicked to him, calm but honest. “As for being ashamed… well, I can’t rightly say it’s not so. Four days of keeping away, and I can’t imagine another reason for it.” She gave a faint, wry smile, not accusing, just stating what she’d noticed.

She shook her head softly, a faint, wry smile touching her lips. “Those questions, whether I want to leave it be or not, they’ve passed their time." She looked back toward the pond, watching a dragonfly drift lazily across the pond. “If I hadn’t stumbled upon you tonight...” she said softly, tilting her head. “I daresay you wouldn’t have asked at all.” If he ever truly cared, it wouldn’t have taken this chance encounter to bring these questions out.
 
He had given her the knife. That she chose to stick it in his back was no-one's fault but his own. At least she had the good grace to twist, he thought, his composure cracking under the strain of a hundred horrid thoughts. 'I... cannot hold it against you for thinking that,' replied Willard, mouth suddenly dry. 'You're only half-right, though,' he continued, 'I am ashamed, but not of you.'

Fingers curled into fists as he followed Venla's gaze, away.

'I have been busy, but that's no excuse for not seeking you out sooner, and for that I apologise.' Even if it is too late to mend what's breaking between us. Or is it already broken? Willard wondered, taking a steadying breath, hoping to anchor himself to the moment, no matter how painful it might prove. 'For what it's worth, you didn't distract me from my duties. Helping those in need is what we do, and I do not regret coming to find you in Arrowdale. Still don't.' Breklinn hadn't even tried to fight him on it. Perhaps she'd seen it written on his face - the feelings he'd tried so hard to bury.

Didn't matter now. He couldn't turn back time. The mistakes were his to own, and make right, if he could. The jury was still out as to whether that was possible. Wouldn't stop him from trying.

'I owe you, Venla,' he said then, fingers unflexing, gaze returning to Venla. If this was to be the end for them, he would rather see it coming. 'You saved my life that night in the woods. Whatever you decide... regarding us... I want you to know that I'm grateful.'
 
'I am ashamed, but not of you.'
Venla would lean a little closer.

“But that day… it didn’t change what I know of you." He was still someone she cared for, one she trusted and a man who mattered. That’s what she sees when she looks at him. “The world might be quick to show its anger, but it doesn’t know you like I do." She knew his heart, his courage, and the good he carried. "You’re still you. Still the one who came to find me, still the one who sat in the dark beside me without flinching. And that means something. To me, at least.”

Nearby, a pale water lily had begun to open, slow and deliberate, as if unbothered by the hour, or the company, or the ache that clung to the air. Pale and pink at the edges of its petals. When Venla did speak again, her voice was soft, not bitter, not cold, not timid. Just soft and calm. She took a breath, then let it out slowly through her nose.

'I have been busy, but that's no excuse for not seeking you out sooner, and for that I apologise.'

“I don’t hold it against you. You’ve your duties, and your place here, and I…" She gave a small shake of her head, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. Her fingers brushed over the edge of the bench. “I’m not angry” she added softly. “But it has sat with me, these past few days. Being in a place full of strangers, and finding the one person I know keeping their distance.” She gave a shrug.

The water before them was smooth, save for the small circles where a dunk dipped its head under water and rose again, leaving rings that rippled out across the lily pads. She turned to him. Her smile tugged up at one corner, a tired smile, but honest. “If we’re tallying debts, I think we’ve long since broken even. Besides, that’s not how I keep measure. Not with friends. Not with… with folk who mean something to me.”

“Regarding… us,” she repeated, voice careful, almost amused in its quiet wonder. “I don’t rightly know what that is, Willard. I can’t decide what we are, not if I don’t even know the shape of it myself.”
 
The weight on his shoulders didn't so much lift as lessen at her words. Relief came and went like the tides, and Willard nodded, appreciating her candidness. 'I don't rightly know either,' he confessed, smiling slightly, his mood buoyed, if but for the moment. 'I know what I would like for us to be. Question is... do you want the same?' He did not have to say it out loud for her to know. Venla's intuition was not something to be scoffed at. Rather, trusted.

'As to being surrounded by strangers, well, they needn't be.'

Willard's reflection shivered and shook as he gazed down upon it. Distorted, never still, it captured the shape of his thoughts perfectly. Fluid as water, and twice as muddy, mused the dawnling, shifting where he sat. 'These people raised me, Venla. Many of them helped shape me into the man I am today. Yes, you may look at them and see only strangers. We were strangers too, once upon a time.'

Chance had brought them together. Or perhaps fate, if you believed in such things. I myself required some convincing, thought Willard, looking back on a life not long passed. How easily the memories blurred together, as if they had never been.

'You are welcome here, Venla,' said Willard, holding out his hand, palm up. For taking... or else turning aside. 'This place could be your home, too, if'n you allow. These people... your family, silly as that sounds.'
 
Venla looked at his hand. 'You are welcome here, Venla,'

“Yes,” she said softly, letting the words drift on the warm night air, “I… know I am welcome." Willard had kept his distance for days. She had expected to see him, to meet those he called family, to see the place he had called home. But none of that had come. She had discovered the place and the people here herself. She already felt welcomed at Astenvale.

The young dawnling she had followed across unknown roads, he had saved her in more ways than one. He was dear to her, dear enough that her chest warmed at the thought of him, and yet heavy enough that a quiet ache nestled there too.

So a thought had come quietly, almost as a whisper: their paths might not be the same, and perhaps they never would be. It wasn’t a slight on him; it never could be. They had met at a crossroads, drawn together by circumstance, trust, and care, and in that, they had been more than enough for one another. But something lingered in the spaces between them, subtle and unspoken, a gentle mismatch.

Venla shifted slightly on the bench, but did not move to take his hand. “Willard… I care for you more than I can easily say,” she began, voice soft, almost like she was talking to herself as much as to him. She let a slow breath pass between them, watching the swarm of mosquitoes dance over the pond. She met his earnest eyes. "But… well, I reckon maybe we’re not meant to be, not in that way you might want." She shifted slightly, letting her hand rise and rest lightly on his shoulder. "Doesn’t mean I don’t treasure what’s passed between us. It’s just… our roads, they seem to go a bit differently from here on out."

Everything around her spoke of life and welcome, of roots grown deep and steady, of hands that had shaped a place into something lasting.
 
The hand fell away. Hurt unlike any he had felt before spread through him, left him paralysed, unable to think let alone speak. An ache settled in his chest, close to his heart. He couldn't blame Venla for thinking what she did; the blame, as ever, lay entirely on him. I guess it was to be expected. One thing led to another, and suddenly the ground wasn't where it was supposed to be. Nowhere to stand, only to fall.

Down.

'I see.' Taking a breath, Willard turned away, the sting of rejection nearly overwhelming him. He did not cry or lash out in anger. He held no anger towards Venla. Nor did bitterness fill his throat with poison. Barbed words, much like blades, were reserved for enemies and fools. The redhead was no foe, though Willard certainly felt the fool. Likely always would.

'I was a fool to hope.' And yet he knew better than to hold on too tightly. Patting her hand where it rested upon his shoulder, the dawnling cleared his throat, made to stand. Tears threatened to cloud his eyes and he wiped them away. No point crying over spilt milk, he thought, waiting until he had a firm grasp on his composure before turning back to Venla, a small, pained smile marring his features.

'Odd,' he said, voice hoarse with barely-fettered emotion. 'For a moment there, you didn't sound too convinced.' You're imagining it, he told himself, wishful thinking and nothing more. Still. 'Feels like we're giving up, almost. Throwing away a good thing without giving it the chance to flourish into something... more.'

Slipping into silence, the dawnling sniffed, shook his head.

'Pay me no mind,' he chuckled, hiding the hurt as best he could. 'Maybe a step back is just what we need. To clear our heads. Or to decide which path runs truest.'
 
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